Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  “It might be better, my prince,” Semar said soothingly, “if, on this arduous journey of ours, you did not proudly announce your name and titles to any passing fellow who might ask. Plain Jun will suffice if you want to introduce yourself.”

  “He was there, in the fire. He was speaking to me as if he were actually here.”

  “It was but a specter, a projection of himself across the night.”

  “Who is he? How . . . How did he do that?”

  “His name is Mangku. But do not say it aloud, nor too often. Particularly when you look into the heart of a fire. Some people say that fire is the original magic, that all fires everywhere are part of one eternal magical fire. So if you look into a fire and think of him, and he’s staring into his own blaze and searching with his mind, then connections can be made. Mangku has learned to do this. But it’s no more than a conjurer’s trick, really.”

  “He is a demon.” Jun’s words were half question, half statement.

  “He’s no demon, merely an old man, but he is a sorcerer,” Semar said. “Nevertheless, we shall best him, my prince. He believes himself more powerful than he truly is.”

  “He knows where we are; he knows we are pursuing him.”

  “I am afraid he does—now. But do not let him trouble you. He is too far away to hurt us. Sleep now, my prince, and do not think of him. I will watch the darkness for a while.”

  Jun wrapped a sleeping sarong around his shoulders and lay down on the cold sand. It was surprisingly hard and he wriggled and squirmed for a while until his body had made a natural hollow. How does one not think of someone? It is impossible. By deliberately not thinking of them you are, in fact, thinking of them. And how did Semar know so much about this sorcerer, anyway? He clearly knew him well. But how? Stop, he told himself, stop this line of thought right now and go to sleep.

  He remembered an old trick that his mother had taught him long ago when he was just a boy. In his head, he pictured the Watergarden as perfect as it had been all his life—except for that last horrible night. He saw a blood-red dragonfly bright as a jewel and watched it hover and glide through his mind, alighting on a waving stem here, a twig there, dipping through shafts of sunlight. It swooped down close to the water, skimming the green surface and landed gently on the lip of a lily pad.

  And Jun fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Dokra poured down the shoulder of the northern headland and formed up to the right of the fortified town and fifty paces from its battered and gaping walls. The company of ninety men formed two lines, fixed their spike bayonets, raised their muskets and waited for the order from their captain, a tiny figure distinguished by a black cross belt rather than a white one over his scarlet tunic, and two golden epaulets. The company’s discipline was magnificent. As Farhan watched, at least three of the men standing stock-still in the two lines were shot down by Manchu sharpshooters on the walls of Kulu. As the men fell, they were dragged to the rear by the underofficers (white cross belt, single gold epaulet) and the line closed up again. Quite what the captain was waiting for, Farhan could not imagine—unless perhaps he wanted to show that his men could die without a word of complaint.

  Standing on the deck of the Mongoose, Farhan found he was holding his breath. He glanced over at Mamaji, who was watching with interest through a small telescope from the rail a dozen yards away, with her petite maid standing beside her and shading her from the hot sun with a black parasol. It was midmorning and hot as a meat-griddle on the deck.

  A cannonball from the town, the first for some time now, screamed in and smashed into the bow of the ship, bursting through the rail and bouncing once on the deck to sail over the other side and splash into the water. A blizzard of splinters from the shattered rail showered the deck, one the size and shape of a javelin sticking out almost vertically from where it had stuck, deep in the polished teak beside the tiller. Neither Mamaji nor her maid flinched when the ball had struck and they barely moved now, the maid idly brushing some flakes of wood from her silk-clad chest. Mamaji merely shifted the focus of her telescope to the upper citadel where the black Manchu banners flapped lazily in the slight breeze.

  Finally, the Dokra captain gave the order to fire. A line of gray smoke plumes spewed from the musket mouths of the first line. And the scarlet-clad men immediately knelt and began to reload their weapons. At a cry from the captain, the men in the second line began to march forward, passing through the rank of kneeling men and advancing about ten paces. They straightened their line—one man had been shot out of it—and fired a volley into the gap in the town walls that was only forty paces distant and now lined with blue-clad Han soldiers. The massed volley, forty-odd men firing at such close range, smashed into the blue crowd of Han like an enormous invisible fist, punching a hole through their ranks as bloodied men fell left and right. The second line of scarlet men dropped to their knees and began to reload.

  The first line of Dokra, already reloaded, stood and advanced through the ranks of their comrades until they were only thirty yards from the gap in the wall. They fired, sweeping almost all the remaining defenders away, and dropped to reload. The second rank of men behind them now charged through their ranks, screaming their outlandish war cries, plunging through the shattered rubble of brick and masonry and disappearing into the town. The first rank were soon up and ready and, at a word from their captain, they followed their brethren and were swallowed by the smoke.

  Captain Lodi shouted a command and there were twin splashes only a heartbeat apart as the two attack launches were dropped from their cradles into the turquoise sea. A swarm of Buginese sailors flowed over the sides of the Mongoose and swiftly filled the two boats, the little nut-brown men dressed only in brief sarongs, armed with keen-edged parangs and double-shotted pistols and grinning madly to show teeth stained blood-red from their habit of chewing betel nut before battle.

  Farhan knew he must go with them but he felt his dread like a physical weight around his shoulders. Death was all around that sparkling morning. He was surprised, though, to see Mamaji’s massive form in the act of climbing over the rail. She was much more nimble than he had ever imagined. Her massive haunches wobbled at the top of the rail, the shiny, bright green fabric of today’s sari stretched tautly over her vast behind, then she disappeared below. He ran to the rail, looked over and saw that the dark maid was already ensconced in the prow of the attack launch and holding a vast black bag and the Buginese were shoving each other aside to make a space on the benches to accommodate Mamaji’s bulk. As Farhan began to clamber over, the long cutlass at his waist tangling awkwardly between his legs and the struts that supported the rail, he heard Mamaji calling up to him, “Do hurry, Farhan dear; or we’ll miss all the fun!”

  When Farhan, red-faced with exertion and embarrassment—by the Gods he was unfit—was finally settled in the boat, and the oarsmen were pulling for the shore, and the salt breeze was cooling his cheeks, he finally felt the yoke of dread begin to lift and a spark of excitement ignite in his hollow belly. Mamaji was as jolly and carefree as a young girl on her first holiday; she beamed at Farhan and patted his thigh with one meaty hand. It was impossible to believe that anything bad could happen to him while he was in her company. He looked over at the other launch, a stone’s throw to their left and twenty paces ahead of them, with Captain Lodi standing with one bent knee on the prow, his face eager, a drawn cutlass in his right hand, a pistol stuffed in his belt.

  They were going into battle. It was a beautiful day. And all would be well.

  * * *

  • • •

  The town smelled of fresh blood and powder smoke. But it seemed that all resistance had been extinguished by the Dokra attack. They passed a herd of Han prisoners, squatting dejectedly in a town square, watched over by two grinning, turban-wearing men, the points of their bayonets still red and glistening. Farhan walked beside Mamaji up the steep and winding stone-flagged stre
et toward the citadel, her maid straying a little ahead, with the black parasol, now neatly rolled, gripped in her small hands diagonally across her chest as if it were a loaded musket at port.

  Farhan had drawn the cutlass and held its shining length out in front of him. But he felt ridiculous in the absence of any living enemies to slay. There were plenty of dead bodies in blue-cotton jackets, and the frequency and size of the mounds of corpses increased the higher they climbed. Shots could be heard from time to time from the citadel above them. And occasionally a hideous scream. Through an alleyway to his right, on a small patch of beaten earth hemmed in by tall, whitewashed houses, Farhan saw a gang of half a dozen Buginese sailors crouched over a writhing bloodied figure that was wailing and thrashing under their grip. He thought it was a Han girl—he had caught just a glimpse of black pigtails and a pretty face—and for a moment he considered intervening. He glanced at Mamaji; she did not seem to have noticed. But she gripped his arm and said, “No time to dillydally, Farhan dear, we need to get up to the citadel as quick as we can. Somebody will think to fire the town and we need to discourage that until we have the papers, don’t we?”

  A Han trooper came charging around the corner holding a Kwan Tao, a curved blade mounted on a pole, the standard weapon for the line infantry of the Celestial Republic. Half the man’s face was covered in blood and, under his plumed steel cap, his one visible eye stared crazily at them. Farhan froze with shock, the cutlass forgotten in his hand. The man shouted something in the Han language and raised the Kwan Tao to strike at Mamaji. Farhan recovered himself and poked at the warrior with his blade. It was a halfhearted effort but just enough to be effective. The Han changed his stroke and the Kwan Tao swept down and parried the cutlass, the blades clanging together, the sword leaping from Farhan’s fist to clatter away on the stone street. He was now defenseless. But the maid Lila was not. She darted in low, hooked the parasol’s curved handle around the Han soldier’s left ankle and tugged. The man tumbled to the ground, his weapon now bouncing away on the stones. The maid reversed her grip on the parasol and stabbed the prone man in his good eye, the long sharp point on the end of the sunshade smashing through the eye socket and piercing his brain. Farhan scrambled over to collect his cutlass, gathered it up and turned to see that Mamaji was now holding a huge double-barrelled pistol almost as long as Farhan’s arm and pointing it, steady as a stone, at the dead man at her feet.

  For five whole heartbeats nobody said or did anything. Then: “Well, that was rather exhilarating!” said Mamaji, smiling at Farhan and pushing the enormous pistol back into the capacious bag that she carried over her arm. “I must thank you both for protecting me so gallantly from that rascal. Farhan dear, you were magnificent, a lion! And Lila, you did jolly well, too, to pull him down like that.”

  Mamaji beamed and Farhan, although he was no novice at applying a thick buttery coat of praise, could not but feel himself warmed by her words, no matter how undeserving.

  “Come along now, dears, not too much farther to go,” said Mamaji. “We don’t want to be too late. Come along!”

  The Manchu had made a determined last stand in the courtyard of the citadel. But Captain Lodi had gathered his Buginese and a large number of the Dokra troopers and they had stormed through the gates in the face of the Manchus’ deadly fire and swiftly overwhelmed them. As was their custom, not one Manchu, even those badly wounded, had surrendered. Their eighteen bodies now lay in a bloody heap in the middle of the courtyard.

  Cyrus Lodi had taken a pistol ball to the shoulder, a messy, bloody furrow in the top of the meat, but not serious, and the sea captain was cheerful when Farhan, Mamaji and Lila found him. He was sitting on a barrel by the main gate and sipping on a large mug of marak for the pain, having his shoulder roughly sewn up by Lieutenant Muda, one of the Buginese crew, a tubby ruffian who was the captain’s second-in-command.

  “Our boys did well, I’d say, very well,” Lodi called out, as Farhan approached. “Showed those precious Dokra fellows that they’re not the only ones who can fight!”

  “It’s a marvelous victory,” said Farhan. “You should be proud of yourself.”

  “Good of you to say so, Farhan. Very handsome of you. Though, of course, it’s not really much of a victory. We had them beaten the moment we came into the bay.”

  “I am very impressed, Captain dear,” said Mamaji. “All that I have been told about the fighting qualities of the Dokra has been shown to be true. Your crewmen were superb, too. I am quite satisfied with the action and I’m sure that General Vakul will be very pleased.”

  Farhan could have sworn that his wounded friend actually blushed.

  At that moment, the Dokra captain came up to the small group. He was a little whippet of a man with a gigantic black mustache. His golden epaulets gleamed in the sunlight. He saluted Cyrus Lodi, and said: “Orders, sir?”

  “Ah, Captain Ravi, I must compliment you on the conduct of your men. A magnificent performance. I trust that the casualties have not been too heavy?”

  “Thank you, sir. Not too bad. Seven dead, twelve wounded. It could have been worse. And we showed these Squinters a thing or two about how real soldiers conduct themselves.”

  “Well, you did magnificently. Now, I am afraid that alarm rockets have been seen farther up the coast so we must embark with some speed before the full wrath of the forces of the Celestial Republic falls on our heads. We must sail before the half hour . . .”

  “We will not sail for at least two hours,” Mamaji interrupted Lodi. The little Dokra captain gawped at her in astonishment.

  “Farhan and I need at least two hours to go through their papers and pick out the ones that are of particular interest to us.”

  “But Mamaji—the alarm rockets will bring down . . .”

  “Two hours, is that clear? You get the men ready to depart, get the wounded loaded. Fill the water casks, do whatever you need to do. Oh, and release the Han prisoners—be sure to tell them they have been released on the orders of the envoy of the Lord of the Islands. Draw their attention to that Lion flag on the mainmast. Is that all understood?”

  “Yes, Mamaji,” said Captain Lodi, unable to meet her eyes.

  CHAPTER 10

  Extract from Ethnographic Travels by Professor Tolmund K. Parehki of the University of Dhilika

  The remote, rain-drenched and mountainous Island of Kyo to the northeast of the Celestial Republic, off the coast of the barren Manchu horselands, is the homeland of the fabled Niho knights. Five hundred years ago the island had been part of the Republic but the men of Niho finally put aside their traditional clan enmities, united and rebelled against their Han overlords, slaughtering the governors, slaying their regiments of Manchu bannermen, even defeating a Celestial Legion in open battle, and declaring themselves free men, henceforth to be ruled by a council of the patriarchs, one from each of the twelve Niho clans.

  The Republic did not lightly cede its territory and a brutal war was waged for nearly a hundred years between the Niho knights in their mountain fastnesses and a succession of invading Han and Manchu armies. Gradually, the soft decay caused by the traditional corruption in the Celestial Republic’s corridors of power and the difficulty of projecting that power to such a remote and difficult corner of the world had combined to ensure that the Niho were finally left in peace. Starving on rocky, desolate farmlands, untilled for generations, their rigid society forged by hardship and decades of battle, the Niho were forced to hire their men out as mercenaries to any noble houses who could pay their high fees, promising fidelity down the generations in exchange for the honor of service and a generous stream of silver sent back to their impoverished homelands.

  Tung An Shan, Envoy of the Celestial Republic to the Principality of Ashjavat, spread his arms wide and meekly allowed the Niho guard to feel his limbs, armpits, groin, waistband and collar for hidden weapons. The knight in the menacing black mask made him take of
f the soft leather boots he wore and thrust a hand inside each; finally, he ruffled through his neatly cut, white-streaked hair with hard fingertips, combing right down to his scalp. Tung wondered what this black-armored monster would do if he discovered that the last two cloth-covered buttons on his thigh-length blue silk tunic were in fact made of a solid resinous poison, enough, if dissolved in wine or hot water and merely tasted, to kill twenty men in a few brief, agonizing moments. He imagined he would be immediately put to death. He kept his face carefully immobile as the search continued.

  It had been ten days since the Venerable Kwan Li, Prince Khazeki’s aged mother, had been killed—was it by this very man?—and the horrible image of her tiny, crumpled, headless body lying before the dais in the throne room of the Palace of Ashjavat was burned into the back of his eyeballs. The Niho were all identically dressed in the lacquered black armor, and with only their dead black eyes showing above their masks, it was almost impossible to tell one from another. But he thought that it probably had not been this one. It did not matter anyway: the brute had merely been obeying the orders of the she-demon he was about to meet, and even if he were to take his revenge on the man responsible, another would spring up to take his place. But there would be a reckoning one day for the death of Venerable Kwan Li, and for her half-witted son, Prince Khazeki, so blatantly murdered in his marriage bed by this newcome ice-bitch from the frozen north.

  Tung was ushered into the presence of the ice-bitch, and made his obeisance, kneeling and knocking his forehead three times against the thick-carpeted floor of the chamber. It was sparsely furnished by Ashjavat standards, a single gold candle-stand by the deep purple armchair on which she sat reading a scroll. A pair of paintings of the chase, fur-clad men on horseback armed with spears in the Northron style. A table holding a small, silver-rimmed crystal jug filled with a pale liquid and two tiny cups and a plate of sliced pickled beetroots.