Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  She could not send the Legion up against the walls again. That was obvious—quite apart from the unbearably horrific slaughter in the breach—if she lost too many more men, she would not have enough muskets to hold Istana Kush when the Federation came. That is, if she ever did fully capture it. So what to do now? What to do? Think! Maybe if they all withdrew to the Green and Red Forts, with sufficient powder and shot, enough food . . .

  She found something was digging uncomfortably into her side. It was a stiff, folded piece of paper in her breeches pocket. She pulled it out and noted the bloody finger marks on the white. She opened the folds. It was the list that the unfortunate Dokra prisoner taken at the Red Fort had provided of the Federation officers inside the Governor’s Palace. She had half forgotten about it. Now she scanned the list again and a tiny flicker of hope burst into life in her breast. There was one more thing she could try. Just one more. Then it was truly over.

  “Ari,” she said, and the knight was immediately beside her, looming over her menacingly in his black armor. “Ari Yoritomo, I must ask you to do something for me. A service. A mission. It is, I am afraid to say, a very dangerous and difficult task.”

  CHAPTER 45

  “Ah yes, the money,” said Mamaji. “I thought you might bring that up, Farhan dear.”

  The newest colonel of the Amrit Shakti, exhausted, his left hand newly bandaged but his body still filthy, stinking of blood, burned powder and mangrove swamp stood before her in the Round House, and wished he were almost anywhere else. He and three other men had escaped from the Green Fort, made their way through the jungle to the rendezvous point with Captain Hawill. They had taken his ship farther upstream, along the twisting, stinking waterway and hidden it under a huge, drooping banyan tree. Captain Hawill did not wish to attempt the journey back to Istana Kush in broad daylight now that the ire of the enemy ships had been raised—he was Singarasam bound, he told them, and no longer cared to risk his precious vessel in the middle of a full-scale war—and Farhan did not have the strength to argue with him. He had half a mind to seek passage with the Frankish captain himself, even to Singarasam, but first he had to get his promised money from Mamaji.

  All day long they sat under the banyan and listened to the crack, crack, crack of the Egil’s cannon as it pounded the walls of the palace, and sipped raw marak from a filthy leather bottle and nibbled dry ship’s biscuits. In the afternoon, for a quarter of an hour, they thought they could hear the roar of men and the popping of muskets, and then there was quiet. As the shadows lengthened and the mosquitoes began to whine about them, Hawill guided the ship back down the river and into the Strait without incident. They gave the lone warship in the center of the channel a wide berth—it was now brightly lit and with a certain amount of mournful singing coming from the decks—and staying on the far side of the Strait, they headed round the lighthouse point to be dropped off at the Small Harbor.

  There had evidently been a great battle that day—ending in a victory for Mamaji, and she was clearly in a jubilant mood. The Round House had lost the glass from two of the big windows, the two brass cannon had disappeared from the prow, and the room was filled with wounded officers, sleeping or moaning on pallets everywhere. At least I managed to avoid that bloodbath, Farhan told himself. Least I’m not dead, too.

  “I have thought long and hard about this,” said Mamaji, “and I am not sure that General Vakul would ever agree to granting such a huge sum to a serving officer of the Amrit Shakti. I’m sure you understand, Farhan dear. We would be setting a dangerous precedent. The brave men and women of the Shakti serve the Federation out of loyalty and a sense of duty, not for grubby financial gain. That is not to say that I, and the whole of the Federation are not profoundly grateful for all you have achieved. One ship sunk, another badly damaged. You’ve done absolute wonders, Farhan dear.”

  “I just want you to keep your word, Mamaji. You promised me the money, indeed, you twice promised it. I have done all that you asked. Colonel Bandi is dead and so are most of the men you sent with me. I only survived by a miracle.”

  “Can’t do it, dear. I’m so sorry. Every officer in the service would be angling for a payout on every difficult mission if we were to allow this huge transaction to proceed. However, I have decided to pay you a bonus of five hundred ringgu, for service above and beyond the call of duty—here, I have a draft of the money, drawn on the Bank of Dhilika but good anywhere in the world, for that amount, signed by the General himself. It comes, of course, with our grateful thanks for your extraordinary courage and resourcefulness both at the Green Fort and in Yawa, too. You’ve done very well, dear!”

  In his dismay, Farhan did not pause to wonder how the General’s signature might happen to be on the oblong of thick cream paper, embossed with gold, that he now found himself clutching. He felt as if a huge stone was sitting on his heart. All his fine plans, the settlement of his debts, everything he had hoped for had been swept away.

  “But you promised . . .” He knew his tone was that of a child denied a treat but he found he could not change it. “You gave me your word, Mamaji. I risked my life for you . . . I need that money and my discharge from the Shakti. I must have them. I’ve had enough, Mamaji. I cannot go on like this anymore. I cannot . . .”

  “Now, Farhan dear, get a grip on yourself. You have the thanks and praise of the General himself, a fine promotion, and the Order of the Elephant to wear on your breast. And as you can see”—she gestured vaguely at the window at the black zigzagging line of Legionnaires’ trenches and the shattered town below—“the Federation is in dire need of your services. We may have held our ground today but we are not out of the woods yet. I cannot give you a huge fortune and release you from our service just yet.”

  “I—Want—My—Money.” Farhan’s bandaged left hand was bunched in the material of the garish sari, the draft crumpled in his right; his nose was inches from Mamaji’s. He was shouting madly, drops of spittle spattering her. “Give—Me—My—Fucking—Money!”

  “Control yourself, Colonel Madani. This is the way it must be. Surely you can see it.” Mamaji’s normally light and girlish tone had changed, dropping almost to a growl. Farhan felt something poke hard against his ribs, looked down and saw the diminutive maid, Lila, at his side, a long pistol pressed tightly into his waist. The maid pulled back the cock on the gun with a loud double click.

  He let go of Mamaji, and stepped back, panting.

  “Farhan dear,” said Mamaji, once more in her usual tone, “I can see you’re overwrought. Given the circumstances, your heroic work at the Green Fort, I can quite understand how you might feel a little frayed. I suggest that you return to your quarters and rest for a while. Think about your promotion, think about the honor of the Order of the Elephant. And when you are fit for duty again, come back to my side refreshed and ready. We will need good men like you in the coming days. And fear not. Istana is not lost. Help is coming. All we have to do is hold fast and all will be well.”

  Farhan turned and began to walk across the Round House toward the door.

  “One more thing, Farhan dear.”

  Without meaning to, in fact without any of his own volition, Farhan turned his head. He caught a glimpse of several Dokra officers and members of the former Governor’s staff gaping at him. He looked directly at Mamaji and the small dark servant with the large pistol standing beside her.

  “We had several reports in Dhilika last year that cast doubt upon your trustworthiness as an agent of the Shakti. Some were saying that you had been compromised during a foreign posting— a grubby little liaison with some slip of a girl that might put you and us at risk. I am telling you this for your own good, although I am breaching a strict directive in doing so. General Vakul sent me here to keep an eye on you. And I have done so. Some men within the Shakti were suggesting that you might have the potential to be disloyal. I think they were wrong. I think you are a true and faithful Federation officer
—and your actions in the Green Fort have confirmed that fact to me. But I do hope you won’t make me look a fool in the General’s eyes.”

  Farhan said nothing. He turned again and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 46

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

  The myth of Vharkash the Rain-Bringer is still popular to this day in the islands of the Laut Besar—despite the lush nature of the land and the absolute dependability of the monsoon rains. It clearly demonstrates that the New People of the region have not forgotten their millennia-old roots as immigrants from the parched plains of the Indujah Peninsula. I was told this version by a shadow-puppet master in the city of Sukatan who seemed to think it was still relevant in the modern age.

  Once, long ago, during a terrible drought on the north Indujah plain, Vharkash, then in the incarnation of a young man, had watched the crops die all around Him, and then the animals, and then the people. The God sat meditating on the people’s suffering beneath a towering banyan tree. Then, summoning His strength, He sent His spirit up the roots, into the branches and leaves of the tree and He caused them to shake and thrash as if they were in a storm. And by simulating a storm in the branches of the banyan tree, a real storm was created through Vharkash’s power, and torrential rain came to the dry Indujah plain and saved all the people, their crops and animals. Thereafter the God was known as Vharkash Rain-Bringer by the local people. He had a staff cut from one of the branches of the banyan tree, and it was given to the headman of the village, who was told that if ever the rains failed in the future, they should plant the staff into the ground and a spring of sweet water would immediately bubble up from the earth.

  “Well, this is a jolly gathering,” said Hiero Mangku, hopping over the bloody bodies of the Jath guards with the help of his staff and approaching the four travelers.

  Jun stared at him. He couldn’t resist the shiver of fear at the sight of the sorcerer. The tall, skeletally thin man who had haunted his dreams. He was dressed exactly the same as when he had first encountered him in the burning Watergarden: a black-and-white-checkered sarong and green silk jacket under a gauzy gray cloak. He seemed to be moving a little awkwardly, as if his back or shoulder was stiff. His left hand was heavily bandaged. And his narrow, dark-skinned face was disfigured by a deep, half-healed cut. But his eyes spoke to the true evil within: gray as dusk, the iris cracked and veined with black.

  “Shall I make the introductions?” said Mangku. “Very well. Great Ongkara, Lord of the Islands, may I introduce the erstwhile High Priest of the Mother Temple in Yawa, once the greatest religious house in the Laut Besar—although these days with rather disgusting humility he prefers to call himself plain Semar. The Patriarch of the Temple here in Singarasam, a very old and valued teacher of mine, I believe you already know.”

  Ongkara, still held in silence by Semar’s mental grip, merely gazed at the sorcerer from wide, pleading eyes.

  “And this young sprig is none other than Prince Arjun Wukarta, the future Son of Heaven of Taman, or so he believes. These two other persons here are . . .” Mangku frowned briefly at Ketut and Tenga . . . “some of his friends or servants or something.”

  He was now ten paces from Semar, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

  “I regret to inform you, Your Royal Highness, that this overbred puppy”—he flapped a hand at Jun—“and that delusional old pantaloon”—that was Semar—“have been following me—chasing me, even—across the watery wastes of the Laut Besar these past few weeks. They were hoping to recover the Kris of Wukarta Khodam, to which this princeling thinks he’s rightful heir. They also tried unsuccessfully to prevent me acquiring the Dragon’s Eye in Sukatan. And that futile quest has led them all the way here and into your presence today. So, now, here we all are, at last. What joy!”

  Mangku closed his unbandaged right hand over the metal blade at the head of his staff. He squeezed tightly and the green crystal beneath his palm began to glow and pulse.

  Nobody else seemed inclined to speak. Nobody moved. But the sorcerer was the focus of all eyes in the Audience Hall.

  “So,” said Mangku, “it has been a fine chase. Most exhilarating for you, I would imagine. I expect you have enjoyed some, ah, escapades. The Konda Pali mines must have been an eye-opener, eh, Prince Arjun? But now, I am afraid, your adventures are done. It is the end of the road for you all. Have any of you anything to say before I consign you all to the Seven Hells? Anything? No? No pious comments, Semar? No threats, Prince Arjun? No? I am disappointed.”

  “It is not too late for you, Hiero,” said Semar slowly. “You were once a good man—and perhaps somewhere inside you part of that goodness remains. If you were to renounce the darkness, forswear blood magic and retake your vows, make reparations for the evil you have done, you could be washed clean of your sins. Vharkash is a forgiving God . . .”

  Mangku sighed heavily.

  “Is that the best you can do? Offer me your God’s forgiveness? I’m far beyond forgiveness; I’m far, far beyond the petty morals of your parochial little religion.”

  Tenga turned to Ketut, who was standing beside her: “This long streak of green shit is your wizard, yes? The one who killed Jun’s daddy and stole his sword?”

  Ketut nodded.

  Tenga moved. Faster almost than sight could follow, she bent, scooped up her boarding ax, and rushed straight at Mangku.

  Semar shouted, “No, wait . . .”

  But the blood-smeared ax blade was swinging, back, up, and it chopped down hard toward the sorcerer’s bare head in a smooth, deadly arc.

  Mangku pivoted the long staff in his hands, the tip rose and caught Tenga in the fork of her legs, just as the ax was descending. There was a flash of green and a crack like the snapping of a palm tree in a high wind. Tenga was blown fully across the room, smashing into the far wall. She burned, emerald fire consuming her flesh. She screamed horribly, thrashed against the wall, arms and legs smearing gore and lymph against the lime-washed walls until her blackened corpse slumped to the floor. Ketut rushed to her side, shouting her name. She knelt beside the blackened, bloody remains of her friend, cradling the sticky, charred head between her two hands, her tears falling like rain. She sobbed, wailed once, a cry torn from her heart, then grew silent.

  Not another person in the Audience Hall moved a muscle. Ongkara and the Jath guards were all staring in shocked awe at the weeping girl holding the smoking body of her lover. Jun took a small, swift, sideways step toward the Obat Bale.

  Semar was staring at Mangku, “You will be punished for that,” he said in an odd, calm tone. His eyes were black as death. “There can be no forgiveness for you now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I do not seek your forgiveness.” Mangku pointed the staff at Semar, as a teacher might indicate a word on a blackboard. “I merely seek your death!” He said a word and a streak of green shot out from the staff’s tip, heading toward Semar.

  The old man moved a fraction to the right and the bolt of ichor cracked into the wood of the staff he always carried, ricocheted off to the left and incinerated a hideous golden lion on a blood-red pillar in a pungent cloud of viridescent smoke.

  “What?” said Mangku. “Can it really be? No . . . Have you really brought me a gift to make up for all my travels and trouble? That old stick in your hands can only be the Staff of Vharkash the Rain-Bringer. The Key of Wood. The real one—nothing else would have that kind of power. So it was you who found it in Dhilika. I thought it lost but all the time you had it. And now you have brought it here for me?”

  “Not for you, forsworn and murderous priest. It will never be for you. Yes, it is a Key of Power and, yes, I took it from right under your nose in Dhilika. But you will never have it, magic-maker, blood-spiller, demon-caller, you will never have it while I draw breath.”

  Mangku smiled. “Never while you d
raw breath? Hmm, well, I can think of an easy remedy for that.”

  The sorcerer pointed his pulsing staff at Semar once more, taking a firm grip with both hands. He braced his feet, uttered a word, and again a lightning bolt of ichor shot out. Once again it cracked into the gnarled staff in Semar’s hands and immediately bounced off. The blast of magic leaped across the room and hit Ratna Setiawan full in the chest. The Patriarch exploded in a huge ball of aquamarine fire.

  “Ratna,” cried Semar, suddenly appalled. “Oh, Ratna, I’m sorry . . .” He took a step toward the burning pile of bloody-emerald jelly that had once been his deputy.

  Mangku said, “Spill no human blood! Ha! Spill no blood . . . and you’ve just killed a man. You killed him—you fool—you’ve finally done it. You’ve finally broken your vow to Vharkash. Now you know what utter nonsense that was: spill no blood, pah! How absurd! Blood is everything. Blood is magic. Blood is power. Blood is life. Blood is who we are—and who we can never be. Blood makes one man a Wukarta prince and another a Dewa slave. And without the generous spilling of human blood nothing can ever be changed!”

  “I . . . I did not mean to. I did not mean to spill blood. It was an accident.”

  Jun had never seen Semar so distraught. He crumpled over his ancient staff, weeping, seemingly broken. Jun took another step toward the Obat Bale.

  “Thank you,” said Mangku. “I truly thank you. First you bring me the Key of Wood—now this. A wonderful irony to end our relationship. Thank you, Your Holiness . . . and good-bye.”

  Mangku turned to the surviving Jath guards. There were more than a dozen of them still standing, perhaps even a score of the burly, bearded men. He raised his bandaged left hand, fingers splayed. Jun could feel the force coming off the old sorcerer like forge heat.