by Stewart Ross
Cyrus did as she suggested. “Damn!” he exclaimed, using one of the Long Dead words he had learned recently. “It’s got masses of meanings: ‘not hurtful; inoffensive; pure; harmless; guileless; simple-minded; ignorant of evil…’ And I don’t even understand half of them.”
“The book you were reading might give us a clue,” said Miouda, moving over to sit beside him. “Who did it say was innocent?”
Cyrus put an arm round her shoulders. “A child. This man said his adult sister was as innocent as a child. What do you think he meant?”
Miouda looked over at the dictionary and thought for a moment. “I suppose he was saying she was simple-minded, a bit stupid. None of the other meanings fit. I’m not sure about ‘guileless’, but you couldn’t say a child was ignorant of evil, could you? A tiny baby, maybe; but not a child.”
“No. And it’s strange because the Long Dead seemed to think it was good to be innocent, good not to know about evil.”
“They wouldn’t last long in our world. Maybe that’s why we don’t use the word ‘innocent’ – it doesn’t apply to us.”
They sat in silence for a while, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. Eventually, Cyrus said, “There are other Long Dead words the Albans don’t use any more, aren’t there?”
“Yes. Words that don’t fit in with our way of life. At least, that’s what people like Yash say. He calls them ‘baby words’.”
“We used some of them back in Della Tallis. And they’re here, in the books all around us.”
She looked up into his face. “What words are you thinking of, Cyrus?”
He smiled. “Lots. But one especially. The Albans don’t use it but I think you know what it is.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. It begins with an L.”
“You mean ‘like’?”
“Sort of,” he said, leaning over and kissing her forehead. “Except more so.”
She sighed and snuggled up closer to him. “Ah! That one. We’d better not say it in case someone hears us and we get into trouble.”
“Alright. But perhaps we can show it?”
“Yes,” she said dreamily, “perhaps we can.”
And there, in the darkening hall, Miouda discovered the meaning of a word she had met only in books and on the lips of Cyrus. If she broke with custom and whispered it out loud, no one heard. The only witness to their movements was the carved and sightless head high on the beam above.
Ogg’s men took two days to locate the Grozny. When they had done so, the oak-limbed Malik set out at once with a small escort to pay his allies a visit. Zed instincts were not easily suppressed and violent scuffles broke out when the Gurkovs appeared at the edge of the Grozny camp. Several men were injured before Jamshid brought his tribe to heel. The two Maliks sat down side by side on the trunk of a fallen tree and began to talk.
They felt a common sense of unease at what was going on. The alliance under Over-Malik Timur was a fine idea – but was it really under him? Jamshid was very proud. His defeat before the walls of Alba had upset as well as confused him. He reasoned, in his simplistic way, that since the failure could not be Timur’s fault – nothing was – it must be someone else’s. That it might be his own did not even occur to him. The responsibility, therefore, must somehow rest with Malika Xsani.
Ogg was thinking along similar lines. The delicious slaves Timur promised him had not shown up. As this couldn’t be Timur’s fault, whose was it? The only possibility was the mysterious Xsani whom he had met only in the blurry obscurity of the Timur ritual. Listening to Jamshid’s account of the Alba expedition, all became clear. The Grozny operation had been agreed by Malika Xsani, Jamshid said, and –
“Who?” thundered Ogg, gasping and slapping a heavy hand on Jamshid’s forearm.
Jamshid looked blank. “Who I say – Jamshid. Me.” To make himself clear, he banged his chest. “This one.”
“No, no, no!” cried Ogg. “Who said you should attack Alba?”
“Ah!” Jamshid nodded. “Timur order, Malika agree –”
“Malika?!” Ogg hammered his fists against the tree trunk they were sitting on. “Malik-a? A slave Malik?”
Jamshid frowned. “Timur say she good flabtoad, great flabtoad,” he replied, annoyed by Ogg’s interruption. “She clever, she hurt Jamshid very much. Look!” He pointed to the scars on his face left by Xsani’s whip.
Ogg was not impressed. Slowly, step by step, he spelled things out for his fellow conspirator. Twice, what Timur had promised had not happened. There could be only one reason for this. Somehow this Xsani slave – “flabtoad,” interrupted Jamshid – alright, flabtoad, had managed to trick the Over-Malik into trusting her.
“Slaves cannot be trusted,” Ogg declared. “They are good only for games and breeding.”
Jamshid, running his fingers over his scarred face, was still not wholly convinced. “Jamshid speak Timur,” he muttered, groping for the right words. “Malika speak Timur. Malika strong.”
Ogg leaned back thoughtfully. “Right, Jamshid, answer my questions. One, is Xsani a slave?”
“Maybe breeding slave?”
“Good. But when I met Timur, she did not show me her slave face. She did not call herself ‘Malika’. Why not, Jamshid? Why not?”
“Not know.” Though this was the truth, Jamshid sensed the conversation was leading to another humiliation. He didn’t have the wit or the skill to stop it.
“Malik Ogg is smart, Jamshid. He will explain. This Xsani slave is afraid of me! She hides from me! She knows I understand her trickery!” He pounded the tree again, this time in jubilation. “Is Ogg right, Jamshid?”
Jamshid had to admit the idea made sense. Moreover, to his relief, the great Gurkov did not tease him for his stupidity at allowing a woman to deceive him. Instead, Ogg declared the revelation to be proof of his own intelligence. Now he had found the source of their problems, he declared, he would tell Jamshid how they would solve them. The Grozny’s new Malik, always more comfortable receiving orders than giving them, began to cheer up.
“Tomorrow morning,” Ogg said, “I will bring the Gurkov here. Understand?”
Jamshid nodded. “First sun, Gurkov here.”
“Good. The Gurkov and the Grozny will fight as one.” The word ‘fight’ cheered Jamshid further and he jumped to his feet.
Ogg rose to stand beside him. “We will hunt the Kogon!”
“Hunt Kogon!” Jamshid echoed, waving his arms in excitement.
“Kill false Malika Xsani!”
“Kill Xsani!” Jamshid was almost dancing.
“Rescue Over-Malik Timur!”
Jamshid rolled his eyes in joy at the prospect. “Over-Malik Timur!” he gasped.
“With him at our head we will march on Alba and seize the Soterion! On to victory!” concluded Ogg with a tremendous flourish. Carried away with his own rhetoric, he clasped Jamshid to his trunk of a chest and heaved him off the ground.
Half-crushed in the arms of his new friend, Jamshid could only pant, “Sotion! Sotion! Sot-i-on!”
For several generations the Kogon Zeds had survived in a bitterly hostile world through guile and extreme watchfulness. Every fibre in Xsani’s body warned her against trusting a man, especially one marked with a Z. It was only natural, therefore, that she should order her most skilful Eyes to keep the two Zed camps under constant surveillance. When Ogg set off to meet with Jamshid, she knew immediately. And when she heard the two men had been locked in discussions that ended in a fiery bonding, she suspected the worst.
Alright, she said to herself. If my allies want to play false, I will have to teach them a lesson they can never, ever forget.
8
King Yash
While Ogg and Jamshid were hatching their conspiracy, a Grozny party went out to look for food. The hunters returned dragging the bloody carcasses of three deer just as their leader’s discussion was ending and Ogg was preparing to leave. To celebrate their new-found friendship, Jamshid asked his visitor to s
tay, enjoy the feast and afterwards join him in guarding the Grozny breeding slaves for a while. The temptation was too great for Ogg to resist.
The meat, roasted whole over enormous fires, was ready by late afternoon. The two Maliks each cut off large chunks and sat down again on their fallen tree trunk to chat over their planned coup. Women warriors, they agreed, would be easily swept aside. The prisoners they’d take would be useful for games and for boosting their tribes’ numbers.
Ogg was boasting how many slave prisoners he would take, when he was interrupted by a commotion to their left. Jamshid got up to investigate and returned with Giv. Neither Malik knew quite how to treat him. In Jamshid’s eyes he was a worthy Captain of the tribe because he had saved the head of Timur. But as the men on the Gurkov embassy had noticed, Giv had changed. He spoke differently and had adopted some un-Grozny-like habits, such as cleaning his fingernails with a piece of wood rather than with his teeth. More worryingly, everyone knew he was a devoted servant of the Malika.
Ogg too was suspicious of Giv’s relationship with Xsani. So when the emissary announced that the Malika wanted them at her base to discuss the forthcoming attack on Alba, Ogg told him to stay where he was for a moment. He had something important to discuss with his fellow Malik.
Taking Jamshid by the elbow, Ogg led him aside and asked, “Do you think he knows?”
“Knows what?”
Not for the first time, Ogg wondered why he was in partnership with such an oakhead. “Know about our plan to kill this Malika?”
Jamshid scratched himself and shook his head. “No.”
“Right. We’ll change our plan. She has invited us to talk with her, so we’ll go – and kill her. Tonight.”
“Kill,” grinned Jamshid. “How?”
“Easy. Men against slaves is like killing deer, except slave killing is easier. They run slower.”
Jamshid scratched his head again. “They not all flabtoads. Guards of no-stones,” he said, reminding his ally of Xsani’s eunuch bodyguard.
“Ha-ha-ha!” roared Ogg. “Jamshid is afraid of slaves and no-stones!”
“Jamshid not afraid!” The Grand Malik of the Grozny Zeds frowned angrily and clenched his fists.
“Good. We’ll go there with one warrior each.” In case Jamshid had not understood, Ogg explained, “You and one Grozny, and me and one Gurkov. Four big Zeds to fight slaves and no-stones. Fun, eh?”
“Big fun,” agreed Jamshid. He called out to Giv, “Hey! Ogg and Jamshid come talk Malika, ok?”
“Good!” Giv called in reply.
Jamshid turned towards Ogg and slapped him on the back. “Jamshid say ‘talk’! Ha-ha-ha! Giv not know! Ha-ha-ha!”
Once again, Ogg was astonished that he could have allied himself with such an ass.
The idea of recruiting Zeds had come to Sakamir while she was still back in Alba. To begin with, she had rejected it as too dangerous. It would work only if she found a second Timur. Without the protection of such a man – and it surely would be a man – she’d be as good as dead the moment a Zed set eyes on her. Even if there were a barbarian of sufficient intellect and ambition to recognise the importance of the Soterion, trusting him would be a tremendous risk.
She began to change her mind when she learned of Cyrus’ anxiety about the missing head. Like him, she understood its power. She also reasoned that only a person of high intelligence would think of saving it and using it as a totem. In this she was only half right, of course: the humble Giv had saved the head – it took the astute Xsani to see its potential. Even when Sakamir left on patrol, she was not fully decided. It was the chanting of Jamshid’s small force that finally persuaded her: someone, somewhere was exploiting the head’s power. Whoever that person was, Sakamir told herself, they’d surely welcome her help.
She was right. She was also extremely fortunate to have fallen into the hands of the Kogon. Settled among them, she was surprised how at ease she felt. The cruelty, pain and brutality were strangely comforting. In the Zed world, life was stripped to its very barest, simplest essentials. The unwanted and even the awkward were eliminated without question. Abstract concepts like duty and loyalty were replaced by obedience enforced by punishment. To a greater extent even than among Constants, survival of the group was everything. With a few key exceptions, individuals did not exist. Sentiment was a laughable weakness.
Sakamir was attracted by another feature of Kogon life: the absence of men. She had always believed them crude and stupid, and had separated from her first copemate – an archer with more muscle than brain – shortly after the birth of Jalus and Poso. She had taken up with Yash because he seemed destined for leadership. Her hunch was right, though tolerating him had tested the limits of her patience. She longed to see the look on his face when, running a knife across his throat, she told him he was surplus to her requirements.
She looked forward to doing the same to Xsani as well. At that moment, in control of Alba and the Soterion, she would take that young Jinsha as her kumfort. It really was unfair of Xsani to keep such an attractive Zektiv all to herself.
But she was running ahead of herself. Jinsha could wait. For now she needed to watch the Malika and learn from her how to control Zeds. It was an art at which Xsani excelled – as she demonstrated in crushing Jamshid and Ogg’s ill-fated coup.
It was dark by the time Giv led the two swaggering Maliks and their warrior escorts into Filna’s central piazza. “There!” he announced, pointing to the balcony lit with flaming brands. “The Malika is waiting for you.”
Ogg dug his elbow into Jamshid’s ribs. “Malika!” he whispered. “Slave, more like!”
“Ha-ha!” chuckled Jamshid. “Big shock come!” He was right, though hardly in the manner he expected.
The four men, all clutching gut-rippers, followed Giv across the piazza and up the steps onto the balcony. As they reached the top, they heard the sound of light feet approaching behind them. They turned to see what it was – an elementary mistake in any combat. In this one, it was fatal.
As the Zeds raised their clumsy weapons to fend off the Kogon spears advancing up the steps, Xsani’s eunuch bodyguard attacked. The two escort warriors were slain immediately. After a brief struggle, Ogg and Jamshid were disarmed and pinned to the ground. Xsani, flanked by Jinsha, Yalisha, Tarangala and Sakamir, advanced until she was standing directly above them.
“Snivelling slave!” cried Ogg, wrestling unsuccessfully to free himself. “You have cheated the Over-Malik Timur. I will pound you to a mess of flesh!”
A smile played along Xsani’s lips and she raised a light-brown eyebrow. “Tho, I wath right. You and thith motht thupid dumbman have come here to kill me.”
“Oh tho clev –” began Ogg before the first lash of the Malika’s whip stopped his mouth and left a broad cut across his top lip. A further six blows fell. When she had finished, Xsani bent down and wiped the thongs of her whip clean on his loincloth before neatly tucking her weapon back into her sleeve.
“Thothe are from Timur, our mathter,” she announced, gazing at the lattice of lacerations that had been Ogg’s face. One lash had fallen directly over his left eye, slicing through the eyelid and the soft flesh of the cheekbone below. If he did see again, it would only ever be with one eye.
“He ith not pleathed, Ogg. You have betrayed him.”
The Malik of the Gurkov Zeds groaned and, with a supreme effort, moaned, “No, slave! You have betrayed him.”
From the direction of the steps came a low hiss and Ogg mentally braced himself for a fresh assault. He would die, he told himself, rather than submit to this slave. Xsani thought for a moment. She wanted Ogg as an obedient living ally, not a dead one. Without him the Gurkov would be impossible to control and the coalition would fall apart. A subtler approach was called for.
“Let uth thee all the dumbman,” she said, signalling to Tarangala. As the Zektiv reached for Ogg’s loincloth, he shivered uncontrollably.
“You have the knife, Jintha?”
/> Xsani’s kumfort held out a long blade. Ogg groaned as it glinted orange and blood red in the flames of the torches. The Malika looked at her people gathered on the steps. “Thall we thtart?” she asked. The women hissed their eager approval.
Ogg turned his head violently from side to side, flecking with drops of blood the bodies of the men who held him.
“Come forward, Jintha,” said Xsani, “and we thall begin.” Ogg groaned again, louder this time. Then, to his astonishment, nothing happened. Instead, there was a great deal of noise and scuffling to his left. Surely not? But yes, it was Jamshid! Jinsha had begun with the once-Grand Malik of the Grozny Zeds.
When it was over, Xsani came back to Ogg. “Dumbman Jamthid twithe betrayed Over-Malik Timur,” she explained. “He hath paid twithe. You betrayed him oneth. But you theduthed Jamthid into rebellion, tho you altho will pay twithe.”
Ogg was defeated. Shining with sweat and quivering like a reed, he begged for mercy. At first, the Malika pretended to be reluctant to listen, but eventually she relented and Ogg was led, half-blind, to the sty. Amid the smoke he was visited again by Timur. The ghostly Over-Malik confirmed that he had chosen Jamshid’s punisment and would not hesitate to order the same for Ogg if he ever dared step out of line again.
He never did.
Two days later, Giv took Jamshid back to the Grozny camp. There, the former Malik was stripped of his stinking furs and made to stand before the whole tribe. This, they were told as they paraded before him, was what happened to those who defied the Over-Malik. The first few Zeds stared at Jamshid’s injuries in astonished disbelief. Then one of them pointed and began to snigger. Those who followed chuckled out loud, and before long the entire tribe was hooting with laughter and yelling, “Jamshid flabtoad! Jamshid flabtoad!” at the top of their voices.
After the noise had subsided, Giv announced that Timur had made him the new Malik of the Grozny. He immediately appointed four Captains and cemented his authority by breaking the fingers of two men who wondered whether he had seen enough winters to qualify as a Malik. The submission of the Grozny was completed the next night when the entire tribe was brought to Filna’s piazza and, in a special ceremony, introduced to the Timur totem and Malika Xsani.