For perhaps half an hour, nothing happened. The Mongoose, now in total darkness and further cloaked with an unnatural hush, save for the creak of taut ropes and wooden masts and the wash of the sea along her flank, proceeded on her course unchanged. By leaning out into the freshening breeze off the port side, and looking back, Farhan could make out two clusters of orange lights, the two northernmost cruisers. Then he heard Lodi whisper an order and there was the slap of bare feet on wood as a score of sailors rushed to their stations, some nimbly climbing the rigging. The tiller was put hard over and the Mongoose began her smooth turn, to port, toward the northeast, as close to the wind as she would swim. As the ship turned through forty-five degrees, heading out into the vast emptiness of the Laut Besar, there was hardly a noise but the light clatter of the booms against the mast and the whisper of orders, and Farhan watched the lights of the cruisers with his breath held down tight in his lungs, to see if they’d make the same turn.
A minute passed, and another, and now Farhan could see all five of his pursuers. Their course was unchanged, blithely continuing eastwards. He let out his breath with a whoosh. He could feel the obat working in his bloodstream and a thrill of euphoria glowing behind his eyes. Half an hour passed, and now Farhan could see the very faintest glimmer of lights appearing across the narrow waist of the ship. The enemy was due south of them, still apparently unaware that the Mongoose had slipped away northwards. Then, as the distance between them grew greater still, their lights winked out, one by one, swallowed by the black ocean.
An hour later, and Captain Lodi gave the order to go about, and with the same disciplined near silence the Mongoose came into the wind, and swung round farther and the ropes were sheeted home for her new course, south by west, heading back toward the Yawa shore with the enemy cruisers now quite invisible somewhere to the east, far ahead of them. Farhan felt the urge to cheer—but he knew it was merely the obat rushing in his veins. Instead, he got up off the silk bale and stumbling slightly on numb legs, he made his way down into his dark and stuffy cabin, lay down fully clothed on the narrow bunk and allowed the blissful drug to claim him.
He awoke with blinding sunlight streaming through the porthole and the cheerful chatter of the Buginese on the deck above him. He had been dreaming about her again and his member was hard as iron. His head, on the other hand, felt as if it was stuffed with wool; his senses were dull, and a heavy, aching pulse beat in his temple. He knew it would wear off in a few hours. He stripped, splashed his face, body and softening prick with seawater, before dressing and coming up on deck.
The scene that greeted him was one of placid domesticity: about thirty of the Dokra mercenaries were lounging around the deck half-naked, scarlet turbans discarded, their long hair piled up on their heads, chatting to each other. Other members of the company were busy with vast tubs of seawater washing their comrades’ linens, and those items already washed were hanging from lines strung fore and aft, fluttering in the breeze like little white flags. The Buginese were hanging from the ratlines, running up and down the ropes like children at play, calling out to each other with happiness at their escape from the cruisers. Others were sitting in little groups on the deck, mingling with the Dokra, laughing and playing at dice. On the quarterdeck, Mamaji sat in her customary place in the center, shaded by her ever-watchful servant, Lila. Captain Lodi, beaming, was standing legs apart, riding the gentle swell with ease. The sun shone brightly from an almost-cloudless sky and Farhan noted that the wind had changed direction and was blowing from the north, directly astern, and wafting the Mongoose toward the low, green, jungly shore several miles ahead, toward the Island of Yawa.
“Good morning, Farhan,” called the captain. “I trust you slept well.”
The tubby merchant, in his post-obat funk, did not deign to reply but came slowly up the little set of steps to the quarterdeck and stood beside his friend.
“We lost them, I see,” he said, scanning the empty horizon, east and west.
“Yes, with any luck, they will be halfway to Sukatan by now. Or scouring the ocean to the north looking in vain for a sniff of us in all those thousands of sea miles.”
“So what is the plan?” Farhan asked.
“The plan remains unchanged, dear,” said Mamaji, turning in her seat and bestowing Farhan with a loving look. Lila scowled at him. “We will proceed along the coast to the Celestial Republic’s factory at Tekal and let the Dokra loose to have their fun. Then on to Sukatan to lie in wait for the Republic’s gold transport. Nothing has changed, dear. We are just a day behind schedule; that’s all. But you’ve all done very well. And you particularly should be jolly proud of yourself, Captain.”
Cyrus Lodi grimaced at her tone, but said nothing.
Farhan was staring off the port bow. He rubbed his eyes. Looked again. The white speck was still there. “Cyrus, what do you think . . .”
Farhan never completed his sentence. A sharp cry of “Sail-oh, Captain!” came down from the crow’s nest. Lodi did not hesitate even for an instant. He leaped at the nearest ratline and swung his bulk into the rope ladder and started climbing, as nimbly as any of his far lighter crew, and despite the affliction of his forty-odd years.
A tense quarter of an hour later, and the captain was back on the quarterdeck, puffing slightly. “Hard aport,” he said to the helmsman. “Set course east-northeast.” Then he yelled, “Muda! Set the wings and flying jib. And be quick about it, man!”
“Captain, what on earth is happening?” said Mamaji, rising ponderously from her wicker chair. “I demand that you tell me this instant.”
Lodi looked at her. “There are two—only two—Celestial cruisers five miles to the east.” He gestured with his hand off the port bow. “We are going to fight them, cripple them or sink them, before the others in the squadron can come up.”
As the ship came around onto its new heading, accompanied by the whistles and shouts of the petty officers and slapping stamp of bare Buginese feet, Mamaji said crossly, “But you assured me, dear, that you had lost them in the night.”
Through clenched teeth, Lodi said, “It would appear that I have not, madam. But the squadron has separated in the search for us, and that gives us a fighting chance.”
“I am not sure that I think that is wise. Would it not be better to head in toward the land—perhaps we could hide from them . . .”
“No, madam, it would not be better. If I can see them, they can see us. We must beat them while we have the chance. Before they are joined by their consorts.”
“I don’t think General Vakul would approve of this reckless . . .”
“I don’t give a soggy fart what Vakul thinks. He is not captain of this ship; neither are you. I’m in command. And I will thank you to go below and allow me to do my duty.”
Farhan had never seen Mamaji checked in this way before. A mixture of contrasting emotions was briefly visible on her fat face, and then she said, “Very well, Captain. But on your own head be it! Be assured I shall report your insolence to the General.”
“Go below, madam, now!” said Lodi. But Mamaji was already stumping away.
With the new sails set and sheeted home, the Mongoose seemed to lurch forward like a racehorse straining at the bit. The two cruisers, one half a mile behind the other and slightly to the south, were now clearly visible from the quarterdeck, and coming closer at a terrifying rate as the three vessels converged on each other at their combined speeds.
“What can I do to help?” said Farhan.
“I don’t know. What can you do to help?” said Lodi. He was clearly very angry.
Farhan frowned at his friend, and Lodi had the grace to look a little shamefaced.
“There is nothing for you to do, my friend. Just keep out of the way of the fighting men, and try not to get hurt,” he said. “This is going to be bloody.”
CHAPTER 12
Minister Tung An Shan walked the ful
l length of the throne room, stopping just before the dais and the tiny figure in silver silk on the huge, lion-pawed, oak chair.
“Highness, there is a Niho man to see you, a knight, he claims, who says he has traveled many long, hard leagues to serve you.”
Katerina inclined her head fractionally, and Tung clapped his hands. The slaves swung open the double doors and a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a loose and rather dusty white-linen jacket and trousers, and with a long, curved sword thrust through his belt, strode into the room. He marched up to the dais and made a crisp bow, bending low.
“Thank you, Minister, that will be all for now,” said Katerina.
As Tung retreated to the wall of the chamber, dismissed, and took his place next to Captain Murakami, still as a black statue in his lacquered armor, he reflected that he had enjoyed far more respect as an Envoy of the Celestial Republic than he did as Minister to Her Highness the Princess of Ashjavat. But he had had no choice about accepting his new role. The Conclave of Venerables had insisted emphatically that he remain in Ashjavat and serve the princess in whatever capacity she might require, until the secret negotiations about the future of the Khevan principality were concluded. He longed to go home to his little rice farm and his wife in the village just outside Nankung and the eleven-month-old son he had never yet laid eyes on. Not long now, he told himself. Not long. The negotiations were nearly done—made all the swifter because the Conclave had agreed immediately to almost all her demands with scarcely a quibble.
“Ari Yoritomo, knight first grade, at your service, Lady,” said the tall young man, smiling easily up at the throne. Katerina was a little taken aback. She had never seen a Niho knight smile before. True, they almost always wore their black-lacquer masks on duty, but even when she was younger and she had taken her guards with her to the swimming hole on long, hot, dusty summer days, she did not ever remember, not even once, one of the naked muscular men swimming powerfully beside her showing any kind of emotion at all. She had been naked, too, in the first budding of womanhood but, even so, none of the knights had ever shown the slightest interest, either by glance or expression, in her smooth white body. Other men had, and for the first time she had become aware of her power over them. For the first time she had begun to collect them, to bind them to her and hold them, as she thought of it, in her pocket. She looked down at this smiling, handsome knight, and realized that she had not, until this moment, thought of the Niho as fully human. But this bold new fellow was grinning at her as if they were old friends. She was not sure she liked it. However, he was a well-made creature, she conceded, a hank of thick black hair falling forward over a wide, strong face, well tanned by travel. She noticed, too, that he did not have the usual ink-black eyes of the rest of them. His eyes were a dark blue color.
“You are of the House of Yoritomo? Eldest son of Musa, my former captain?” said Katerina. She immediately realized that it was a stupid question. Of course he was. He had just said as much. She was thrown by his smile. The younger Yoritomo merely bowed again.
“Can any of you vouch for him?” she said, looking at the row of knights by the wall.
Captain Murakami stepped forward and bowed. “I vouch for the Yoritomo knight first grade, Lady. He was fostered into my House and I personally oversaw his training in swordsmanship, archery, horsemanship, unarmed combat, pole-arm combat, stealth maneuvers, poison resistance, as well as the flower ceremony, the seven tea rituals . . .”
“Yes, yes, all right,” said Katerina.
“He is a knight first grade, Lady, the very best of his class and generation.” There was unmistakable pride in the older man’s words.
“I’m sure he’s a paragon.” She turned to Ari. “You’re ready to take the oath of service to me?”
“Quite ready, Lady,” said the young man, again accompanying his words with a boyish smile. He dropped on one knee and began to say the words Katerina had heard so many times before, sonorous phrases about lifelong duty, loyalty to lordship and courage in the face of death. Katerina barely listened to them; she watched his face and the way his mouth moved as he spoke. He was rather beautiful, she realized. He had a grace and quiet strength that made General Artur look like a posturing ape.
Finally the young man pulled his short knife, his tanto, from the back of his belt. He held out his left palm toward her. Katerina sat up in her oversized chair. This had never been part of the traditional ceremony. This was new.
Ari looked directly at her, and said, “I spill my blood today, willingly, as a symbol that I shall never shrink hereafter from spilling mine or that of any man or woman or child who seeks to harm you. Let this blood bear witness to the sacred oath that I make this day and be the ink that writes the contract of life and death between us.”
Katerina was aware of a low, rumbling sound, almost a growl, that came from the ranks of the Niho. She realized that the other guards did not like Ari’s departure from the ancient formula. She glanced at them and there was silence once more. Ari took the tanto and sliced once hard across his left palm, the thick blood oozing from the cut as slow as honey.
“From this day forward, and forever, I am your man,” said Ari, squeezing a fat droplet from his closed left fist, which splashed to the floor.
“I accept your blood offering, Ari Yoritomo, knight first grade,” said Katerina. “May you never know dishonor in my service.”
* * *
• • •
“It is perfectly simple, Minister, I must have the timber, suitable wood, cut into the correctly sized planks. How else am I to make my ships? Ashjavat is near treeless!”
“I will ask them, Your Highness,” said Tung, “But I believe the Conclave is quite adamant on this point.”
He did not believe anything of the kind. The Conclave of Venerables had given in without a murmur to the rest of her demands: the gangs of skilled carpenters and shipbuilders, the miles of rope and acres of canvas for the sails, all the cannon, powder and shot, trained Han gunners to teach Ashjavati men how to use them, the stores of dried goods, trade goods, the huge water barrels. They had provided her with detailed intelligence on the Indujah Federation fortresses in the region, and the dispositions of the powerful pirate fleet of Ongkara, Lord of the Islands . . . They had even promised her, gift of all gifts, a whole Celestial Legion for her to command—an unprecedented move. A thousand highly trained, well-armed elite fighting men handed over to this pip-squeak of a girl for her to play with as if they were no more than a thousand blue-uniformed dolls.
He had delivered her demands and an outline of her plans—an armed trading expedition comprising three ships to the Laut Besar—and her solemn promise not to molest any of the Celestial Republic’s factories or plantations nor to trouble its merchant shipping and, within a week or two, which was for all practical purposes instantaneously, the Conclave had given its approval.
“Might we discuss the handover of the Principality now, Highness?” said Tung.
There was the crack of a whip and a terrible scream rang out across the main courtyard of the palace. Tung flinched in his seat under the awning, and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the princess’s face. The sun was particularly warm that day, yet it was not the only cause of the greasy drops of sweat that began to slide down his cheeks. He did not care to watch the execution of the prisoner. He decided that he would not look at him at all. He would rather have conducted this stage of the negotiation in the privacy of the princess’s chambers, or in the throne room, or anywhere but here. And at any time but during this appalling display of Khevan barbarity.
“It should be straightforward,” said Katerina. She watched as on the far side of the courtyard the Master of the Lash, a hairy, big-bellied Ashjavati, who apparently preferred to work naked above the waist, drew back his arm for the second blow on his victim: Andrei, Count of Tashkhan, self-confessed traitor and accomplice of assassins.
The nobleman hung bl
oody and limp by the ropes that tied his wrists to the crossbar. Katerina feared that it would take no more than three dozen blows of the long, heavy, horsehide whip to finish him. The count was a weak man—he had shown that under torture, meekly confessing to everything that his inquisitors suggested he was guilty of when he was only lightly tickled with the hot irons and crushed for a few days under the weights.
Katerina hoped that the Master of the Lash knew his work: this foolish count must suffer a terrible death, long and slow, and very public, to discourage any others who might contest her right to the throne. She hoped the Master would not kill him too soon, feeble as he was. Her Cossacks at home would make a better, longer and more painful job of it. Home. She would not see it for many years—perhaps never again. In this endless heat, she longed for the crisp cold, for the clean snows of the Khevan winter.
The whip cracked and the victim gave a gurgling shriek that rounded the courtyard.
“Highness?” said Minister Tung. “The handover?”
“This is for your ears only, Minister, and the Conclave’s, of course, that is if you value your life,” said Katerina. She nodded toward the bloody wretch swinging by his arms from the crossbar. “Flapping lips must be sealed with whips, as my old governess used to say.”
Tung shivered at this threat but nodded his agreement to keep silent on the matter except to his masters. The lash smacked again. Andrei howled like a demon.
Katerina continued blithely, “When the ships are built at Ostraka and the Celestial Legion has arrived there and been inspected by me, I will order the whole Ashjavati army north to the Ehrul Mountains, stripping all the men from the garrisons on the border with the Celestial Republic. Your armies may then cross into Ashjavat at your leisure. In the high caves, the age-old strongholds in the Ehrul, the Ashjavati forces will dig in and await the Khevan response to the annexation. The new Emperor cannot allow this first test of his new rule to go unchallenged. He might have publicly converted to the Martyrite religion but the fool will still have to fight—did you hear that? He openly became a convert to the Burned God! The imbecile has decreed his regnal name will be Vladimir the Pure? What pompous nonsense!”
Gates of Stone Page 12
