William Nicholson - [Wind on Fire 02]

by Slaves of the Mastery (epub)

  A young man was looking up at him. Their eyes met. The young man at once dropped his eyes. The Master frowned. It was Ortiz’s truth-teller. There was something about him that wasn’t right. The Master felt irritated. This was not the time for petty distractions. What was wrong with the boy? Ah, yes, that was it. The boy wasn’t afraid of him.

  Curious, that. But there would be time enough to investigate later. The last movement of his great symphony was about to begin, as soon as the bride returned.

  Zohon too waited with mounting impatience for the Johdila. His men were all in place, his plan was now heading towards its trigger moment. Ever since he had seen the Johdila sign to him through the trees, he had been sure of her love. Knowing she loved him, he was sure she would not give herself in marriage to the heir to the Mastery. And now, here in this very hall, he had seen her repeat her pledge to him, and sign to him to wait before ordering his men to strike. There was only one possible explanation for this. She meant to declare her true will to all the world. She herself would call on him, and he would be ready for the call, with his invincible army at his side. That way when battle commenced, there could be no doubt as to his intentions. He would be acting in defence of the Johdila. Even the Johanna would see that. The result of the battle would be the defeat of the Mastery. The Johdila would be free to marry the man she loved. The Johanna would pass on his crown to his new son-in-law. The Sovereignty of Gang would be supreme again. And he, Zohon, would at last look on the face of his beloved Sisi.

  When would she call on him? And how would she show her rejection of the bridegroom? She had only the one word to utter, to consent to the marriage. Zohon, believing her to be a gentle and timid creature, thought it most likely she would choose to remain silent. When she did not speak, he would allow a pause for all the onlookers to hear her silence, and then he would strike.

  Mumpo lay on a bench in the manacs’ robing room, while Lars Janus Hackel himself massaged his tired muscles.

  ‘Boy! Boy!’ said Hackel, sighing. ‘You’re myself reborn! You have the gift, as I had it once.’

  Mumpo said nothing. His bandaged wounds throbbed with pain, but he paid the pain no attention. He was elated and appalled, both at the same time, and the two feelings seemed to be mixed up with each other. Kestrel had returned. And he had killed a man. Where had Kestrel come from? Did she need his help? Why had he killed his opponent? For what? The big man had not been his enemy.

  At the time, within the ritualised world of the manaxa, it had seemed necessary, even inevitable. But now as he lay on the bench and felt the blood singing through his veins, he was aware that another man lay on another bench nearby, and that he would never rise again. Kestrel had returned, and he had ended a life. Why?

  ‘How did you know?’ marvelled Hackel. ‘There was only the one move would beat the big man, and you chose it. I never taught you that.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him so badly.’

  ‘Badly enough. He’s fought his last fight.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He entered the arena ready to die, just as you did. That’s the manaxa for you.’

  Mumpo lifted himself up into a sitting position.

  ‘I have to go back.’

  ‘Want to see the wedding, eh? So you shall.’

  A group of slaves were scrubbing down the dead man’s body, preparing it for the funeral rites. A woman, presumably his wife, was kneeling by his head, stroking his dead face.

  ‘I won’t fight again,’ said Mumpo.

  ‘Every manac says that after his first kill,’ responded the trainer, unperturbed. ‘But they all come back. Once you’ve felt it, you can’t do without it.’

  Mumpo reached for a training robe and pulled it on, grimacing at the pain as he moved.

  ‘I have to go back,’ he said again.

  Something was wrong, he knew it. Kestrel would need him.

  The Johdila re-entered the arena at last, followed by her servant, and was led to her position on the bride’s side of the sandy stage. Marius Semeon Ortiz stood in his position, on the other side, and waited as he had been instructed for the music to begin. He noticed that the Johdila was trembling. Let her tremble, he thought. She’s not my responsibility. His eyes were on Kestrel.

  Now that the exchange of vows was imminent, the Johdi began to cry. She snuffled noisily behind her veil, and Lunki, hearing her, also began to weep. ‘Oh my pet,’ she crooned to herself. ‘Oh my poor baby.’

  Mumpo entered quietly, and took up a position by the tunnel entrance, where he could see Kestrel. Kestrel, braced for the critical moment, was watching Sisi. Sisi was looking across the arena towards Bowman. Bowman was looking up, at the Master.

  The Master raised his violin to his shoulder, settled himself down, and drew the bow softly over the strings. The first low sweet note sounded over the arena. The other players responded, and the movement was begun. On the eighth bar, all perfectly together, the choir began to sing. From now on, the tempo of the music dictated every move in the ceremony.

  Ortiz took one pace forward, and was still. The Johdila, quietly guided by Meeron Graff, took a pace forward in her turn, and was still. The Master’s violin led the next phrase, and the other musicians followed. Outside the domed hall, linked by chains of assistant conductors who signalled to each other, every choir and every ensemble in the High Domain was playing the same theme, at the same time.

  Ortiz followed the steps he had rehearsed as if he were in a dream from which he would shortly awake. His slow paces would carry him towards the Johdila, five steps in all: but his eyes were on Kestrel. He heard the Master’s violin, and he took the second step, and even within his dream-like state he knew that he faced an unbearable choice. It was his beloved Master’s wish that he marry this princess. How could he not obey? But as he looked on the young woman with the dark eyes, the one who had danced the tantaraza with him, the one who had become for him all that was life itself, he thought, how can I love anyone but her?

  He took the third step.

  The Johdila felt the gentle tug of Graff’s hand, and she took her third step, coming ever closer to her husband-to-be. She looked up now, as her mother had taught her. She saw her white-clothed groom before her, and beyond him she saw Bowman, looking pale and grave. He told me there would be trouble, she thought. He thinks I’m weak and foolish, and have to be protected. But I’m the one who’s going to cause the trouble. He’ll see, and then he’ll know. I’m not as useless as they all think.

  Then the solo violin was playing once more, and the Keeper of the Master’s Household was pulling on her body veil, and so she took her fourth step.

  Zohon watched in fascination, as bride and groom glided over the blood-stained sand, in slow motion, towards each other. With each arrested step, the music grew a little louder, a little more urgent, as it drove the betrothed pair towards their vows. The players outside the hall could be clearly heard now, so that those in the arena were doubly cocooned in music. Zohon checked his captains, to be sure that all were alert for his signal. It would come soon now.

  Up in the gallery above, intoxicated by his own music, the Master drew from his violin the opening notes of the fifth passage, and saw Ortiz below take the fifth and final step. Then, as the other players followed him, here in the hall and all over the city, he caught a sudden note of danger. Turning sharply, focusing all his powers of attention, he tracked its source. It was Ortiz. The boy was going to disobey him! Without ceasing playing, he came close to the gallery’s railing, and stared down at the bridegroom.

  Ortiz felt the Master seize his mind from above. He looked up, and was at once flooded with the Master’s own pure will. He felt himself go icy cold. At the same time, his skin prickled and burned, as if he was on fire. Then the coldness and the burning left him, and he found he was filled with calm: more than calm, a limpid and invulnerable tranquillity, the calm of unclimbable mountains, of unreachable stars. Now all was simple again. He had only to love his Master,
and obey.

  Bowman, standing not far behind, felt the jolt of the Master’s power, and understood exactly what had been done. In that same moment, he understood that it was this supreme will alone that sustained the entire Mastery. If the Mastery was to be destroyed, the Master’s will must first be broken.

  The music surged on towards its climax. The Johdila took her fifth step. Ortiz now stood before his bride, close enough to reach out and touch her, with no thoughts and no desires left. Remotely, as if recalled from some far-off place in space and time, he felt a sense of loss: but it had no face, no name. His Master made the music that directed his steps. He had only to love and to obey.

  Suddenly the music paused, in mid-phrase, almost in mid-chord. This was the Master’s desire, that the few but necessary words be spoken in a space formed by the music itself, a space dynamic with tension, straining for release into the grand climax.

  Ortiz knew his part. Now he was to speak.

  ‘With these five steps, I stand before you as your husband. Do you receive me as my wife?’

  The Johdila was silent. The silence, the not-music, stretched out in long agonised seconds. Zohon braced himself for action.

  ‘Say the word, radiance,’ murmured Graff.

  No one could see the Johdila’s face through the two veils, but tears were welling up in her eyes, and now were spilling over to trickle down her perfect cheeks.

  Ortiz realised that his bride was not going to speak. Kestrel met Bowman’s gaze across the arena.

  Any moment now –

  The silence became unbearable. The Master, waiting in mounting rage, suddenly realised that this was not a matter of nerves or shyness, but an act of defiance. At once he focused his powers on the bride, to hammer her spirit into line with his will, and so sweep on to the glorious climactic chords of his masterwork –

  ‘No!’

  The Johdila cried out the one electric word. There was a moment of stunned silence.

  ‘Go!’ cried Kestrel. ‘Run, Sisi, run!’

  The Johdila turned and ran from the stage.

  Consternation filled the hall.

  Zohon’s hand struck the air. All his men drew their swords.

  ‘In the name of the Sovereignty of Gang,’ he cried, ‘surrender or die!’

  Barzan saw the Johjan Guards moving in to control the exits, and shouted in despair,

  ‘Idiots! What do you think you’re doing?’

  The Master lowered his violin, and closing his eyes, poured out his will all over the High Domain. The message was wordless, but all heard it, and all obeyed. Every able-bodied man in the hall, from the trumpet players in the orchestra to the young lords in Ortiz’s entourage, was transformed into a fighter. The question that had so puzzled Zohon – where is the army of the Mastery? – was now answered. The Master’s people were his army. From beneath robes and tunics came weapons. Within minutes, the great domed hall was a scene of bloody battle.

  Zohon saw this with shock. But his guards were surely better trained than any citizen rabble. It was only a matter of holding his nerve.

  ‘Cut them down! Kang! Kang! Kang! The Hammer of Gang!’ he cried, fighting his way through to the terrified Johanna and his wife.

  ‘You fool!’ wept Barzan, stamping his feet. ‘You great stuffed booby!’

  ‘Where’s the Johdila?’ demanded Zohon.

  Bowman and Kestrel had both moved towards the doors at the same time. All they wanted now was to escape the battle-filled hall and find their parents. Mumpo leaped up and followed them, careless of the danger. Finding one of the Johjan Guards barring his way brandishing a sword, Mumpo struck out with his bare fist, broke the guard’s neck, and ran on.

  Ortiz, filled with his Master’s will, took charge of the mass of fighting men.

  ‘Close ranks! Strike hard! For the Master! Fight and die!’

  Bowman and Kestrel pushed their way through the open doors to the street. Outside, to their astonishment, they saw columns of armed people advancing, summoned by the will of the Master. They came from all directions, in seemingly limitless numbers. The Johjan Guards would never be able to resist such an onslaught. Bowman gazed on the swarm of people, saw the single-minded gaze in every eye, and understood what it was he must do.

  ‘I have to go back.’

  ‘No!’ cried Kestrel. ‘This is our only chance!’

  ‘Get out of the city! I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

  ‘No! I’m coming with you!’

  ‘Please, Kess!’ He turned on her fiercely, knowing he had very little time. ‘You’ll weaken me. Get out of the city. All this is about to be destroyed!’

  Kestrel stared at her brother, shocked. Never before had he chosen to face a danger without her.

  ‘How will I weaken you?’

  Mumpo came running up to join them.

  ‘Kess!’

  ‘Mumpo! You’re all right! Bo –’

  But he was gone.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Kess. I’m a good fighter. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

  ‘I know, Mumpo. I saw.’

  She turned and looked down the street at the advancing streams of armed men, and decided she must do as her brother wanted.

  ‘Let’s go and find ma and pa.’

  Bowman went back into the domed hall, where the fighting was now intense and chaotic. A Johjan Guard, striking wildly at anyone and anything, made a swing at him. At once, in instinctive self-defence, Bowman turned his burning eyes on him, and without raising his hand, struck him a single concentrated blow. The guard fell like a stone.

  Bowman looked up to the high gallery, where the Master still stood, eyes closed, pouring out his limitless will. Bowman saw how the Master’s people fought, sustained by this power, without regard to their own safety. They would never be defeated until this one man’s power was broken.

  This is what I’ve been sent to do.

  He focused his attention on the figure of the Master, and sent a shock-beam from his mind towards him. At this distance it lacked power, but it still struck the Master with such force that he jumped, and let go of his violin. The violin fell from the high gallery, and smashed on the stone floor below. In fury, the Master sought out his attacker, and found Bowman. At once he sent out a wave of power, but Bowman was waiting for it, and well-defended. To the Master’s astonishment, he stood his ground, blocking the assault, redirecting the stream of energy to drain harmlessly into the ground.

  As suddenly as he had attacked, the Master pulled back. It was now Bowman’s turn to be caught by surprise. Surely it couldn’t be over so easily? But the Master had turned, and with a flurry of his crimson robes, he was striding away.

  Bowman searched for the way to reach the high gallery, and quickly saw the narrow open staircase climbing the wall on the far side. He crossed the stone floor towards it in a straight line, using his growing power to hurl the fighting men out of his way as he went. Some Johjan Guards were already on the staircase. Bowman plucked them off as if they were insects, and dropped them to the floor below. He ran up the stone stairs to the gallery. It was empty. A long passage led away, to a further flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs he found the Master’s violin bow, lying discarded on the floor. He climbed the stairs three at a time to a small landing at the top. Here lay the Master’s golden helmet, and his crimson cloak. Before him was a small door with an iron handle.

  As Bowman put his hand to the iron handle, he knew that he would find the Master inside. He could feel him. The door would not be locked. He would enter. And the real battle would begin.

  21

  The mind duel

  The space beyond the door was dazzlingly bright. Bowman realised that he must be in the topmost part of the highest dome. Above him, through a great enclosing cup of clear glass, clouds were marching across a grey sky. Before him stretched a plain timber floor, on which stood a narrow iron bed, a table, and a chair. The bald simplicity of the furniture gave the room, if room it could be called when
it seemed to have neither walls nor roof, the look of a prison cell. On the single chair sat a stooped old man, with his back to him. He wore a robe of coarse undyed wool. His feet were bare.

  Bowman stood and stared in confusion. The door swung shut of its own accord behind him. As the latch clicked, the old man turned his head.

  The same mane of white hair, the same strong mouth and ruddy cheeks: but the eyes were different, withdrawn, no longer powerful. The Master looked at Bowman with a curious kind of detachment, as if interested to see what he would do, but not personally involved.

  ‘You’re a Singer?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Master. His voice was low, almost a whisper. ‘Or I was once.’

  ‘Then why –?’

  ‘Why rule? Somebody must, boy. We can’t all sing songs.’

  Bowman had come to fight, if need be, to kill: but here before him was no resistance, no power. He no longer knew what to do.

  ‘They don’t understand this in Sirene.’ The Master gestured with one hand at the city beyond the glass. ‘Sirene has sent you, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew it would come one day.’ He studied Bowman carefully. ‘Are you strong enough?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If necessary,’ said the Master, ‘you can call for help. One of many, part of all.’

  Bowman felt a shiver of fear. This was what the one-eyed hermit had said to him. How could the Master know so much?

  The Master was smiling at him.

  ‘What exactly did they say you were to do?’

  ‘To destroy and to rule.’

  ‘Ah, yes. First you destroy. Then you rule. How little changes! So you’re just like me after all.’

  Bowman struggled to hold on to his sense of what was right and true.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll set the people free.’

  ‘Free?’ The Master chuckled at the thought. ‘What makes you think they want to be free? You think I compel their obedience?’