Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  The town was far larger than the palace and had expanded over the centuries to fill all the space between the two harbors—it was a bustling metropolis of shops, workshops, taverns, market squares, brothels, teahouses and the ordinary dwellings of the denizens of Istana. As the four travelers approached the palace, they saw that the main entrance in the curving south wall was open, the drawbridge down and portcullis lifted, and the way inside was guarded only by two immaculate Dokra. Semar gave their names and they were all immediately admitted, ushered over the creaking wood of the drawbridge by a servant in a long yellow robe who led them into a vast hall beyond the gate and then up several sets of polished-marble stairs, down long, dim corridors, through tiny courtyards open to the sky where fountains tinkled delightfully and finally to their allocated quarters, a set of rooms on the northern side of the palace overlooking the gray, choppy waters of the Sumbu Strait.

  Here, quite wonderfully, food and drink had been set out for them: Rhonos wine, flat bread, yogurt, rice, boiled eggs, fried vegetables and a spicy lamb stew.

  An hour later, Jun found himself lying in a very hot soapy bath, having his long black hair washed and then his broad shoulders and arm muscles massaged by a rather pretty Indujah servant girl, who appeared not to speak a word of Common Tongue. He found that if he closed his eyes—and he did, wallowing in the voluptuous pleasure of hot water, a full belly and a rare state of cleanliness—he could imagine himself at home once more in the Watergarden. He considered inviting the girl with signs and smiles to join him in the bath, the tub was big enough for two, then thought better of the idea. He was too tired, anyway.

  He slept a little after that in his own private room and when he awoke after nightfall he found that fresh clothes had been laid out for him—loose silk trousers, a long blue-linen shirt and a short red jacket—and after only a few moments luxuriating in the softness of a real, clean-sheeted bed, he rose, dressed and went to find his friends.

  Their quarters comprised four sleeping rooms around a small, square central courtyard with a tiny bubbling fountain. When Jun emerged from his chamber he saw Ketut, Semar and Tenga lounging on low couches around a square table where more food, delicate pastries, fresh fruit, cheese and more wine, had once again been set out for them. Jun joined his comrades, collapsing onto his couch and selecting a sugar-dusted pastry that was filled with a sweet, cinnamon-flavored egg custard.

  While Jun had been sleeping, the others had been considerably more active, and Ketut and Tenga were exchanging impressions with each other about the wonders of Istana Kush, the crowds of people in their strange dress, the smart Dokra soldiers everywhere, the incredible array of goods and luxuries available in the street markets and big emporiums, the fine stone buildings and the statues—the many, many statues of all the Indujah Gods. They giggled together like children over a skinny madman in rags who was preaching the new faith of the Holy Martyr on a street corner, who harangued passersby about their sins and when they grew angry invited them to burn his body with a pine torch, to give him his own longed-for martyrdom. More prosaically, Semar had been to see the Governor of Istana Kush in another part of the palace, and been welcomed with kindness and named a Friend of the Federation for helping the people of the Mongoose to escape from the Hantu Harimau.

  “Governor Bandi promises to afford us any help that he can, within reason,” said Semar to Jun, looking pleased with himself. “But I did not, of course, reveal the full nature of our quest but only told him that we were seeking a pirate ship that had brutally attacked Taman some weeks ago, and had burned the Watergarden and murdered your royal father.”

  Jun took another sweet pastry. He had not spent much time recently brooding on his quest to regain the Khodam. And, if he was honest, clean, comfortable and safe for the first time in weeks, he did not much relish an encounter with Mangku. The death of his father was still a dull pain in the back of his mind but, if he had been granted his heart’s desire at that moment, it would have been to sail back to Taman in a leisurely fashion, after a week or so relaxing here in these elegant apartments, to claim his title and resume his life as ruler of his island kingdom. The Khodam was lost—it was a great shame, for sure—but in truth, what difference would one rusty sword, however ancient and magical, make to his future life? He did not, however, feel that he could voice these thoughts aloud to his companions.

  Instead, he asked Semar, “And is there any news of . . . the person we seek?”

  The old man began peeling himself a mango. “The Governor says that he has had a report yesterday by pigeon from a tiny border outpost a hundred miles to the south that the Sea Serpent had arrived at the delta of the River Pengut. As far as we know she is still there. But the local commander said her master informed the customs men that she was bound for Singarasam and would only stay in the delta a day or two to load fresh supplies.

  “That makes sense,” said Jun. “Only the Lord of the Islands could have sanctioned the attack on Taman. Mangku must have the full backing of Ongkara to do what he did to me with impunity. Otherwise the massed fleets of the Dragon of the High Seas would hunt him down and destroy him for his despicable actions.”

  “I think you overestimate the sea power of Ongkara, my prince—and his genuine interest in punishing wrongdoers. He has other things on his mind—they say war is brewing between Ongkara and the Celestial Republic. But broadly I agree with you. The sorcerer is heading to Singarasam. He has allied himself with the Dragon of the High Seas, for whatever reason. So we must follow him to Singarasam.”

  Jun felt his heart sink. To guard his thoughts he kept his eyes low and selected another featherlight, custard-filled pastry. They were, in fact, quite delicious.

  “There are two other good reasons for us to go there,” Semar continued. “The Temple of Vharkash in Singarasam is the finest remaining Vharkashta establishment in the Laut Besar, and for Ketut’s continuing education, I think it would be most beneficial for her to pay it a visit and to worship and study there for some weeks or months. There is a huge library of ancient palm-leaf scrolls that she—and I, to be honest—would greatly benefit from consulting. The Patriarch of Singarasam is a very good friend of mine, one of my old Mother Temple deputies, in fact, and I know he will warmly welcome us.”

  “So we go there,” said Tenga flatly.

  “What is the second reason?” asked Jun.

  “The second reason is even more compelling, I think,” said Semar. Then he allowed for a little moment of silence until he was sure that he had their full attention.

  “The captain of the border guard received word—from Mangku himself, it would seem—that a force of Celestial Legionnaires had landed on the western side of the Barat Cordillera mountain range; presumably they intend to make a long march and a surprise attack on the Red Fort from the landward side.

  “Another pigeon arrived this morning from the delta. War is coming to Istana Kush, my friends. The Governor is even now reinforcing the Red Fort with more Dokra troops. Whether the defense will succeed or fail, I cannot say. But much blood will be spilled in this city very soon and I think it would be prudent for us to absent ourselves.”

  * * *

  • • •

  A little while later, Ketut and Tenga excused themselves and went to bed—into the same bedroom, Jun noticed with a wry smile. He lay back on his couch and sipped his wine. It seemed that there was nothing he could do to avoid going to Singarasam, short of deserting his comrades. But if that was what he had to do, he thought he knew how it might be done, slipping away on his own at midnight, finding a ship that would take him home on the promise of a royal reward . . . He realized that he dreaded another meeting with Mangku. The vision from the fire of his cruel, knowing face, with the gray, black-veined eyes, was still strong in his mind. He thought of the destruction of the Watergarden, of the loss of the Khodam, and of his poor father. What would he find in Taman when he did return home?

&n
bsp; His thoughts were interrupted by Semar, who said, “Tell me, Jun, as one who will one day be one. What is a king?”

  Jun sat up slowly on his couch. “What?”

  “What is it, my prince, that makes one man a king and another a servant?”

  Jun thought for a moment. “It is his blood. It is his destiny, as you would say.”

  “Blood, yes. The blood of the star princess that flows in your veins. And, after the sad demise of your cousin the Raja of Sukatan, you are the last living prince of the Wukarta. By that token, you are very special. Or are you? Surely, now that I come to think of it, there must be other men and women scattered around the Laut Besar who share at least a drop or two of your blood? The Wukarta princes have not always been entirely faithful to their princesses. Your father, for example, in his youth, of course, before he became king, was a famous lover of women. Lots of women. All kinds of women, highborn and low. And I believe you have known a few girls yourself. There must be many by-blows scattered about, bastards as the common people call them, who share a diluted version of your illustrious star-princess heritage in their veins. And they will have had children, too, over the years.”

  Jun said nothing.

  Semar continued, “Take Ketut, for example. What if her nameless father had been a prince of some sort, the callous one who treated her mother so poorly? Then she could have royal blood running in her veins, even though she is a bastard. Could she not be a ruler?”

  “A bastard could not be a king.”

  “Why not?”

  Jun found that he could not quite think of an answer. “It would just be wrong.”

  “In the great war between the Wukarta and the Mother Temple, many centuries ago, the eventual victor was a mighty Wukarta prince named Mansa. History calls him Mansa the Great for he ended the war and united the followers of Vharkash and the proud warriors of the Wukarta. His reign ushered in a thirty-year period of peace over the whole of the Laut Besar. He was beloved by all his people and is remembered as a powerful and wise ruler. And yet his mother was a laundry maid. Oh, on his father’s side, he had generations of star-princess blood but his father had no living sons except with a pretty girl who scrubbed out his dirty undergarments. Mansa became a king—and a great one.”

  “That was all a very long time ago,” said Jun sulkily.

  “I am not trying to insult your lineage, Jun. I swear not. I am trying to tell you that what makes a king is the love and respect of his people. Family background helps, of course, and there is certainly some ancient magic in the Wukarta seed. But it is the people who make a king, and they must respect him in order to allow him to rule over them. Think of Taman’s neighbor Molok—they had generations of Wukarta rule on that island, and it was suddenly wiped out because one royal oaf thought he could do whatever he liked in his kingdom. The result? Revolution, chaos, bloodshed. And now they endure a crushing rule by the greediest and most ruthless of men who have managed to gather the most power.”

  “You think Taman will go the way of Molok? Never. The people know that the Son of Heaven has always ruled wisely and well, generation upon generation.”

  “They have always worshipped the Wukarta in Taman, sure. Because they have proved worthy of the people’s respect and love.”

  “Are you saying that the people of Taman will not respect me?”

  “What do you think? The island was attacked and ravaged, the Son of Heaven was cruelly slain, the sacred Khodam was stolen, and the young prince set off vowing to regain it and avenge his revered father. What will they say if he comes home empty-handed, unrevenged, an abject failure, in fact?”

  Jun took a sharp intake of breath. He had the feeling that Semar had been peering into his head, reading his most private thoughts. He did not like the sensation.

  “So I must go to Singarasam?”

  “What do you think?” Semar asked kindly. “I cannot force you.”

  “I think you could, actually. Indeed, I think you have just done that.”

  “It is for the best, Jun, and I believe you truly know that without my telling you. But imagine this: coming back triumphant, your father’s killer brought to justice, the Khodam recovered. The young Son of Heaven home at last. Imagine the cheering crowds of Tamani folk, the flowers strewn in your path; the paeans sung to your valor; young girls and their mothers all sighing over you; men praising your name: Arjun Pahlawan! Arjun Pahlawan! Arjun the Hero. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”

  Jun allowed himself a tiny smile.

  “Good, we’re agreed then. We’ll look for a ship to Singarasam in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Katerina crouched behind a thick hedge of bamboo and looked through her spyglass at the walls of the Red Fort three hundred paces away. Behind her the two hundred exhausted men of the Storm and Scout Companies of the 42nd Celestial Legion, and a couple of score of Ostraka gunners, were scattered in a loose arc concealed in various barns, sheds and clumps of vegetation. They were in the rich farmlands immediately south of the Red Fort, with the rim of the sun just peeking above the tapering spine of the Barat Cordillera in the east. Between her and the red lichen-stained fort was a wide area of grassy scrubland, a few bushes and trees, but no obstacles save a tethered goat or two munching placidly. Somewhere to the northwest, only a few miles away, her three powerful warships, and eight hundred more Legionnaires, would be waiting in Loku Bay for her signals—a red rocket for the capture of the Red Fort, green for the other. The hard part was done, she told herself. They were here, miraculously on time. Now all she had to do was put her plan into action.

  Safely down off the hellish rocky slopes and into the tranquil farmlands, the men were all suffering the effects of the brutal twenty-four-hour march: hollow faces, glassy eyes, trembling limbs surrounded her. And that was just the Legion’s officers. Most of the Legionnaires were now so deeply asleep, they might have been corpses. She wondered if, when they were roused from their short slumber, as they must be very soon, they would have the strength and courage for the assault. She wondered if she would. Although the sight of the Red Fort had revived her, as had the triumph of her arrival, she was still as depleted in bone and brain as she had ever been in her life.

  Only her twelve Niho knights seemed unaffected by the rigors of the march. Ari, now sitting at her shoulder and watching the Red Fort, seemed a little paler, but his blue eyes were clear. Barring a few deep creases around his mouth, he seemed as alert and ready for action as always. These Niho are like Gods come to Earth, she thought. Are they even human?

  Half an hour ago, once they were in position, she had ordered the men, through Major Chan and his two captains, to eat their fill of the rations they had brought with them, finish them off if they wished. This attack would either end in success, in which case they could make use of the stores in the Red Fort; or in failure, in which case they would be dead. There was no middle ground: death or glory, wasn’t that one of the Legionnaires’ slogans?

  She scanned the south wall of the fort one last time, noting the placement of the two cannon facing them, twenty-five paces apart. She could see a few red-turbaned heads of the sentries pacing on the battlements. But there should be no more than a hundred Dokra awaiting them inside, most of them asleep at this hour, and a few Honorable Artillerymen. Speed was the key. If they could cover the ground before the walls in good time, and have the grapples up briskly, the men could be up and over the walls before the enemy had wiped the sleep grit from their eyes. The Scouts would be the best men for the job, light, fast-moving troops, skilled in stealth. The Stormers would go in behind them, to support them if the attack faltered, and to mop up inside the fort when the first wave had breached the walls. She must try to make sure that the Ostraka gunners were sober, their minds unclouded by obat; once the Red Fort was taken, they needed to be brisk about wheeling the eight cannon into their new positions and laying them to attack the Green Fort on the fa
r side of the Strait. And then re-laying them once more to batter the five powerful harbor batteries of Istana Kush. She would send Ari to take charge of the Ostrakans, once the attack began.

  Was she forgetting anything? She thought not. The sun was half a handsbreadth above the mountains. Nearly full daylight. The sky was beautifully clear. It was time.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Scout Company went forward, led by their captain. The men attacked in pairs, moving forward in short little runs, one man going ahead and stopping, kneeling in cover, alert, musket ready to fire, while his mate hurried forward to join him. A hundred men went forward like this, in quick, darting runs, every second man with a knotted rope and grappling iron wrapped around his waist. Behind the Scouts, the Stormers were forming up in five platoons of twenty, blocks of grim-faced, big men in dark blue coats, helmeted in steel. The Scouts’ task was to scale the walls and open the small sally port in the center of the south wall to allow the Stormers to rush into the fort and subdue the garrison. And so far, there was no reaction from the stone walls. The Red Fort was still apparently fast asleep.