Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  ‘The people I spoke to told the truth,’ said Lenares with her disarming intensity. Her words made people not only acknowledge her, Torve reflected, but also forced them to choose whether to believe her. Almost like the few remaining priests of the three gods. As though she herself were a god. Was a god just someone who made outrageous, unprovable claims? The Emperor would enjoy debating that thought—but, of course, he was not here.

  ‘Then I believe you.’ He was rewarded with a smile.

  ‘I warned Captain Duon that the hole was approaching,’ she said, the smile changing to a grimace. ‘But it does no good to warn people unless I can predict what form the attack will take and who it is directed at.’

  ‘Who was this attack aimed at?’ Torve asked.

  ‘Me,’ she answered, without any modesty. The word sounded outrageous. ‘And two others. I don’t know who, and I can’t even guess until the numbers become clearer.’

  ‘So the lion—I’m sorry, lions—were sent. By whom?’

  Lenares looked at him. Such a direct stare. She licked her lips and answered, ‘I don’t know. But I know what the hole is. I need to speak to Captain Duon; we are all in danger.’

  ‘Then I will take you to him,’ Torve responded. ‘He has called a meeting.’

  ‘To talk about the hole?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. But you should be there, I think. We will have to hurry; he may have already started by now.’

  ‘Are any of the other cosmographers coming? Does Nehane know?’

  ‘I do not think so. Should he?’

  A long pause. ‘No.’

  He offered her his hand, but she ignored it and clambered out of the palanquin unaided. Someone still looked after her, Torve noted with relief, as she wore a clean, serviceable dress and was as tidy as anyone could be after three hard days’ travel. Her beautiful hair had been tied back with ribbons, creating an unfortunate child-like effect. He wished he could untie the ribbons and let her hair loose.

  He cleared his throat. ‘We need to go quickly,’ he said, and took her elbow.

  ‘Don’t touch—’ she began, then smiled hesitantly at him. ‘You can touch me. But only my hand.’

  He took her hand and tried to will his soul into his newly roughened palm and fingers. Could she sense his…his regard for her?

  ‘Your skin is prickly,’ she said, but did not let go, allowing him to guide her through the camp.

  Confusion overwhelmed Torve. Lenares was a girl child, a woman, a mystic, a half-wit, a genius, a goddess. Simple, complex, naïve, vulnerable, all-knowing. He had no right to touch her; the Emperor would send him to the surgeon should he find out. A half-wit and an animal, he would say. What could come of this but condemnation? In fact, any Alliance member who saw them together would likely take offence. He dropped her hand, and she made a small noise he thought sounded like disappointment, but could equally have been relief.

  From elation to despair in a moment. Torve could not remember feeling so bewildered.

  The meeting had indeed begun by the time Lenares and her guide neared Captain Duon’s tent. A large awning sheltered the thirty or so invitees, all Alliance members, who sat or squatted on cushions according to preference. There was no place for her.

  She directed an angry glare at the Emperor’s Omeran. ‘You lied to me,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘No, I did not,’ he replied. ‘You would have detected a lie. I merely said you should be at the meeting. Not a lie; of course you should be.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘That is so,’ she admitted. ‘You are clever.’

  He gave her a little shrug that could have meant anything, but she had the measure of his numbers now. Her comment had pleased him. Silly, when the Omeran was really only an animal, but she felt warmed inside by his pleasure.

  She stood at the corner of the tent, behind and to the left of the captain, in the shadows. Torve prudently hid himself around the corner, where he could hear but not be seen. If they saw him, he had told her, they would give him work to do.

  Captain Duon was speaking. She dismissed Torve from her mind.

  ‘I wonder how long these lions have been trailing the expedition,’ he said in a precise voice, every consonant clearly enunciated. ‘We have found bodies near the camp on two of the last three mornings.’

  ‘Bodies? Whose? How were they killed?’ By his head covering, Lenares could tell the speaker belonged to the Pasmaran Alliance, possibly a senior member.

  ‘Who they were is not presently known. No one has been reported missing. It has been suggested they came from the camp followers, which seems more likely if the one I saw is anything to go by. As for how they died, each body was covered in cuts and puncture wounds. Very messy.’ He shuddered.

  ‘Lions, then.’

  Captain Duon wiped his hand across his long fringe of hair, a characteristic gesture. ‘No sign of feeding, though, not like the unfortunate cosmographer woman. Why would—’

  A blue-robed Elboran lord interjected. ‘We won’t outrun them. We would be better, my lord, to make camp and hunt them down. Then we can move on at a proper pace.’

  ‘It is another week to Marasmos,’ Captain Duon snapped at him, perhaps angry at having been interrupted. ‘If we stop to hunt lions we may provide some entertainment for your young men, but their—most likely futile—efforts will be watched by increasingly hungry soldiers. We have a bare week’s supplies remaining in the wagons.’

  ‘Are you sure the supply ship will arrive in time?’ asked an older man wearing the green sleeve-stripe of the Grandaran Alliance. ‘I always thought that was the weak point of this venture. Never had much faith in ships.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ Duon said, clearly searching for patience.

  ‘The animals are on short rations already,’ one of the minor lords grumbled.

  ‘Not the horses, I hope,’ said another, obviously alarmed. ‘We won’t win any battles without the chariots.’

  ‘If we do not make Marasmos in a timely manner, the horses may be our rations,’ Duon replied flatly.

  ‘What does lion meat taste like?’ a minor Syrenian lord asked the fellow next to him, in a voice louder than he’d doubtless intended.

  ‘Not as appetising as human meat, so have a care,’ Duon said, but spoiled the effect by sniffing delicately as though the thought of eating any kind of meat disturbed him. ‘We are here to select a route to Marasmos, not to argue about lions. If I am to be forced to hold a meeting when the choice of route is obvious, I do not want it complicated by irrelevancies.’

  ‘Three dead bodies—five, if you count the cosmographer woman and her lover—can hardly be considered an irrelevancy.’ The Elboran lord leaned back, satisfied his words had scored a hit.

  ‘That “cosmographer woman” was the daughter of your stay-at-home leader,’ said the senior Pasmaran. ‘Show some respect.’

  ‘Why? She was just a woman. Hudan’s a cold-hearted prick, he won’t care. Probably busy making more as we speak.’

  ‘How many people are on this expedition?’ Captain Duon’s face had darkened; he seemed about to lose his temper. ‘Officially?’

  ‘You would know better than I,’ the Elboran replied warily. ‘Ma sor Captain.’

  ‘You must have some idea. A large number of them are yours, after all.’

  ‘Four thousand or so. There must be twenty thousand soldiers here. What of it?’ The Elboran dropped any pretence of civility.

  ‘And another ten thousand camp followers,’ Duon said. ‘Cooks, strappers, armourers, blacksmiths, musicians, whores, moneylenders—and a lion or two, perhaps.’ His witticism raised a polite laugh. ‘Thirty thousand in total. Of those, we lose at least twenty people every day. Fifty people yesterday. Fights, fevers, fluxes, the three banes of every expedition. Accidents too. Did Aromant here tell you,’ he pointed at one of the Pasmarans, ‘that his second cook tipped yesterday’s stew over himself and scalded himself to death?’

  ‘Explains the
lumps,’ the senior Pasmaran said, an old man with a grey beard and pitiless eyes. ‘Make your point.’

  Lenares could hear the captain’s teeth grind together. ‘My point is that we can deal most efficiently with the lions by adding them to the list of things that cull any expedition. We will, of course, keep a lookout for them, issuing warnings when and if necessary. Each Alliance may detail as many soldiers as they see fit for this purpose. But no chasing after shadows, make that clear to your men. We shall wait for no one.’

  Lenares stepped out from the shadows before Torve could stop her. ‘You are wasting your time,’ she said in a clear, steady voice.

  Every head swung in her direction. She knew her words would make them angry, but what point was there in knowing things no one else knew if she had to keep them to herself?

  ‘And you are?’ The senior Elboran got to his feet, making ready to dismiss her.

  ‘Ask ma sor Enui,’ she said, pointing to the big man sitting next to him, the man with the well-trimmed beard she had spoken with at the well just before the lion attack. ‘Or ask Captain Duon. I am Lenares the Cosmographer, and I have come to tell you not to waste your time looking for lions. They are gone and they will not return.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ The senior Pasmaran stood in turn, one hand stroking his long white beard. ‘Once they have fed on human flesh, they will not go back to the gazelle or the camel. They will have to be killed.’

  ‘Have a care arguing with this woman,’ Duon said. ‘She is the cosmographer introduced to the court by the Emperor. You were not there, ma sor Losanda, but I am sure you were told about her.’

  ‘And I, for one, believed not a word of it.’ The Elboran named Farouq leaned forward, his wide-set eyes taking her in. She stared at him in turn. Her numbers, gathered from the man’s expression, his posture and the regard of the men around him, as well as from the little he had said, spoke to Lenares of an iron will, of deep cruelty, an unbreakable pride.

  He curled his lip. ‘Do you know how unlikely it is that a child such as yourself knows anything of value, or can offer even a half-coherent opinion on any subject? I am now into my third thirty years, and I have never seen it. You are no exception, I will wager the entire wealth of the Elboran Alliance on it. A foil, perhaps unwitting, for the Emperor to dispose of Tumille, and not before time. You who speak of time-wasting, you will waste no more of our time. Enui, take your soldiers and arrest this child.’

  So many numbers cascading from his words, from the ripple of his facial muscles, the flicker of his eyes and of those surrounding him, reactions to key words in his speech. Raw data, processed into shapes and insights. More than enough to stay his unbelief.

  Lenares chose her words with care. ‘You think the Emperor told me about ma sor Tumille? Then did he also tell me that ma sor Enui knows more than he has so far told you about the money missing from your Alliance?’

  The three soldiers, including the one called Dryman, hesitated at this.

  ‘How could you…? Even the Emperor could not have…Enui, have you spoken to this young woman of Elboran finances?’ Farouq’s fierce eyes, clouded now by doubt, transfixed his subordinate. Around the gathering, men from rival Alliances leaned forward unconsciously.

  ‘No, ma sor,’ the man said, licking his lips. ‘She is a witch, seeking to divide the Elboran Alliance. A trickster! She should not be listened to!’

  ‘Makhara, Suweya, hold the man Enui in your custody until I can speak with him more closely. Child, you have won yourself a few moments’ reprieve.’

  ‘I have done no such thing,’ she bit back at him. ‘Captain Duon commands the cosmographers; the Emperor said so.’

  ‘Ah, the Emperor,’ said the Elboran. ‘Such a powerful man. And yet—do you see him here?’ He waved a hand at his soldiers. ‘What matters outside Talamaq is effective power. Duon here commands none of the Alliances. The Alliances command the soldiers. If we choose not to acknowledge the Emperor, then we hold effective power.’ His dangerous eyes glinted. ‘Duon relies on us, don’t you, Captain?’

  ‘You will only have power over traitors like yourself,’ Lenares said. ‘We cosmographers will serve the Emperor through Captain Duon.’ She clenched her fists and took a step towards the Elboran leader. ‘And if you prevent the captain from commanding the expedition, you will lose my help and everyone here will die.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are,’ Farouq said. ‘Some sort of unnatural creature, perhaps, a desert jiran who emptied out a little girl’s mind and took possession of her soul. Whatever you are, I will not allow—’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ she shouted at him, spraying those nearby with saliva. ‘One of the three gods is missing, and I think I know which one! He went missing many years ago, but no one noticed. Why should they? Elamaq hasn’t had a true cosmographer in three thousand years! Now one of the remaining two gods feels strong enough to enlarge the hole the Father left behind. The earthquake in Talamaq last moon was caused by the hole getting larger, and the lions were sent to waylay us because we—because I—know what is happening! Do you think the attacks will stop? They won’t! They will become worse and worse. The desert itself will rise up against us, unless we can stop it!’

  Thirty blank faces looked intently at her, each wearing an identical bemused expression.

  I am just a puppet show for them. They see me as a…a crazed lackwit. They will destroy me before they ever listen to my words. They are all going to die. She began to cry. Ma dama Mahudia, come and make it better!

  The millions of numbers, the thousands of calculations that sustained the shapes and colours of her inner vision, spiralled up through her being. Out of control. Needing to be expressed. Doubted, disbelieved. Deadly.

  ‘How many times must I prove myself?’ Her arm stabbed out. ‘You! Betrayer!’ she screamed at one startled man. ‘Murderer!’ at another. An irresistible cascade. Eyes closed, she no longer saw whom she pointed at. ‘Thief! Emperor! Liarrrr! Oh Mahudia, please help me!’

  The numbers rose to a crescendo, eroding her consciousness like a wind whipping over a dune, then petered out into an empty, forsaken darkness.

  This is where the giant stood. He cast his rocks from here and created the stone plain, crushed chunks of granite plucked from the barren mountains around him. From the dust caused by the crashing rocks he made the sand seas. He beckoned the winds to sculpt pleasing patterns in the sand. Here and there he plunged a giant finger into the ground, forming oases of green amid the russet purity. He took form in the desert he had made, and for thousands of turnings of the sun he dwelt there alone.

  Numbers, numbers, falling through her mind like rain in a parched place.

  This is where the people lived. Spun from the sand, weaned by the wind, the children of the desert gathered together by the pools of water. Lions and hyenas, insects and birds, deer and humans shoulder to shoulder, lapping from the pools. Looking around themselves, wondering where they came from, the children begin searching for their god.

  Numbers, numbers, forming calm pools in the seared sands of her mind.

  This is where the giant hid. Like a dung beetle he burrowed into the sand, hoping to avoid the people and their demands. But they saw his unchanging shape amongst the shifting sands, and worshipped him. He had created the desert from which they had sprung, and he could not gainsay them.

  Numbers, numbers, shaping themselves around the jagged breaks in her head.

  This is where the giant became a god. Bowing to necessity, he lived with the people who had chosen him. The god became more like his people as he lived with them, and they became more like him. They, too, began to shape the place they lived in, while he began searching for someone to love. For a long time they lived together, the people and their god, until the Time of Quarrels.

  Numbers, sweet numbers, identifying all the broken and scattered parts of her consciousness.

  This is where the people fought. Under the weeping eye of their god some ran and some chased, some b
ecame predators, others prey. Some made traps and others became snared in them. The quiet pools ran red with blood, and mercy in those times was a rare and precious thing. The god tried to help, but the people were wilful and, apart from two, a man and a woman, none would listen to his advice.

  Numbers, numbers, shaping a story to fuse her shattered mind into something workable.

  This is where two new gods were born. The god took the woman and made her his Daughter, and took the man and made him his Son. All the other people found their own places to dwell, but the god lived in the desert with his Son and his Daughter, and there they dwelled together for turnings of the sun beyond knowledge.

  Numbers, numbers, her reality, her sustenance and betrayal, her blessing and her curse.

  This is where the god was betrayed. In a battle of armies without number, the Son and the Daughter defeated their Father and drove him out of the desert. From here, from the centre of the stone plain in the midst of the desert, the god left Elamaq with his few faithful followers. The Son and the Daughter did not kill their father, though they could have. Instead they began an argument that became a fight lasting three thousand years, ending only when one was forced into exile, all her people finally enslaved.

  Numbers, numbers, offering cruel revelation that no one else will believe.

  This is where the one remaining god began experimenting with the hole in the world left by his Father. Using it to touch the world, to influence events and outcomes, to disrupt and destroy. To enlarge the hole so that he can once again step into the world. He remembers what it is like to be human and wishes to repeat the experience, while retaining the power granted him by his Father, the giant of the desert.

  She will remember none of the numbers when she awakens. Pity her.

  Torve laid Lenares out on the cooling sand. He had found for them a shadowed place under a red-rimmed overhang at the fatherback side of the valley; safe for now, though later in the afternoon they would be left without shade. He fussed with the sticks he had found under the overhang until he had made a frame he could hang the blanket from. If she had not regained consciousness by the time the sun found its way under the overhang, the makeshift shelter would keep the sun from damaging her.