Prisoner of Fate

by Tony Shillitoe

  Word studied the phenomenon until Creator gave the acolytes the order to end the demonstration. As the young men returned to their work, Word asked, ‘Does this mean that the age-old issue of the Conduit has been resolved?’

  Creator nodded, but then shook his head. ‘We have taken a step forward, but there are still difficult matters. One is the purity of the euphoria. We need the best quality.’

  ‘I think that is being taken care of. If the king shows wisdom, we will soon have access to the crops on the Fallen Star islands,’ said Word.

  ‘At what cost?’ Creator asked. ‘We are not wealthy and the traders ask high prices for the best quality.’

  ‘Even the traders are subjects of the king,’ Word noted dryly. ‘Apart from the quality?’

  ‘Learning to think as one,’ said Creator. ‘It has taken many experiments before the acolytes could do what you witnessed. And the fire Blessing is a very simple task. Opening the gates for the Demon Horsemen will be much more difficult.’

  Word ran his eyes over the chamber and noted the spinning rotors attached to a flat winged construction suspended from the ceiling. ‘Flight?’ he asked.

  Creator’s face became serious. ‘With regret I must report that much of Seer Reason’s and even Seer Faith’s experimentations bordered on heresy. They believed that to fly required building something as light as a bird, lighter than air even, but Jarudha’s great plans demand that we build something heavier, with an engine to drive it into the air. We are making progress again after so many years of failure, but the progress is slow.’

  ‘When will you make another attempt?’

  Creator scratched his cheek. ‘I think when the weather is good.’

  ‘The weather has been mild for several days.’

  ‘No. The wind must come from the west before we can launch the flyer,’ Creator explained. ‘The conditions have to be perfect or we will mar two years’ work.’

  ‘Then I will await your call,’ Word concluded. ‘I will inform His Eminence of your progress and I’m certain that he will be pleased.’ He made the sign of the circle and bowed his head as he withdrew.

  His Eminence, Seer Scripture, leaned against the basket wall and gazed over the vista five hundred spans below, enjoying the mild breeze on his craggy face as a distraction from his nagging vertigo. The distant southern hills vibrated with the purple haze of eucalyptus and to the east the mountains majestically marched like sentries along the borders of the nation. Directly below, Port of Joy, cradled between the ocean and Victory Plains, spread along the River of Kings, shrouded in factory smoke along its southern quarters, but the green-tiled roofs of the Northern Quarter and the slate-grey palace and temple roofs were clear and distinct. White sails dotted the bay and he could just make out flocks of seagulls against the foam-flecked dark-blue water. Just above the airbird’s rainbow canopy, deceptively close, almost as though he could reach out and touch them, clouds drifted with the breeze. As much as he hated heights, flying was a fascination he couldn’t resist.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Scripture turned to Prince Shadow and smiled. ‘A miracle of Jarudha.’

  ‘The world is a miracle of Jarudha,’ Shadow rejoined. ‘It is written that “Paradise is all that can be seen when the mind is clear and the heart is pure.” I see a glimpse of Paradise every time I am up here.’

  ‘Your knowledge of The Word exceeds even the best of my acolytes,’ Scripture complimented.

  ‘I’ve been taught by the master of The Word,’ Shadow replied with a faint deferential bow of his head. ‘Is it not also written that, “The pupil who listens best to the master will himself one day be the master”?’

  Scripture smiled wryly, nodding. ‘Those are the words, my pupil, but also heed the warnings that come with that responsibility. “He who would be the master must first show that he can serve without ambition.”’

  Shadow nodded and also adopted a smile. ‘Wisdom. I sometimes wonder why you chose to pass your gift to me when I am not born of your Seer bloodline. We should be enemies, according to history, but you are more father to me than my own father.’

  ‘We cannot help that we are born as we are. But Jarudha knows who will rise from the common dross of humanity to serve Him so He brought me to you and you to me and that is how it has come about,’ said Scripture, placing a comforting hand on Shadow’s shoulder. Then he lifted his hand and gazed west across the ocean. ‘Your father does what he was born to do and does what he knows best to do for his sons. He is an earthly king and earthly kings pass to dust. Do not blame him for what he does. He serves Jarudha in name and with money, and he hopes to buy a place in Paradise with his actions, but his heart is full of sin and he will not see Jarudha’s eternal kingdom. It was your mother, not your father, who brought you and I together. To her you owe homage as Jarudha’s servant.’

  ‘I haven’t seen my mother for fifteen years,’ Shadow remarked. ‘Father sent her away and never told me why.’

  ‘Kings have a habit of sending away wives when they want a younger woman to warm their bed,’ Scripture noted nonchalantly. ‘Your mother was a good woman and deserved better than your father. I believe that Jarudha is keeping her safe in His hands.’

  Shadow was silent in response, until he shot a burst of flame into the airbird’s heart to keep it afloat, after which he said calmly, ‘My father still talks of Inheritor as his successor.’

  ‘As a father would,’ said Scripture. ‘I would want to see my firstborn son rise to fulfil the destiny for which he was born.’

  ‘You have no children?’

  Scripture turned to Shadow a moment, his dark-blue eyes scrutinising the prince, before replying, ‘The path to Paradise cannot be the pathway of a sinful nature. Desires of the flesh distract men from their higher purpose. In the Book of Alun it is written that, “The man under the yoke of carnal lust can never aspire to Paradise.” So it is that I have foresworn the lustful pathways of my predecessors who fathered a bastard population, and all who follow me to Paradise must do the same. Chastity, sobriety—purity of mind and spirit—this is the path to Paradise.’

  ‘You walk a hard path, Your Eminence.’

  Scripture’s gaze softened. ‘I did not always walk this path,’ he confessed. ‘I have my share of sins to expunge from my youth. Jarudha only showed me His righteous path when I was closer to your age.’

  Shadow grinned, his neatly trimmed beard and moustache framing his thin lips and white teeth, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Then there is still hope for me,’ he said.

  Scripture also smiled and nodded. ‘Even for you.’

  ‘The euphoria addiction is increasing daily. The Shessian bastards break into our shops and factories to steal money to feed their addiction. They break into our homes and threaten our families.’

  Hawkeye listened patiently to the manufacturer’s representative’s speech in the Council Chamber. Established by his father three years before his accidental death to appease the restless Kerwyn citizens, made up entirely of elected representatives from the powerful financial lobbies in the kingdom—the merchants, the manufacturers, the farmers—the Council met every moon cycle to air their concerns, discuss issues and advise the king. Matters almost always revolved selfishly around how they could make more money and pay less tax, but sometimes—in fact, rarely, Hawkeye mused—the Council generated good advice on which he acted.

  ‘Minor matters,’ a new speaker, a mercantile representative, began, dismissing the previous speaker disdainfully. ‘Euphoria is the largest and most consistent generator of profit in the kingdom.’

  ‘For you!’ a dissenter yelled.

  ‘For all of us,’ the speaker rebutted. ‘The taxes from the sale of euphoria pay for half of the military costs, pay for the road and sewer building projects—’

  ‘Money for shit!’ cried a voice. ‘How appropriate,’ and the assembly broke into laughter until the Council chairman restored order.

  ‘My point is,�
� the mercantile representative recommenced, ‘the Shessian scum are more docile with euphoria than without it.’

  ‘That’s because they won’t work!’ yelled a farmers’ representative.

  ‘And they don’t plot against us, either,’ the mercantile representative retorted. ‘Who here remembers the early years? Who remembers the acts of subversion, the killings, the reprisals, the explosions and destruction of Kerwyn property?’ Mutterings filled the Council Chamber. ‘You all know what I talk about. Our fathers, even some of our grandfathers, lived in constant fear of Shessian insurrection. As beaten as they were, as threatened as they might have been with executions and the king’s law, they played havoc with our businesses and our people. Not the king’s law—’ The speaker cast a cautious glance in the king’s direction, but Hawkeye’s expression remained implacable. ‘—and not executions or imprisonment stopped them. It was euphoria. We gave the poor what they most wanted. Not freedom—that comes with responsibilities and heartache. We gave them pleasure. We gave them a reason to want us to stay. Cheap, accessible euphoria.’

  ‘It’s not cheap if you’re poor!’ yelled a man.

  ‘And that’s why they break into our shops and homes!’ cried the first speaker indignantly.

  ‘But they don’t blow your homes up,’ the mercantile speaker retorted. ‘Which is the lesser of the evils here?’

  An uproar of argument broke out across the chamber, the chairman shouting ineffectually for order. Hawkeye watched the meeting degenerate into its inevitable petty squabbles, the outcome of most Council assemblies, but he took note of the euphoria debate. The Seers had already approached him, seeking to control the euphoria market, and now he suspected he understood why they were so interested in the drug.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The stench in the lower reaches of the Bog Pit permeated everything—stale urine, shit, vomit, blood. Foul odours were nothing new to him, but here they made his skin crawl. He pushed through the bedraggled, unwashed crowd who were pressing against the bars, begging the gaolers for food and water, and elbowed between two stick-like beings to get into the dark open space at the rear of the cell. Someone yowled above the raucous din and the crowd surged in retreat, forcing him to move further back until he pressed against the damp, rough stone rear wall. Yellow torchlight flickered at the bars, throwing grotesque shadows of the silhouetted crowd across the cell. ‘Get back and stay back you filthy bastards!’ a guard bellowed. ‘Your slop’s on its way. Have some manners you greedy pigs!’ A whip cracked and a victim yelped. The light receded.

  ‘First time here?’

  He flinched and squinted into the darkness to his right. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, tensing for a fight.

  ‘Just an old man,’ the scratchy voice replied. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  He squinted at the shadow, but even though he was used to working in dark places the old man was nothing more than a hunched mass close to the cell floor. ‘No. I’ve been in before,’ he finally answered. ‘Who are you?’

  The old man cleared his throat and spat. ‘I have different names,’ he said. ‘I was called Sunlight when I was free.’

  He sensed a hand being proffered by the old man in the dark. Taking it, surprised by the cool, skeletal grip, he replied, ‘Chase.’

  ‘What did you do, son?’

  The crowd at the bars was dispersing. The torchlight diminished. Figures stumbled towards the rear wall and slumped on the cobbled floor, staying clear of the shallow sewer channel running through the cell. Chase squatted closer to the old man and said, ‘They say I stole a loaf of bread.’

  The old man chuckled. ‘They always say you stole a loaf of bread. What did you really do?’

  ‘I stole a loaf of bread.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sunlight sighed. ‘Times are getting harsh when a man ends up in this part of the Bog Pit for stealing a loaf of bread.’

  ‘Perhaps it was because I stole it from the king’s pantry,’ Chase explained.

  The old man was momentarily silent, before he asked, ‘Did you say you got inside the palace?’

  ‘I get in all the time,’ Chase told him. ‘It’s easy when you know how.’ Again, the old man sighed and was silent. ‘What’s that about?’ Chase asked.

  ‘Bragging is not an art,’ the old man murmured.

  ‘I’m not bragging,’ Chase retorted. ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘Ah,’ the old man breathed, nodding. ‘So how do you get inside the palace?’

  Chase chuckled and shook his head cheekily. ‘Now that would be telling you a secret that I’m not willing to share.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve been in here before?’

  ‘Not exactly in here. In the Lockup section. I was drunk in the gutter that time. They chucked me in there because I didn’t even know my name. When I was sober enough they let me back out.’

  ‘This is a lot worse than the Lockup, son,’ Sunlight informed him. ‘There’s no way out. You end up down here in the bowels, you either die, or in special cases they publicly mutilate you and leave you to fend for yourself. What’s your fate?’

  ‘Guess I’m a special case. They told me they’ll cut off my right arm to show everyone that you can’t steal from the palace.’

  ‘You’ll bleed to death.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Chase dismissively. ‘They’ll do it with a hot axe. It’ll seal most of it.’

  ‘You’ve seen it done?’

  Chase scratched his left ear and checked who was listening to them, but the shadows of nearby men seemed intent on their own miseries. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it. There’s a beggar named Cartwheel who had his arm taken two years ago. He’s managing. My friend had his hand done the same way.’

  ‘You sound like it doesn’t bother you.’

  ‘That’s because it won’t happen,’ said Chase confidently. ‘I’ll be long gone before they get to try that on me.’

  Sunlight coughed and shuffled against the earth. ‘No one’s ever escaped from the Bog Pit.’

  ‘I’m not no one.’

  A sliver of yellow light angled across the distant tunnel that led into the Bog Pit cell, and the inmates stirred. ‘Bloody food!’ a man yelled, and the cell erupted as everyone rushed to the gates. Torches borne by three guards accompanying three more guards carrying large wooden buckets lit the seething mob of filthy, starving prisoners. Scuffles and fights broke out as men jostled to the front.

  ‘You better get in there if you want something to eat,’ Sunlight advised.

  ‘What about you?’ Chase asked, as he watched the guards prod the crowd with blunted spears.

  ‘I’m too weak. I’ll feel for scraps when the others are done.’

  Chase crossed the small space, jumped the sewer, and pushed through the crowd, edging towards the front, ignoring the protests and elbows and kicks of those he nudged aside. The guards were dipping big ladles into their buckets and pouring the contents into the outstretched cupped hands of the luckier ones at the front. ‘When you’ve got your portion, get back!’ bellowed a guard with a sharply scarred face, and he followed his warning with a swift and brutal smack of his blunt spear across the wrists of a hapless prisoner. ‘You’ve already had yours, you thieving piece of shit!’

  Chase cupped his hands through the bars, pressing his fingers tightly together. After a ladle of the thick, lukewarm stew was poured into his hands, he forced a path back through the crowd, spilling precious drops because of the frustrated shoving from others. He stomped through the sewer and knelt in the dark beside the shadow of Sunlight. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I got you some.’ Sunlight’s long, thin fingers searched Chase’s hands, dipped into the meal and withdrew. ‘Go on. Take it,’ Chase urged. ‘I’ll go back for some more.’

  Sunlight cupped his hands beneath Chase’s hands and Chase emptied the contents into them. When he heard the old man eating greedily, he rose and plunged back into the desperate crowd, ducked a poor attempt by someone to king-hit him, and pressed against the bars again. ‘Hey!’ a prisoner yel
led beside him as the guard scooped a ladleful of slop into his cupped hands. ‘He’s already had some! He’s already had some!’ The scar-faced guard looked up at Chase and a spear shaft whistled through the air on a downswing, but Chase had already pulled his hands back to safety. He shouldered out of the milling bodies without looking back.

  Squatting beside Sunlight, he swallowed the foul-tasting slop and licked the remains from his hands quickly. ‘They don’t spare the luxuries in here,’ he muttered as he finished.

  ‘Sometimes it’s healthier not to eat what’s offered,’ Sunlight replied. He coughed and added, ‘Thank you for your kindness.’

  Chase watched the guards stop issuing the slop and begin viciously beating pleading hands foolhardy enough to keep reaching through the bars. They collected their buckets and withdrew, throwing the cell back into darkness. ‘Do you get any light in here during the day?’ Chase asked, as the prisoners returned to their places, some satisfied to have eaten, some complaining that they’d missed out.

  ‘A little,’ Sunlight replied. ‘There are vents in the roof. They open them when the sun rises and they close them when the sun is setting.’

  ‘How often do they bring food?’

  ‘Once a day.’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘There’s a trough further around to your left. That’s what we have to drink. They sometimes bring fresh water, but only the strongest get some of it.’

  Chase stood and edged along the wall in the dark, stumbling over legs, getting cursed, avoiding clusters of shadowy figures, until he reached the trough. He couldn’t see the water, but when he dipped his hand into it he broke a crusty surface and slime enveloped his fingers. He lifted his hand to his nose, sniffed, and gagged. Dejected, he crept back to Sunlight and slumped on the ground against the wall. ‘Don’t get too depressed by it. If they’re making a public spectacle of you, lad, you won’t have to wait too long in here,’ Sunlight whispered.