by Stewart Ross
He returned to the encyclopaedia and re-read the caption. “A carving or, occasionally, an object like a human head. A totem is often worshipped and may inspire to action those who hold it…”. Though unsure of the meaning of ‘worshipped’, Cyrus knew very well what ‘inspire to action’ meant. He cursed under his breath. How feeble he’d been! Far too polite by not insisting that they burn the monster’s body along with the others. He had trouble enough within Alba. The last thing he wanted was an outside threat as well.
The thickening darkness outside mirrored the fearful significance of Sammy’s discovery. If the head had been cut off by someone who understood how to use it, as was very likely, it meant serious trouble. The Grozny knew the Albans had killed Timur, and they would want revenge. Revenge of the Zeds.
Since moving into the large empty building beside the piazza in Filna, Malika Xsani had often pondered what purpose it had served in Long Dead times. It might have been used for storage, a sort of barn. She had come across these in her youth when the Kogon, under her predecessor’s leadership, had sacked a small Constant settlement after cleverly breaching its defences. She liked barns, as did all Zeds, because they provided loot. But had her Filna headquarters ever been a barn? Though it was as big as one, it had strange decorations. The Long Dead were not fools, so why had they filled a barn with pictures, statues and symbols?
There was also writing carved on stone slabs. As Xsani was illiterate and had never yet captured a Constant able to read and write, she had no idea how to interpret these mysterious symbols. There were larger symbols, too. Many of them showed what looked like a Constant-style sword whose blade was not sharpened to a point.
At some time in the past, a fire had raged inside the barn. It had burned a jagged hole in the roof, destroyed most of the pictures and left broad black smears both inside and out. Only a large image painted on the wall furthest from the flames remained reasonably intact. Even this had been partially obliterated where rain had streamed in through a missing window. Despite the damage, Xsani was fascinated by it.
On the left lay a rather thin, pale and feeble-looking dumbman. He was wearing what looked like a circular yellow hat and appeared to be dead. He was accompanied by a small group of women, all of whom looked miserable. In contrast, a crowd of women and bearded dumbmen to the right of the rain damage looked ecstatically happy. Xsani couldn’t decide whether they were happy because the pale dumbman had died or whether they were pleased to see him even though he was dead. By the way the figures were arranged, it looked like the latter.
It was all most peculiar! The Malika understood all about crowds lost in awe and delight at the presence of a living person – her own Kogon were like that with her – but to be transported by a corpse… It just didn’t make sense. At least, it had not made sense until her conversation with Giv.
What had the dumbman said? “Timur head very powerful.” Lying awake with one arm round the sleeping Jinsha, Xsani conjured up in her mind’s eye the image from the barn wall. She imagined Timur’s head replacing that of the pale dumbman with the round hat. Over on the right, the throng was now transfixed by the dead Malik.
Almost immediately, another of Giv’s phrases returned to her: “Grozny follow head of Malik Timur.” Her mind whirled. The Grozny follow the head, she has the head in her possession, so if she handles this right the Grozny will follow her... What did the ugly one say he was? A Captain, the Grozny equivalent of a Zektiv. Useful. She could use this pair to unite the fighting power of the Grozny with that of the Kogon. It was risky, but worth a try.
Whatever this ‘Sotion’ thing was, it must be extraordinary for Timur to have entered a Constant settlement alone in search of it. The Kogon couldn’t hope to breach the famous Alban defences on their own, but with the Grozny… And once she had an alliance with them, she could use the power of Timur’s head to draw other Zed tribes into her coalition…
But she was getting ahead of herself. First the head, then the Grozny. Knowing exactly what she had to do, Xsani smiled to herself, withdrew her arm from Jinsha’s smooth shoulder, lay flat on her back with her hands behind her head, closed her eyes, and slept like a Long Dead queen.
Cyrus had realised the potential power of Timur’s head at almost the same time as Malika Xsani. It was one of those strange coincidences that leads people to believe that supernatural forces control their lives. While Xsani saw the grisly totem as a key to greater power, Cyrus feared it would bring only misery. He knew nothing of the Kogon or their charismatic leader, but he did know about the Grozny. From his experience in Della Tallis and on the mission, as well as from what Roxanne had told him, he knew them to be an erratic but dangerous enemy.
Whatever he thought of the man, it was his duty to tell Yash of Sammy’s discovery and what it might mean. He hurried over to the Emiron, the building specially reserved for the Emir and their copemate. Yash was eating alone, Sakamir having gone to visit her twins, Jalus and Poso. All Alban children over the age of two, even those of the Emir, lived in a communal hostel.
Cyrus insisted that Yash went on eating while he explained what he had learned. “That’s why I advised you to burn Timur’s body,” he concluded. “It would have stopped the Grozny using it.”
Yash ran a hand through his matted red hair, a sure sign he was anxious or confused. “Use it?” he asked. “They’d be more likely to eat it.”
Cyrus shook his head in frustration. “Don’t you see, Yash? Someone’s cut off Timur’s head and carried it off. It must be the Grozny.” Yash looked blank. “They cut – off – his – head,” Cyrus repeated, heavily stressing the last word. “The head of their dead Malik. Even the Grozny don’t eat heads. They obviously want it for something, and I’ve read in the encyclopaedia –”
Yash stood up. “You know what, Cyrus,” he interrupted, wiping his fingers on the front of his tunic, “I sometimes think Bahm has a point. All that reading’s not good for you. It gets you thinking too much, and that’s not healthy.”
Cyrus stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this, Yash. After all I’ve been through, all we’ve been through … and now you seem to be saying it was not worth it? Come on!”
Again the Emir passed a hand through his hair. “Don’t get me wrong, Cyrus. Of course it was worth it. I’m completely on your side. But we must keep our eyes on the target, mustn’t we?”
“The target?”
“Yes, the Salvation Project. The thing that’ll let us live – as you yourself said – as long as the Long Dead.”
Cyrus clenched his fists. “Will you stop going on about the Salvation Project, Yash? I’ve told you before, we don’t even know it exists. It may well be just a legend.”
Even as he was speaking, Cyrus knew anger would get him nowhere. However infuriating the Emir might be, he couldn’t afford to fall out with him.
“Sorry, Yash,” he said with a shake of the head. “Got a bit too worked up, didn’t I? Anyway, I’ll keep searching for the Project. But I’m sure you know that even if it does exist and we find it, we’ll still have to learn everything the Long Dead knew before it’ll be of any use. That’ll take a long time, probably more time than you and I have.”
“What’ll take a long time, Cyrus?” It was Sakamir, gliding noiselessly over the dusty threshold into the room. “I hope you and the Emir are not arguing?”
“Arguing?” queried Yash, clearly embarrassed by the interruption. “We were just discussing, that’s all.”
Sakamir turned to Cyrus. “I suppose he was on about the Salvation Project again?” Her teeth flashed in a smile, while her eyes, flinty-grey like an animal’s, remained cold. With her long brown hair fastened tightly behind her head, she gave an even stronger impression than usual of a sharp-toothed rodent. He did not find her attractive.
“He’s obsessed with it, isn’t he?”
Yash rose to the bait. “I wish you wouldn’t interfere, Sakamir,” he snapped. “Cyrus is here to tell me about something Sammy ha
s discovered.”
Sakamir raised a thin eyebrow. “Sammy? What’s he found, Cyrus?”
Cyrus looked across at Yash and, receiving a reluctant nod of consent, explained how his young friend had found Timur’s decapitated corpse. It might mean nothing, of course. On the other hand, an intelligent Grozny leader could use the head. Seeking revenge for the death of their leader, they could make it a totem. It would inspire them.
“If I were Emir,” Cyrus concluded, “I’d send out a patrol to seize that disgusting head and destroy it.”
As he was speaking, he experienced a surge of excitement at the prospect of action. “In fact, Yash,” he said eagerly, “I’d like to lead this patrol. I’ve as much experience as anyone and no one knows the Grozny better than me.”
Sakamir, who had listened carefully to his every word, said nothing. Her thin face remained inscrutable. Yash was more forthcoming. “Come off it, Cyrus! That’s not on. Look, let me give you a bit of friendly advice. We all know you’re still the only one who can read properly. Yes, you’ve come on this great mission and opened the Soterion and all that. But don’t let it go to your head. Lots of us can do important things. And I’m the Emir – I was the people’s choice, don’t forget, not you.”
Feeling he had gone a bit too far, he added with a chuckle, “Anyway, they couldn’t have chosen you, could they? You’re not an Alban.”
Once more Cyrus fought to control himself in the face of Yash’s obstinate stupidity. “You’re right there,” he said coolly. “I’m not an Alban.”
“So let’s settle this business once and for all. I’d hate anything to come between us – you know that.” Again, the fingers through the hair. “Right. You have an interesting theory – but no, I’m not sending archers into the unknown on some wild harechase to find the mouldy head of a dead Zed! And even if I did allow a patrol, there is no way I’d let you go on it. We’ve been over that before.”
Cyrus shook his head. “Alright, Yash. As you say, you’re the Emir and it’s your call. But I’d like to put on record, with Sakamir here as my witness, that I think you’re making a mistake. Destroying the head can do no harm. Not doing so may have serious consequences. That’s all. Let’s hope Sammy was wrong and the wretched thing really was carried off by animals.”
It was the best Cyrus could do. He could only warn – and hope that one day Yash would listen. Besides, as he reminded himself almost daily, he had no official authority in Alba. Like everyone else, he had to obey the elected Emir. Experience in combat had taught him that tactical withdrawal meant he would live to fight another day.
He had other issues to consider, too. Miouda and Sammy had warned him of rumours spreading around the settlement. Cyrus controlled Yash, the whispers went, just as Timur had controlled Padmar. The talk had started with Bahm and his friends. Albans like him, the traditional backbone of the community, were worried by the way their lives were being wrenched out of their familiar channels. Insecurity bred fear, and fear made people irrational and violent. These were tricky times. Hard though he found it, Cyrus concluded, he must continue to curb his warrior’s instinct for swift decisions and actions. Those talents would be needed again – but for the time being he must play the politician.
On his way back to the Ghasar, he mused afresh on the subject of the missing head. Where on earth was it? Who’d taken it and why? He’d really like to lead a patrol to find the answers. Books and reading were marvellous – but he’d been brought up on physical activity, and he missed it. Contemplating the two halves of his life, he smiled to himself. Did books reflect the real world, he wondered, like an image in a mirror? Or was the world around him a reflection of the ideas in books? It was an interesting question, but not one he’d expect the Emir to answer for him.
The following afternoon’s lessons went well. Yash and Sakamir, as if to show they had no hard feelings against Cyrus, were particularly attentive. Sakamir was unusually friendly towards Sammy and Miouda, too. The three co-operated to scratch out their first sentence – We live in Alba – on a broad flat stone that Cyrus had set up in a corner of the Ghasar.
As the sun neared the ridge above the terraces, Cyrus ended the class and settled down to have another go at The Odyssey. It was tough work. ‘Nymph’, ‘marry’, ‘goddess’ – the list of new words went on and on. And even when he’d looked them up he wasn’t much wiser. Odysseus inhabited an alien world, not at all how Cyrus imagined the Long Dead to have lived. Tormented by strange gods and goddesses – whatever they were – the characters of The Odyssey didn’t appear to control their lives.
He had just reached a passage about the ‘goddess of the flashing eyes’, a phrase he rather liked, when he heard the door of the Ghasar creak open. Hoping it was Miouda wanting to do some extra reading, he didn’t look up. Light footsteps approached across the dusty floor – it was a woman. Good. He certainly didn’t want another row with Yash.
Cyrus kept his eyes on his book as the figure hesitated, then moved round behind him. His heart sank. Miouda wouldn’t do that. A thin female form slid down beside him and fingers ran lightly, almost accidentally, across the back of his neck. He had felt that touch before.
“Hello Sakamir,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Come to join me in my studying?”
“Possibly, Cyrus.” The voice was thicker than usual, slower. Though she was trying hard, Cyrus thought, it only made her less attractive.
“Can we talk?” The stroking on his neck was clearly not accidental. He had to respond.
“I’ve just been reading about someone like you, Sakamir,” he said, setting aside his book. “She was called Calypso.”
“Ca-lyp-so,” she repeated slowly, her hand still round Cyrus’ neck. “I like the name. What was she?”
“She was a nymph – I think that’s a sort of goddess.” Sakamir looked at him quizzically. “I’ll explain all that later,” he went on. “But she was very beautiful.”
“Is that why you think I’m like her?”
“Partly,” Cyrus lied, starting to move away. Her hand fell from his neck and rested on his arm, restraining him. “Look, Sakamir, you’re Yash’s copemate and I wouldn’t want him getting the wrong –”
“Huh! Yash doesn’t get anything unless it’s pushed in front of his face.”
Cyrus ignored the remark. “Why’ve you come to see me, Sakamir? What d’you want?”
She gave him one of her dead-eyed smiles and let go of his arm. “Don’t worry, Cyrus. It’s not you I’m after – though that would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
He chose not to reply.
“It’s about what you said yesterday, about Timur’s head and the need to get it back. Yash didn’t see what you meant, of course, but I found it fascinating.”
Cyrus resisted the temptation to ask her straight out where this was leading. “And?”
She paused theatrically before saying, in a voice heavy with flattery, “You were right, Cyrus. We should try to get it back.”
The satisfaction of finding himself with such a powerful ally was overshadowed by doubt. He stared at her, trying to read what was going on behind those inscrutable rodent eyes. “You agree with me?”
“Of course. And I’ve got a suggestion I think you’ll like. Because you’re too valuable to go on this patrol yourself” – another flattering, expressionless smile – “I’ll lead it myself.”
He looked away for a moment to hide his surprise. Why was she doing this?
“Despite what Yash said?” he asked, turning back towards her and searching her face in vain for a clue as to her motive.
“Yash won’t know, Cyrus. It’ll be our little secret – just you and me and the three I take with me. I think three’s enough, don’t you? We’ll choose them carefully. I’ll tell Yash it’s just a regular scouting patrol, nothing special.”
Cyrus’ mind raced. She really had thought it through, hadn’t she? He’d heard she was skilled in fieldcraft, so the plan might work. But what was she up to? Had sh
e really changed her mind and seen the need to stop the Grozny getting hold of Timur’s head? Or was she – with or without Yash – working on some scheme of her own to harvest the power of the Soterion?
Despite doubts nagging him like a splinter, he saw there was no point in challenging her now. He’d take her at her word, see what happened, and if he found hard evidence of something odd going on, he’d deal with it there and then.
“Alright,” he said, “if you don’t mind keeping it from your copemate and it’s really what you want to do, then count me in. I’ll do whatever I can to help. As long as,” he added quickly, “you let me choose one of the patrol members.”
He watched her closely as she met his eye and nodded. “Of course, Cyrus. As I said, we’re in this together, aren’t we?”
Yes we are, he thought. But only in so far as it suits each of us. Taking care not to reveal too much, he explained more precisely than before his worries about Timur’s missing head, adding what he had learned about totems and the habits and customs of the Grozny. She listened intently, giving every impression of sincerity.
“Thank you, Cyrus,” she said when he had finished. “It’s a pleasure to work with someone so, well, so intelligent.”
Poor Yash! he thought. He doesn’t stand a chance. But Sakamir had been his choice, just as wanting to be Emir had been. There was no point in feeling sorry for someone strung up by their own ambition.
“So,” she went on, “what about the personnel? I thought you might want me to take Miouda. She’s bright enough.”
There she goes again! Testing, teasing. He knew she didn’t like Miouda. The two were rivals in learning and, he suspected, Sakamir was irritated by his obvious personal regard for the younger and more attractive woman. No, he certainly didn’t want the pair of them out in the wilderness together.
“Miouda?” he echoed. “You can do better than that, Sakamir! Miouda’s a bit feeble, physically, I mean. Not tough enough for a difficult patrol.”