The two old women, the sacred twins, were the next to be taken by the spirit of Vharkash; they joined the dancing buffalo-man on the floor, strutting and posing like young warriors eager to make a name for themselves. The transformation was extraordinary: gone were the thin backs bowed with age and infirmity, gone the withered, sticklike limbs, gone the doddering grandmotherly shuffle. The two women strode boldly to the front, heads high, arms cocked on their hips, their movements exactly synchronized with the other, one body an exact copy of the other: and Jun truly saw a pair of young men, warriors in the prime of life, the embodiment of divine Vharkash the Harvester himself.
Then Ketut leaped out onto the floor.
* * *
• • •
The tiny black-and-green beetle flew high above the rooftops of the Palace of Sukatan and perched on a golden spire. Mangku looked out through the insect’s myriad, fractured eyes and saw the lights of the lamps on the waterfront and the glowing windows from the obat dens and taverns that lined the road. The rest of the city was darker, but here and there were pinpoints of light, candle-glow leaking from the doors of the dwellings of the richer citizens who had not gone to bed with the sun. Mangku looked down at the courtyard of the Temple of Vharkash, the lit space and the crowds thronging outside, swaying in time to the distant, tinny sounds of the gong orchestra.
Bah, he thought, with the insect’s tiny brain, they think that is magic. A whiff of obat, a swirl of sacred music and the frenzy of a mob eager to be possessed by the Gods—but it’s no more than a shadow play compared with the power I will conjure in this world.
The tiny beetle spread its wings and flapped up into the night. It circled the golden spire once and flew east toward a balcony on the highest floor of the Palace of Sukatan where a gauzy curtain flapped in the breeze. Inside the chamber, on a bed of silken pillows, the Raja lay snoring softly. The beetle alighted on his downy cheek, took a few featherlight steps and crawled inside the royal ear.
Widojo gave a small gasp and half opened his eyes as the beetle entered the deepest part of the auditory canal, gnawed swiftly through a barrier of bone and gristle and burrowed up into his soft brain. Mangku stilled the beetle. It stopped its tunneling and lay quiet for a dozen heartbeats. The Raja of Sukatan turned over, sighed heavily and settled back into his slumbers. Mangku concentrated his power, projecting it across the space between them, and the beetle, snug in the spongy moist tissue, curled in upon itself, shrank and liquefied, the green juices of its body diffusing into the gray matter, flowing into every corner of its folds.
* * *
• • •
Ketut leaped out onto the floor. And yet it was no longer Ketut. Jun knew that the gigantic figure, twice as tall as a man, with huge bulbous red-and-black-ringed eyes, with curled protruding fangs and claws of an enormous tiger was his Dewa shipmate. She was Ketut. And yet she was not: she was Dargan—the Witch Goddess, one of the avatars of Vharkash’s wife. With her toes and fingers turned outwards, she stamped across the floor in front of the altar. The collective indrawn breath of the crowd about Jun was like the hissing of the sea on a shingle beach; the buffalo-dancer took one look at Dargan, straightened up out of his hunched posture, his eyes fluttering, and he collapsed like a dead man—into the arms of two waiting novices, who carried him safely away behind the altar to recuperate, with the old priest in black fussing over him. The twin Vharkash priestesses, both still deeply entranced, bowed courteously to the gigantic figure and retreated to the back of the space, each still shivering and twitching to the beat of the music. Dargan stamped to the center and looked out over the packed ranks of worshippers. Jun felt her terrible eyes alight on him. He felt the atavistic fear sink deep down into him, right down into his toes.
He was aware of a stench, a hideous smell of decaying meat and excrement, and saw that around Dargan’s neck was a glistening pink necklace of human entrails, and at her waist a belt of human skulls knotted together with flaps of rotting human skin. The monster beckoned to him with a ripple of her huge, clawed hands—to him alone. And Jun knew that he must obey—even though it meant his death at the hands of the Witch Queen. He began to move forward, pushing through the crowd, which was now swaying and chanting, a few hysterical souls actually screaming out Dargan’s name in their ecstasy. He had no control over his legs, which propelled him farther forward, always forward, the red gaze of Dargan still holding him tight. But before he could advance to his certain doom, a man jumped out of the crowd, a burly fellow, with round, well-muscled shoulders, naked above his red sarong and with a short, unsheathed kris in his hands.
Jun stopped dead. The man shook the kris menacingly at Dargan, and then began making flowing strokes through the air in a figure of eight, traditional patterns that Jun well knew from his lessons with War-Master Hardan. The Witch Queen broke her gaze with Jun and deigned to look down at this leaping fellow who dared to threaten her with a mortal blade. She made one gesture, an open palm punching the air in his direction, and the man fell back a pace. His face was a rictus of pain, eyes wide as saucers, mouth open in silent agony, the cords in his neck taut. He turned the kris in his hands, laying both fists on the wooden hilt and placing the point of the weapon in the center of his naked, sweat-slimed chest, and then he began to push the kris into his own flesh. Dargan raised both hands, claws extended, holding them above her shoulders, commanding the fellow to impale himself, demonstrating her power over him, and the blade slid an inch into his pectoral mass. She opened her mouth and a blast of red flame shot out and singed the man’s face but he merely rolled his head to one side and continued to force the blade into his own body.
The little old priest in the red-and-black mask suddenly stepped forward. He snapped his fingers twice and Jun saw the twins possessed by Vharkash shrink back to their crone forms, shaking their heads and looking dazed. The priest made a cutting motion through the air with a flat palm and the orchestra played a few notes more and fell silent. It was over. Two strong novices had appeared by now and were struggling with the singed man with the kris, their hands gripping the blade, preventing it from being forced any farther into his chest. Jun looked at Dargan—and saw Ketut, standing there with her head bowed, sweat running in rivers down her face, arms limp at her sides. The chanting and screaming of the crowd had ceased and been replaced with a dull, awed murmur. One member of the orchestra began picking out a simple soothing tune on his bamboo instrument, almost a lullaby. The kris-man had been safely disarmed and was being led away by the novices to have his cut chest and burns tended. The floor was empty but for the short, masked priest and the ancient twins, the three of them embracing in a cozy family huddle.
Jun looked for Ketut on the performance area—both awed and appalled in equal measure. And saw that she was gone.
CHAPTER 14
Below in his cabin, Farhan opened the narrow cupboard that held his few clothes and after fumbling for a moment in the back, he brought out a long, slim wooden box. He was stung by Captain Lodi’s suggestion that he was not a fighting man. Did he not face the same risks, or even greater ones if they were captured, as any Dokra mercenary or Buginese sailor? He had never actually killed a man—that was true. But he had slain many scores of ducks and geese, and dozens of spotted deer in his youth while holidaying each year in his father’s summer hunting lodge high in the cool Caspaan hills. He had even, on one terrifying occasion, dropped a charging boar with a well-aimed shot, when that beast was threatening to disembowel him.
Farhan opened the wooden box and looked down at the elegant lines of the double-barrelled hunting rifle, silver engraved into the metal, the slim cherrywood stock carved with scenes from the chase. It was with this weapon that he had brought down the wild boar, a two-hundred-pound monster with upcurving scimitar-like tusks, which ran fast as a greyhound out of a thicket of bramble and straight at him. Farhan had had no time to think: he had put the loaded rifle to his shoulder and fired and—thank the Gods
—he had shot straight, putting a ball through the animal’s chest at twenty paces and exploding its heart. The animal had continued to run long after it was dead and had finally collapsed, twitching, drooling and urinating, at his very feet.
Farhan took the rifle from the blue, velvet-lined box. It felt light and balanced in his hands. He cocked both hammers, put the piece to his shoulder and clicked each trigger once. The hammers snapped down and Farhan imagined a huge, battle-mad Manchu bannerman blown off his feet with each dry click.
He looked down at the empty space where the rifle had lain. Something was wrong. There was a compartment below the stock of the rifle, a square of blue-velvet board that lifted with the right pressure in one corner, and he saw that it was slightly ajar, a sliver of the white interior of the cache showing. He was always meticulous about closing it: he hid some of his most treasured objects inside the box. He pushed the levered door of the box and it opened fully. Inside were a few of the early love notes he had received from the Northron girl, a basic Amrit Shakti codebook, a single finger of pure gold—escape money to be used in the last resort—and an envelope of white powder, a deadly poison, which if used in very small quantities could also be a most effective painkiller. The packet of love notes had been opened. They had been tied up with a scarlet ribbon and someone had undone it, read and no doubt copied the letters, then retied the bow but in a clumsier way.
Am I imagining this? Farhan considered this for a long moment, and concluded that he was not. Someone was spying on him, and it did not take very much of a leap of imagination to work out who it was: Mamaji—or more likely her maid Lila on her mistress’s orders. Still, there was nothing in the notes but words of tenderness, nothing he could not explain as sentimentality. Nothing compromising. So, no matter. No damage was done except to his pride. He knew now that Mamaji did not trust him. But he’d nothing to hide from her except the extent of his debts—and there was no mention of that in his letters.
He put the matter from his mind and loaded the rifle: priming both pans with a pinch of black powder, pouring a full measure of powder into each barrel, stuffing leather, wadding-wrapped balls into both barrels and ramming them far down with the long, slim steel rod till they were snug against the powder charge. He took the small silver pistol out of his pocket and shoved it into his boot top—he still had no intention of being taken alive—and filled his coat pockets with a dozen lead balls, a full flask of powder and a handful of little cut squares of leather. For a moment, he considered taking a pinch of obat—it would quell his fears; he knew that. But at the last moment he realized that he needed clarity of thought and settled for taking a leather tea bottle filled with a fine, delicate Han brew. Rifle in hand Farhan left the cabin and made his way to the stairs that led to the deck.
* * *
• • •
Captain Lodi felt the brisk north wind blowing on his weather-beaten left cheek. He checked the angle of the sails, tugged on a backstay to check the tension of the rigging, nodded with satisfaction.
“Keep her as close to the wind as you dare, Muda,” he said to his lieutenant, who with another powerful Buginese sailor had taken the big round, spoked wheel that controlled the rudder. Cyrus Lodi left the quarterdeck and went forward beyond the curve of the fan-shaped mainsail to get an uninterrupted view of the enemy. He passed by the rows of Dokra, splendid in their best scarlet coats, grinning under their turbans at the captain and saluting with their muskets. Their task in the battle would be to add their musket fire to the cannon broadside on the enemy ships as they passed—trying to kill or maim the vital seamen who sailed the ship, rather than the enemy’s marine troops. And if they were grappled by the enemy, they were to resist boarders or, indeed, try to board the enemy ship themselves, aiming to secure the enemy quarterdeck and vital steering wheel.
Captain Lodi climbed the foremast as far as the fighting top and pulled out his telescope. Not that it was much needed. The Mongoose was less than half a league from the nearest Celestial cruiser, and crucially, slightly to the north of the Han ship, or to windward, the two ships converging fast. The second cruiser was closer in to the green Yawa coast four leagues to the captain’s right, half a league behind her consort, but she’d packed on all the sail she could to try to close with her companion. Captain Lodi smiled to himself. This could be done, he thought. It could be done. He needed precise timing, swiftly worked guns and just a pinch of luck, but it could be done. It all depended on the enemy continuing to do what he was doing now—which was always a risky prospect to rely on. But he could do nothing about that and, so far as it could be predicted, the battle was shaping up very nicely.
Captain Lodi was rather surprised to find himself joined in the fighting top by his friend Farhan, who was grasping an improbably long and rather ornate silver double-barrelled hunting rifle in his right hand. In the bucket-shaped structure of the top, it was rather crowded for two big men to stand together, and Lodi courteously stepped outside the wooden rim and perched on a shroud, swaying easily with the roll of the ship. “Well, at least you won’t be in the way up here,” said Lodi, smiling. “And, who knows, you might even be able to bag a brace of juicy pheasant for our supper.”
“Very funny. I thought I might try to take out their captain or some of their senior officers with this thing. I am pretty accurate, you know. Killed a boar once. I understand that their officers can be distinguished by the round glass buttons fixed onto the crown of their hats—red glass for the captain, if I remember correctly, yellow for a lieutenant.”
“Yes, that’s what they wear. But it’s not really very sporting to aim at the officers,” said Lodi, frowning. “They will all be on the quarterdeck, standing tall, showing their courage, taking their chances against the cannon and general fire. The Celestials consider it rather barbaric, almost a war crime, in fact, to pick out officers especially as targets.”
“Truly?” said Farhan, quite amazed at this revelation.
“Yes, even in war there are rules of conduct. Anyway, killing the captain won’t do much good as there are a host of lieutenants, half a dozen at least, all ranked in order and ready to take his place. The Celestial Republic trains its sea officers thoroughly but they are all taught the same tactics and responses—individualism is very much frowned on. If you kill the captain, the first lieutenant will take over and carry on in exactly the same way. It won’t make any difference. But you bang away, if you want to. It can’t do much harm.”
Captain Lodi tucked away his telescope and began to climb nimbly down the rigging. Farhan felt deeply discouraged. In his mind’s eye, he had seen himself dropping an enemy captain with a single brilliant shot and ending the battle at a stroke, winning applause, medals, honors. In his fantasy, they might even have given him the Order of the Elephant, the Federation’s highest award.
The enemy ships were close now, three hundred paces away and, as Farhan watched, the nearest cruiser ran out a huge cannon in the bow. A few moments later it spoke. A cloud of gray smoke, then a bang, and Farhan fancied he could actually see the ball hurtling through the air toward them. It flew two yards wide of the foremast and roared past to starboard, cutting through a dozen backstays but doing little other damage. He had felt the wind of its passing. That was something that Farhan had not properly considered: that he, here in his seat in the fighting top in the prow of the ship, might also be a target. It was not a pleasant thought. The cannon was now being reloaded, the Han sailors sponging out the hot barrel surrounded by wreaths of steam, and another pair of men coming forward with a fresh ball, carried on a wooden hurdle between them. Then, as if a gate were opening in his mind, Farhan began to move. It might not be gentleman-like—but these people were shooting at him. At him personally, it felt like. He was damned if he would not reply.
Farhan brought the rifle to his shoulder in a smooth, practiced motion. He pulled back the hammer on the right to full cock and aimed at the crew of Han busy reloading t
he bow cannon, at a man with a yellow-glass ball on the crown of his square black hat who was holding a pole with a burning match at its tip and who seemed to be giving orders. He felt the sway of the mast beneath his feet, moving with the roll of the ship. The target was two hundred paces away and closing. He aimed carefully, took a deep breath, released half and held the rest, as his father had taught him many years ago in the cool Caspaan hills.
At a hundred and fifty yards, he pulled the trigger.
The rifle kicked hard into his right shoulder, a gout of smoke shooting out from the barrel and obscuring his view. When it cleared he saw that the man with the yellow button of office was down, his pole with the burning match discarded. Another man was crouched beside him. There was a splash of blood on the deck. The two men with the cannonball on the hurdle looked on in shock. Farhan shouldered his piece again. He cocked the second hammer, aimed briefly, fired and blew the top of the head off the nearest man holding the cannonball hurdle. The man dropped his burden and collapsed twitching. The spilled cannonball rolled across the slanting deck and caught the lower leg of the fellow just coming round with a bucket of water, who fell with a scream and a broken ankle.
I’m doing it, thought Farhan. I’m really doing it. I am a fighting man. Three men down with only two bullets. He felt nothing for the men he had killed or wounded—no more than he did for the beasts of the hunt he had claimed in the past. They were not people—sons, fathers, brothers—so much as inhuman puppets. It was only when he began to reload the rifle that he realized that his hands were shaking wildly and his heart was hammering in his chest. He spilled a measure of black powder on the priming pan and it was snatched away immediately by the wind. Perhaps this business wasn’t as simple as it seemed. With an effort of will, his whole body now thrumming with a new energy, he managed to get a pinch of powder into both priming pans, and the pans closed tight.
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