Unexpectedly, Katerina rose from the chair and came over to Tung, extending a white hand to help him up after the obeisance, smiling prettily and thanking him for coming.
“Envoy Tung, what a great pleasure it is to receive you,” she said, handing him to a wooden chair beside her purple one. She was wearing a simple, long white dress, a mark of mourning, presumably, but her fair hair and long, pale, slender arms were bared. “You’ll take a cup of marak?” she said, gesturing gracefully at the jug on the table. “It is poor, weak stuff, barely fit for pigs, but the best they can manage in these parts.”
Tung declined. He sat in the chair and fingered the bottom button on his coat. He wondered if he dared tug it loose and drop it in the crystal jug when she wasn’t looking. He decided he did not, at least not yet. He’d see what the bitch wanted first.
“I am most grateful that you have made time to visit me before your departure for the Celestial Republic,” Katerina said, pouring herself a tiny brimming cup of the pale liquid and downing it in one practiced movement. She picked a thin slice of pickle from the plate with her long fingers, crunched briefly, then licked them clean.
Tung had been summoned to her by a pair of the Palace Guards while he had been sitting miserably in his quarters drinking tea and contemplating the hiring of a fast coach and six to discreetly take him and his small retinue east. But he had not yet said anything to his servants about his plans. He wondered how she knew he meant to go.
“You will be reporting directly to the Conclave of Venerables on your return, I imagine, to inform them of the unfortunate incident with Venerable Kwan Li.”
“I will indeed,” said Tung. “Although I do not think ‘unfortunate incident’ adequately covers what transpired.” He spoke the Khevan tongue to her with a slight Ashjavati accent but no trace of his native Han in his intonation. “A more truthful and accurate expression would be ‘the cold-blooded murder of the mother of the prince.’”
“You grieve for your mistress, I’m sure,” said Katerina placidly. “Do you think that the Conclave will be equally grieved—even angry? And, furthermore, do you think in their collective wisdom there is a chance that in their rage they will be moved to punish poor little Ashjavat? In short, sir, do you think they will consider waging a war against us?”
“I think it almost a certainty,” said Tung.
“War is a terrible thing, Envoy Tung. And war with a daughter of the Ice-Bear Throne would be even more appalling. The might of the Khevan Empire pitted against the massed Legions of the Celestial Republic—Ashjavat invaded, perhaps, our lands laid waste, the city burned to the ground, tens of thousands of men dead and maimed, it would be a tragedy of epic proportions, do you not agree? A bloody catastrophe. I would seek to prevent that, if possible. Indeed, I would like you to help me prevent that. And I think we might both be able to manage it—if only you could be persuaded to remain with us for a little longer.”
“If you think that you can prevent the news of your vile actions reaching the Celestial Republic by imprisoning me here, you are very much mistaken.” Tung found the poisoned button had come loose in his hands. He would take it himself if they tried to lay hands on him. He would not allow himself to be imprisoned, beaten, tortured . . .
“Oh, nothing of that kind, Envoy, certainly not for a man of your talents. You and your retinue are free to leave the moment that this interview is concluded. But I merely hope that you will listen with an open mind to what I now have to say. When I have finished, you have my permission to pack your things and go—and the deaths of tens of thousands of men and women, Han and Khevan, will be on your conscience, not on mine.”
Tung stared at her. She was little more than a girl and yet she spoke of wholesale slaughter as calmly as if she were speaking of a lost kitten.
“What do you wish to say to me?”
“First, if I may, Envoy, I will discourse a little upon the history of this region. I believe it will shed some light. The Principality of Ashjavat is a recent addition to the Khevan Empire, as you know. It was acquired a hundred and fifty years ago by Vladimir the Great, and the Emperor wanted it, chiefly, because it holds the great warm-water port of Ostraka, a gateway to trade with all the fabled wealth of the Laut Besar. Indeed, this province was once called Ostrakavat, when the southern port was its capital city. The Celestial Republic and the Empire had long skirmished, and even fought two short, bloody wars, over possession of what later became Ashjavat. And I know that the Celestial Republic desires her still—do not attempt to deny it.”
Tung said nothing. He knew the history as well as she did.
Katerina said, “So, let us imagine, for the sake of argument, that because of all that unpleasantness with Venerable Kwan Li and her son, war is declared between the Empire and the Republic. The Celestial Legions or possibly the Manchu guard battalions will pour over the border into Ashjavat. The Emperor’s Cossack regiments will be mobilized and thousands will come southwards over the Ehrul Mountains to counter the invasion. This principality will be ravaged. Thousands will perish. The war may last a year, or five, it does not matter. The end result will be the same.”
Tung stared silently at her but despite himself he slightly raised one eyebrow.
“The Empire is weak,” she said. “The Khevan nobles do not make themselves richer and stronger with trade; they guzzle and gorge and fuck their mistresses and abuse their peasants, happily ignorant of the rest of the world. The Celestial Republic is strong. Her Legions are the finest troops in the world. Added to that, the Emperor is dying, as you must know, and the next man who will mount the Ice-Bear Throne is an arrogant idiot who, if he ever thinks beyond his belly, thinks only as far down as his prick. Nevertheless, he will order the Cossacks south to meet the Legions; and they will fight bravely but, because of the incompetence and indifference of the boyars at home in Khev, they will undoubtedly lose the war. The new Emperor will be sorely humiliated but, unless he wishes to risk the whole of his Empire, he will be powerless to do anything but sign a peace treaty with his enemies. Then the victorious Celestial Republic will gladly take possession of Ashjavat, including her all-important warm-water port Ostraka. I foresee no other possible outcome.”
Katerina paused and looked Tung squarely in the eye.
Then she said, “I plan to cut out all that pointless bloodshed in the middle of this painful scenario and go straight to the end of the game. I plan to give Ashjavat to the Celestial Republic—just hand her over, cede the whole principality, without a fight, without a drop of Han blood spilled. But, naturally, I want something in return for my gift.”
Tung found that his mouth was hanging open. Was she mad? He had just heard the de facto ruler of a Khevan principality utter rank treason to the Ice-Bear Throne. If the Emperor were to hear a single word of this, she would be impaled within the week, her royal status notwithstanding. Tung closed his mouth. She wasn’t mad. Cold as frost. Ruthless as a viper. But not mad. But could he trust her? Absolutely not.
“Do you find anything false in my reasoning, Envoy? If you do, please do tell me now. Because I want you to stay here, and work closely with me over the next few months. I want you to help me deliver Ashjavat bloodlessly to the Celestial Republic. Am I incorrect in any of my strategic reasoning?”
Tung was silent for a moment. Was this a trap? He could not tell. He was already in her power, anyway, so what did it matter? He told her the truth. “I think your reasoning is correct, Highness. I think that the Khevan Empire would undoubtedly lose a war against the Republic. Ashjavat would surely fall to us.”
“So, will you stay?” she said. “You will help me avoid a bloody catastrophe?”
Tung said nothing for several moments. He desperately wanted to go home. He wanted to be away from this foul country, this foul ice-bitch with his mistress’s blood fresh on her dainty white hands. But he served the Celestial Republic. His family had always served the Repub
lic. If nothing else, he was a man of duty.
“I . . . I will stay,” said Tung.
“Good, well, that is enough for now. You will no doubt have secret messages that you wish to dispatch to the Conclave of Venerables. We shall speak again soon.”
Tung got up; the button fell from his lap and rolled on the floor to the feet of Katerina. She picked it up and looked at it briefly. She tossed it to the Envoy.
“Take your button with you, sir,” she said. “You should not leave something like that lying around. A child might see it, pick it up and put it in her mouth. Then die horribly.”
Tung blushed and shoved the button into his pocket.
“Of choking, I mean,” said Katerina with a happy smile. “For how else could a pretty little button kill someone?”
* * *
• • •
Katerina rang the bell when the Envoy had left, and as a servant appeared, she said, “Send the General in to me immediately.”
General Jan Artur swaggered into the room a few moments later. His long, beautiful black mustaches were freshly oiled, and he was looking tanned, strong and pleased with himself, as well he might. He was now, thanks to his lady’s favor, the commander in chief of all the armies of Ashjavat. It was a grand title but, in truth, Artur was master of no more than a few thousand poorly equipped recruits, who were mostly stationed in the rocky broken lands on the border with the Celestial Republic engaged in a desultory struggle with the local marak smugglers, and losing badly.
If his ramshackle troops were demoralized, corrupt and lacking in essential food, kit and weapons, General Artur had no power to do anything about it. All funds were controlled by the Ashjavat Treasury and he had been told firmly that no more would be forthcoming for matters of defense in the next year or two. So he resigned himself to enjoying the perquisites of his new position, and suffocated any qualms he had about the state of his men. He had retained the position of Captain of the Palace Guard, and the generous salary that went with it, and he was the recipient of a regular flow of bribes from Ashjavati courtiers and foreign dignitaries who believed that he had the princess’s private ear. So long as he kept his eyes shut to the dire state of the army, life would continue to be good.
He bowed low before Katerina and leered at her gallantly. She merely said, “Strip!” and then began to take off her own tight white dress.
Half an hour later, when they had finished, she drank off another glass of marak, gave one to the sweating, red-faced Artur, and reclined still naked in the armchair.
“I want a discreet watch put on Envoy Tung An Shan at all hours of the day and night—good men, not your usual incompetents. However, his private couriers to the Celestial Republic are not to be molested in the slightest—no demands for bribes or emoluments—and I want a daily list of the people he speaks to in the Palace and the city. Is that clear?”
“As you wish, my love,” said Artur. He came over to the chair, grinning and bending down to kiss her. She shoved him away with surprising strength. He staggered back, confused. “My love?” he said. “Have I done something wrong?”
“I am not your love, General,” she said icily. “You are merely a bull performing his stud duty. From now onward you will address me as Highness at all times. Now, get out.”
CHAPTER 11
There were five of them, five white nicks on the horizon. Sails. Farhan was sure of it now. They were not fishing craft, they were too big for that, and the distance between them was equidistant and unchanging. Most likely they were a squadron of battle cruisers from the Celestial fleet. But whether they were following the Mongoose was difficult to tell, even from Farhan’s seat in the crow’s nest near the top of the mainmast. With the sinking sun a handsbreadth above the horizon behind them he had to squint into its reddening glare even to make them out. The Mongoose was sailing almost due east, with the wind blowing strongly on its port quarter and the deck canted over at a fine angle. They were making good progress and shouldering their way strongly through the moderate swell.
Farhan cursed Mamaji—but under his breath. Even up here, forty feet from the quarterdeck where she sat placidly under the parasol held by her maid, he dared not abuse her too loudly. She had insisted, after the fort in Kulu was taken, that they examine all the papers in the officers’ mess, despite Captain Lodi’s increasingly urgent warnings that the signal flares had gone up hours ago and even now the Celestial Republic’s armed forces would be descending upon them.
It was not as if they had found anything of particular interest among the letters, journals and written orders of the detachment of Manchu bannermen and the officers of the Han 16th Regiment of the Line. It was mostly routine stuff, bills of sickness in the soldiery, accounts of the stocks of food and drink that the garrison held, a few private missives containing scraps of gossip about missed production targets of the obat factories farther up the coast—certainly nothing worth lingering so long for.
Farhan had leafed through them all, finding nothing of particular interest: his command of Han, written and spoken, like his grasp of the Common Tongue, the lingua franca of the Laut Besar, and half a dozen other major languages, was excellent—which was one of the many reasons he had been recruited by the Amrit Shakti all those years ago. But Mamaji had seized upon great sheaves of paper and had insisted that they be transported to the Mongoose where she could pore over them at her leisure. And she had done so, rarely emerging from her—or rather the captain’s—cabin, except to call for more food and drink for her and her silent maid, Lila.
The five ships were definitely coming closer, Farhan thought. Their square sails, piled one on top of each other, three to each of the three masts, could now clearly be seen. He wondered if he ought to come down and tell the captain, but Lodi had recently shown a marked prickliness about receiving advice from his old friend when it came to sailing the ship. He had to do it, though, even at the risk of being snapped at.
By the time Farhan had laboriously clambered down the mainmast and reached the quarterdeck, he knew his intelligence was already obsolete, for Captain Lodi and Mamaji were both standing at the taffrail with their telescopes trained on the five ships following them, which were now much closer.
“Celestial light battle cruisers,” Lodi said to his fat companion. “Five of the bastards. Each carrying ten guns, and fifty musketeers. And they’re faster then us, if well handled.” He thought for a moment. “I could fight off one, easily, maybe two at a pinch. Not five.”
“Well, dear, you’d better not let them catch us then,” said Mamaji, folding up her telescope, returning it to her bag, turning her back and waddling back to her seat.
“Can you lose them in the darkness, Cyrus?” asked Farhan.
“I certainly hope so,” said Lodi. And he began bawling a string of orders to his crew, sending the lithe Buginese sailors scrambling up the masts.
The sun was half-sunk into the western ocean and the Celestial cruisers were closer still, easily recognizable as the slim, deadly, fighting ships they were, when Farhan went below. He needed to go through his belongings and decide which of his papers he might need to discard in the event of capture. Spies were routinely tortured and executed by the Republic; ordinary merchants might be merely imprisoned. But he and everyone on this ship had just sacked a Han outpost, and killed scores of men. They could expect no mercy.
When Farhan went back up on deck he saw that the tropical night had fallen with all its usual suddenness. Captain Lodi had not moved from his position on the taffrail, although his telescope was useless in the darkness. The five ships were close now, perhaps half a league away and each one could be made out by a collection of little orange lights. The captain said a quiet word to his lieutenant, Muda, who nodded and went away.
All over the ship the lanterns were snuffed out, the Dokra mercenaries, a dozen of whom had been standing in the waist, goggling at the oncoming vessels and finger
ing their muskets, were herded down below, and the word was passed from man to man: “Silence, silence on deck, a flogging for any man who makes a noise.”
Farhan ignored the command. He said quietly to Lodi, “Do you mean to make a run for the Yawa shore?” He waved a hand vaguely to the south.
“That’s what they would expect us to do. Run for the shore in darkness and hide in a little delta or mangrove swamp till they pass us by. I mean to do the opposite. Now if you want to be allowed to remain on deck, I need you to be absolutely quiet.”
“Yes, sir,” said Farhan, only a little sarcastically. He walked off the quarterdeck, down the little set of steps into the waist, and seated himself cross-legged on a bale of silk, out of the way. He took out a little wooden box from his pocket, pinched off a large nub of obat and tucked it in his mouth between his teeth and the flesh of his cheek. It was a waste of the precious drug, he knew, for its effects would be far milder than smoking it. But lighting a pipe was asking for trouble on the blacked-out deck and he was damned if he would not enjoy the obat’s wonderful soothing effect one last time before he was no more.
As he replaced the wooden obat box in the pocket of his heavy woolen coat, his fingers touched the cool metal of his little solid-iron pistol. He had “borrowed” it from the ship’s arms chest when the armorer wasn’t looking, loaded it with his own powder and shot in his cabin, and he was ready, if they were boarded by the Celestials and looked to be captured, to put the gun to his own head and pull the trigger.
He had seen the victims of torture who had been released from the dark cells below the Taj Palace—those bloody, limping, forever-ruined wretches who had been found, after all that pain and blood, to be innocent. The guilty, of course, were never seen alive again. No, thought Farhan, stroking the chilly metal in his pocket, he would not be taken alive.
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