Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  ‘I can read them correctly.’ Lenares snapped out her assertion. ‘But lately my calculations have been going wrong.’

  ‘Forgetting your tricks?’ the Emperor mocked.

  Lenares gave him a rude stare. ‘No. Something very important in the world is changing, affecting all the numbers around it. Things are being destroyed, and it is going to get worse. I see it as a great and growing gap in my mind, a hole in the world. I was going to tell the Emperor when he granted me an audience to raise me as a cosmographer, but he was rude and put me aside. I don’t have to tell him now, though, do I?’

  ‘Are we in danger from this hole?’

  ‘It nearly killed you today.’

  ‘Ah. And you say you can tell us where it is?’

  ‘And what it is, I think.’

  The Emperor clicked his tongue in impatience. ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I think the hole in the world is a missing god.’

  The silence following this pronouncement lasted just a little too long. The Emperor is taking this seriously, Mahudia realised, and her heart warmed. Her precious child held the power in this room now. They would not dare kill Lenares until she told them what she knew, and once they fully understood her value they would not harm her. They would exalt her and the cosmographers with her. The secularisation of Elamaq would be reversed. She was sure of it.

  One fear eased; another rose in its place. A missing god? A cold finger touched Mahudia’s spine as she considered her protégé’s words.

  Elamaq was the latest incarnation of the Amaqi people’s desire to rule. How was it taught to infants? Elamaq the empire, Amaqi the people, Talamaq the city and the Palace of the Emperor, who ruled by the authority of the Three. At least, that was how she had been taught.

  Mahudia’s mind swept across the Great Land. The Elamaq Empire stretched more than a thousand leagues across the central and sonwards parts of the great continent, and as far from fatherwards to fatherback.

  She chastised herself silently. The Emperor, in his quest to rid the empire of references to the gods, had forbidden the use of the old directional labels. Fatherwards was now ‘north’ by decree; fatherback, the opposite direction, ‘south’. Sonwards, daughterwards and their opposites had no direct counterpart in the new system. ‘East’ and ‘west’ were to be used instead. Mahudia sighed. The Emperor could not read her mind. She would continue to use the old notation, as would the rest of the cosmographers.

  Her thoughts, sidetracked for a moment, returned to the missing god. Continuously occupied for over thirty thousand years, the lands of the empire were old and tired by comparison to the young lands said to lie fatherwards. Elamaq was a land of stone and sand, of pale deserts, of arthritic hills, of ephemeral rivers and mist-bound coasts. It was also a land of ancient enmity.

  Long before people learned of their existence, three gods ruled the Great Land. The Omerans said that the Daughter dominated the gods, and the troubles had begun when the Father and the Son united together to usurp her. The views of the Omerans would not have been considered credible in Elamaq had they been known to any but the cosmographers and a few other scholars.

  The Amaqi told stories about the harlotry of the Daughter, base acts she committed with the ancestors of men, from which the Omerans were brought forth. This explained the need for her unnatural offspring to be kept in servitude, they said. The Son ruled the other two gods, the feeble Father and his Daughter the whore, and the Emperor reigned under the Son, the lord of a vigorous, dynamic empire, contaminated neither by womanish ways nor by the tired morals of the old.

  Or the Son would rule the gods, had he not been declared non-existent by the latest Emperor. The epoch of the Three was over by decree. The Amaqi would make their way in the world, would conquer the world, without any supernatural encumbrances.

  The followers of the Father no longer told any stories. They had been obliterated from the earth thousands of years ago, so the story went, victims of revenge for some atrocity or other. The cosmographers collected any scroll mentioning the Father’s worshippers: in three thousand years they had assembled half a dozen. No one remembered them.

  Father, Son and Daughter. Few of the many formerly independent kingdoms that now made up Elamaq could agree on the relationship between the Three, but all agreed on the number of the gods and the name of each. And everyone—everyone but the Amaqi, it seemed—remembered what had happened to the Mother.

  It was possible even for gods to die. But the legends associated with the Mother all talked of the catastrophic loss of life resulting from her death, of the destruction and remaking of the earth, of centuries of suffering and desolation.

  When gods died, they did not die alone.

  A fevered excitement gripped the Emperor of the Amaqi when he heard the half-wit make her pronouncement. He had been truly worried that the girl had been taught merely to perform tricks, that her ‘numbers’ behaved in the same way as did the most credulous form of star-reading: the things she had said about him, for example, were the sort of things anyone might say about a king or emperor, though not normally to his face. He had feared she was a fake.

  This evening the Emperor had for a time convinced himself that the half-wit possessed the ability to read faces. It wasn’t unknown. Ambassadors were often chosen for the skill. Faces behaved differently depending on whether their wearers spoke truth or lied. He himself had witnessed hundreds of desperate people who in their extremity had tried to convince him that lies were truth. He knew what to look for in his search for the truth behind death, had learned what the eye and muscle movements meant. Perhaps the half-wit had a natural gift.

  However, this line of thinking didn’t explain how she could read a face perpetually hidden behind a golden mask. He could not be read. Torve, then? Even more obviously, such a talent could not account for her eerie prediction in the Garden of Angels. Could it have been coincidence, or had the gods found an unlikely mouthpiece?

  No. The gods would not use one such as she to speak forth their truth. Therefore any predictive quality to her words must be coincidental.

  A missing god? The thought made him nervous. He had been defying the gods for years, and would continue to do so for as long as he could. Forever. They had never openly opposed him. Dead, or alive but weakened: it made no difference. Of course they were missing. He had banished them! They might as well not exist. They did not exist. He was the power now.

  As a result, the cosmographers were missing something. A central purpose, a reason for continued existence. Perhaps the half-wit sensed the lack as a ‘hole’ in the world—or, more likely, it was this lack she had been instructed by Mahudia to emphasise. A political campaign, a quest for power. This he could understand.

  In fact, this was how he would use her. She would become his political tool. With her insight he could strip the bark of lies and deceit away from the Alliances and expose their rotten wood. And, if she proved as talented as he hoped, she would be introduced to his quest, his lifelong battle to wrest immortality from the gods.

  Ah, he was arguing in circles, contradicting himself at every turn. The only possible explanation was also the least palatable. The girl really could see things hidden from others.

  Torve was talking to him.

  ‘She knew about the earth tremor,’ his pet said quietly, echoing his own thoughts. ‘I’d like to learn how she knew.’

  Ah. So his pet wanted a pet of his own. For what purpose?

  ‘We will sleep now,’ he told Torve. ‘In the morning we will bring this girl with us when we speak to our brave explorer-captain. Maybe she can tell us how much of the man’s story is true and how much is lies for the sake of reward. As for the other…’ He glanced at the undeniably attractive face of the noblewoman. ‘We will see what she can teach us about death. She may be instructive.’

  Emperor and servant left the questioning room and locked their prisoners in. Servant turned to Emperor and resumed the conversation as they climbed the stone steps
towards their rooms. ‘I see your scepticism, ma great sor,’ he said. ‘Yet to me her thinking opens doors I never even knew existed. Please do not lightly dismiss her ramblings.’

  ‘You believe her tale of a missing god?’

  ‘Ma great sor, you allow me to speak my mind, to take liberties forbidden to humans. In this fashion I serve you like none other can.’

  ‘So you always preface remarks you believe I will not like. You need not be concerned. How can the noises of an animal offend its master?’

  ‘Yet may an owner take a whip to his donkey to stop it braying in the streets.’

  ‘You are no donkey. You may speak.’

  ‘Then, my lord, I would say the girl offers evidence attesting to the existence of the gods we declared extinct. It is up to us whether we find that evidence compelling. But we will not know unless we hear it all.’

  ‘You like the half-wit?’ As always, the Emperor could read his pet.

  No embarrassment clouded Torve’s honest face; further proof that, for all his cleverness, he was not human—for what human would not be affronted to be associated with a half-wit? ‘Ma great sor, she excites my mind in ways I have never imagined.’

  ‘You cannot have her. Not in that way, not in any way. You are my one indulgence, Torve: though I am the Emperor of all Elamaq, were I to favour a half-wit as well as an Omeran all the Alliances would turn on me.’

  Torve smiled. ‘My lord, I will enjoy the excitement her words offer me until such time as they cease. I will learn everything I can from her. When the time comes I will help you search out her dying thoughts. And perhaps something she says might touch upon our deepest matter. Has she not already hinted as much?’

  The Emperor of Elamaq acknowledged the point. He would forgo a chance to further his research into death if the half-wit’s ways with numbers proved effective. And if she could provide even a hint to aid his elusive quest, he would keep her alive, however much he despised her.

  Torve rose before dawn. He tidied his pallet, donned a simple white robe and padded across the small room to his chamberpot. After relieving himself, he unrolled his carpet and performed his Defiance.

  The Defiance was known by all Omerans. It had been instituted thousands of years ago by the first Omerans taken as slaves, and refined into an elaborate ritual by Capixaba of long-lost Queda. The Amaqi knew of the ritual, having seen Omerans practise it wherever they could find an open space, and assumed it was part of the Omeran obsession with fitness, albeit with cultural overtones. Torve fostered this belief, keeping the real meaning hidden. He saw it as a secret rebellion, a hidden heart of disobedience, a ritualised disorder. Torve practised Defiance every morning, and knew it to be the core of his identity.

  The Omeran stood motionless in the centre of the room, feet shoulder-width apart, hands lightly clasped behind his back, in a state of readiness. Suddenly he dropped from this standing position onto his back, arms spread wide, his hands barely cushioning his fall, then with a flick of his shoulders raised his legs and torso into the air. In the same movement he sent his body spinning, rotating on his shoulder blades, first one way, then the other. He feinted a kick, as though at an imaginary opponent, but today his opponent was not very skilful so he did not follow through with his attack. Capixaba taught that attacks should be shown but not completed if the outcome was certain: true defiance asserted superiority without enforcing it. In this way the Omerans had survived as slaves while all other races had been killed or absorbed by the rapacious Amaqi.

  With another shrug of his shoulders Torve regained his feet, completely balanced. His imaginary opponent struck, an acrobatic swivel and high kick. Torve waited just long enough to draw the complete movement from his opponent, then bent at the waist in time to avoid the attack. He could almost feel the swish of the bare foot passing over his head. The Defiance was not a weapon to destroy an opponent; it was a tool to humiliate him—or her. Women were equally adept. So Torve practised his deceptions, feinting here, hinting at his full ability there, drawing the best out of his opponent, showing her that her most potent attacks were ineffective against him. Then, when his imaginary opponent acknowledged Torve’s mastery by leaving the pala, the playing field, the Omeran executed a dizzying sequence of spins and kicks from all positions: on his feet, his back, standing on his head. He then circled the room three times and bowed to his opponent, his Defiance over for the morning.

  He laved his cooling body with water from a small china bowl, cleansing the sweat from his matted body hair, dried himself slowly, then opened his door and retrieved the clothes left for him by the Palace steward. These clothes were always selected by the Emperor. He was not allowed to choose his own attire, for what interest would an animal have in clothing? Today his master had decided on matching pink jacket and pantaloons. He was the Emperor’s fashion accessory. Torve said nothing, he thought nothing, despite the humiliating knowledge. He put on the clothes.

  He left his room without a backward glance: apart from his small carpet, there was nothing of himself in it. He was self-contained in the most literal sense. Where others invested parts of themselves in their possessions and in other people, everything Torve was he held secretly within his skin. He had been bred for service and for loyalty. It was impossible for him to harbour notions of disobedience against his enslaver. He did not need to. His Defiance was over for the morning.

  Torve walked briskly but with an unconscious grace down the marble corridor to the Emperor’s suite. There he would await his master’s pleasure. His days and his years had regularly been filled with the indescribable, for his master was a sadist and a torturer, determined to uncover the secret of eternal life by studying death, the enemy. Torve had watched impassively as Amaqi and Omerans alike were taken apart in experiments. He had kept notes. Participated. Not to do so would be unthinkable. For three thousand years his forebears had been bred to slavery, and his inherited emotional insulation against the horror of his service ensured he remained unscarred. The girl, though: she had seen into him, had used her unique vision to penetrate the three-thousand-year thickness of his soul. For the first time in his life Torve found himself profoundly unsettled.

  This morning the girl named Lenares had been his imaginary opponent. He had defied her, tricked her, humiliated her, triumphed over her, but his uneasiness remained. He arrived at his master’s oak-panelled door, nodded to the Amaqi servants waiting there, and stood motionless in the corridor, feet shoulder-width apart, hands lightly clasped behind his back, in a state of readiness.

  The Emperor emerged, mask already in place as always, today clad in a full red robe lined in purple. He often favoured full-length robes as it allowed him to wear elevated shoes. Without a word Torve swung in behind him as they made their way towards the throne room.

  ‘Did you dream about the girl last night?’ the Emperor asked casually. His face would have worn a leer, had it been visible.

  Torve forced himself to smile. ‘I thought about her claims, ma great sor,’ he answered carefully. ‘I thought about her way of seeing. I am still convinced we should try to learn everything we can from her.’

  ‘I can guess what you want to learn from her. It was only to be expected: you have grown up. I may have to speak to the surgeon about this. We can’t have you on heat the whole time.’

  Torve turned a bland stare towards his master. ‘However I may best serve you, my lord,’ he responded, containing his fear, knowing that to avoid the surgeon’s knife he must be careful what he said about the unusual girl. ‘I think of your great quest above all else. Perhaps you wish to have someone else help you with her questioning?’

  This occasioned a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Of course not. We are a team. It would take me years to train another to your level of skill. Just be careful, that is all.’

  Palace guards opened the double doors into the throne room. This vast domed chamber was on a far different scale to the small annex to the Corridor of Rainbows. The throne, directly under the hu
ge cap to the great gold dome above, was surrounded by a marble floor decorated with mosaics representing the races conquered by the Amaqi, in turn flanked by a double row of crystal columns, a triumph of forgotten engineers executing the will of some ancient chancellor. They, not the vaulted dome with its painting of the three gods, nor the acclaimed mosaics on the marble floor, were the true glory of this space. The crystal columns reflected and amplified the colours worn by the court, already in attendance on their Emperor; blues, greens, reds, golds, yellows, every exotic shade and hue their tailors could purchase from the caravans that came through the city, all to be found shifting and swirling in the crystal separating the court from the throne.

  Down went a hundred courtiers and as many other functionaries as the doors opened, foreheads to the floor, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound as the court abased itself before the Emperor. Alone, he walked slowly to his throne; lately he had been taking longer and longer to make the eighty paces to the platform. A message to his advisers, Torve believed, warning them that their expansionist plans would not be rushed. The courtiers were obliged to wait, listening to the sound of their sovereign’s feet—step, pause, pause, step, pause, pause—as he kept them in their uncomfortable position. The Omeran imagined he could hear corsets straining, but was careful to keep his amusement private. This room held danger for him. He was tolerated as an eccentricity, but knew he may one day be traded by his master for some political concession or other.

  The slow stepping ceased. Trumpets sounded a fanfare—newly composed each day, though Torve wondered if he had heard this one before—and the court representing the great Alliances rose to stand before their Emperor. The Omeran took his accustomed stance by the double doors, now closed.

  ‘Bring the exalted Captain Duon,’ the herald cried from his place beside the glittering throne, and the double doors opened again to admit a guard clad in ceremonial silver armour, carrying a staff with the Emperor’s banner affixed to it. ‘Captain Duon at the Emperor’s pleasure,’ the silver guard announced, and gave way to the captain himself.