Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  He turned to the corporal. “Well, since I am here, you had better tell me how it all works. Call it a snap inspection.”

  “Sir, it is simplicity itself. This lever here controls the chain on the drawbridge. You pull that and the wheel turns and lowers the bridge. This other wheel, over here, is for the portcullis. You turn it and . . .

  Corporal Ranjan got no further. There was a flash of steel and his head jumped from his shoulders and hit Farhan in the center of his chest, thumping gorily against the Order of the Elephant. He closed his eyes, mumbling an apology to the victims, and a prayer to Vharkash to forgive him for this necessary bloodshed. He heard a scream and thud of steel striking flesh and the clatter of a musket hitting the wooden floor.

  He opened his eyes and saw Yoritomo, bloody katana in hand, sliding the bar across to lock the wheelhouse door from inside.

  Farhan peered out of the window again, trying to ignore the fresh-blood-and-shit stink, the two half-dismembered bodies and the gummy red pools forming beside his shiny black boots. He stared through the glass and could see nothing out of the ordinary out there.

  “Dawn, she said; today, she said. You are quite sure, man?”

  Yoritomo did not deign to reply. He was at the right-hand wheel, looking at the long, iron lever. He glanced once with eyebrows raised at Farhan, who gave a small shrug.

  Ari pulled the lever, there was a terrifying clanking noise, and the drawbridge slowly began to lower itself jerkily. Down, pause, down. The noise got louder and louder. Until the bridge crashed against the far side of the dry ditch, a crunch that must surely alert everyone even half-awake in the palace as to what they were doing.

  He looked out of the window again: still nothing. If they did not come . . . it didn’t bear thinking about. He would shoot himself with one of the Dokra’s loaded muskets, if it came to it, or get this strange Niho knight to end him swiftly with his long sword.

  “Help me with this, lord,” said Ari, now at the other wheel on the far side of the room. Farhan hurried over and between them they began to turn the wheel, lifting the portcullis, wrestling the spokes round, the iron chains creaking, groaning, protesting. The spiked-and-barred gate rose slowly, and it took all of their combined strength to force the wheel round. Once again the clanking noise was appalling. How could any defender sleep through this?

  They secured the wheel with a lever and stout pin, and Farhan darted back to the window and looked out.

  Nothing. Nobody there. He was a dead man. And if Mamaji got hold of him, and if she found out what he had done . . . O Gods, it would mean unimaginable pain, the kind of pain that makes you beg for . . .

  And there she was. She appeared as if by magic. He felt as if a cold hand had seized his heart. A slight figure in a dirty linen shirt and fawn-colored breeches, her white-blond hair tied back, a long, shining saber in her right hand: Katerina. The woman he loved.

  She was running along the road toward the dropped drawbridge, coming toward him, seemingly alone. No! Now there was a crowd of half a dozen figures all around her, masked men clad in black-lacquered armor. And behind them yet more folk. A mob of hundreds of blue-coated soldiers. They were all roaring something as they ran forward. A war cry.

  “Kat-er-rina! Kat-er-rina!” Hundreds of charging men shouting out her beloved name.

  A wash of relief swept through him. She was coming; she was coming to him!

  He could clearly hear the cries of the Legionnaires, now, as the column passed under the wheelhouse—“Kat-er-rina! Kat-er-rina!”— and more shouts and shots, screams and confused yelling, coming from below his shiny-booted feet.

  There were noises from outside the locked wheelhouse door, too, someone, a Dokra officer, battering at it and angrily demanding admittance. But the door was solid. He listened for a while to the furious cursing, watched the thick timber shake as musket butts pounded it. But it held. It would hold.

  He went over to the pile of sacks in the corner of the room and slumped down, listening to the sounds from below; awful screams, the popping of muskets, roars of rage, the clashing of steel on steel, the smashing of wood. Suddenly the noise, the chaos seemed to be coming from all around, even from above the wheelhouse. He closed his eyes again. It was the sound of a citadel that had been breached; it was the sounds of a sack, of pillage, of men who had been defied, and badly mauled by the defenses of a city, unleashed and eagerly seeking revenge. The sound of rape and murder. The sound of terror. The sounds of hundreds of people awakened to disaster, fighting for their very lives.

  The battering at the door suddenly ceased.

  Ari Yoritomo crouched beside him, and looked into his face. Farhan saw then that the man’s eyes were a deep blue color, not black as he had imagined.

  “You have done well, lord,” he said. “The Lady will be pleased.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Mamaji bustled down the dark staircase behind the small figure of Lila, who was carrying a mound of luggage, and two other palace servants, who were also heavily laden. They were making for the rear of the palace for the sally port on that flat-walled side.

  She had watched with incredulity from up in the Round House as, without any warning at all, in the first light of dawn, the ancient drawbridge had thumped down across the dry ditch. Instantly, a knot of half a dozen black-clad figures concealed on the far side of the moat behind a mound of timber had popped out and rushed forward across the ancient wood with long steel in their hands that reflected the weak rays of the rising sun. In their midst was a girl not yet seventeen, by Mamaji’s reckoning, with a drawn saber in her hand.

  Niho, she thought. What in the name of the Seven Hells are Niho knights doing in this part of the world? And who is she?

  Behind them she could see at least three companies of Legionnaires, bayonets fixed, charging out of their hiding places and sprinting forward toward the open main gate. They were shouting something, three syllables that she could not quite make out. Now they were on the drawbridge, boots thundering on the wood, and now surging inside the palace. The noise of battle erupted below her: screams and shots. Her Dokra were fighting down there—and dying. The realization of disaster crashed over her. The enemy had broken her defenses. It was all over; it was truly all over. It was too late to hope for help. Istana Kush was lost.

  Time to go. And she would have to go fast.

  The secret door that opened at the base of the rear wall of the palace was painted the exact same streaked gray-stone color as the surrounding grimy walls. Mamaji poked her big head out. There was no one within fifty paces of the door.

  Mamaji beckoned her three servants to follow her out of the palace. As she closed the door behind her she could hear the musket shots, the banging of blades, roars of rage and dying yelps as the Legionnaires took revenge for the slaughter at the breach the day before.

  “Come along, dears,” she said. “We must hurry on a little. No time to dillydally.”

  The little party stumbled down the rocky slope that led down to the Small Harbor. There were few people about on land but all the watercraft were by now alerted to the disaster of the fall of the palace; the sounds of the battle were clear even down here. There was fevered activity on the larger vessels, most making ready to leave as soon as possible and the lighter boats whizzing around conveying messages, rumors, requests, between them. At the water’s edge, she produced a pair of gold coins; their glint summoned a woman in a conical hat in a one-oared dragonfly-craft, splish-splashing swiftly and efficiently through the weak morning light toward them.

  “The Mongoose,” she said. “Take us out to the Mongoose.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Captain Lodi was adamant. “No, Mamaji, with the greatest respect, I will not take you to Singarasam. The Mongoose would be instantly seized if she were to show her nose in that foul port. Do you think Ongkara has forgotten what we did in his name, under his
flag?”

  They were in the large cabin of the ship where Mamaji had installed herself and, once the Istana servants were dismissed, Lila was unpacking her mistress’s belongings.

  “Cyrus dear, we do not have very much time. You are aware, surely, that the Governor’s Palace is under attack. The enemy are, in fact, inside the citadel. We must go, and go now, and go straight to Singarasam, where we can find shelter and friends.

  “No, Mamaji, I will wait for Farhan. He’s my friend and at times like this you need your friends. Furthermore, when he arrives, and I’m sure he’ll be along very shortly indeed, we will not be going anywhere near Singarasam. I can positively assure you of that.”

  “He may already be dead, you do know that?”

  Lodi shrugged. “I will wait for him anyway.”

  “Cyrus Lodi, I would hate to have to report your stubbornness to General Vakul. I am afraid it might look very much like insubordination to him. I really don’t think you want that sort of permanent black mark against your name. Do you, dear?”

  “It cannot be insubordination—I do not work for you, nor the General, nor even for Farhan, except on a contractual basis.”

  Captain Lodi was trying very hard to hold on to his temper. But he had had enough of this insufferable woman and her bullying ways. “Our mission is over,” he said slowly and carefully, as if speaking to a child. “I have been paid, plus a very mean, and I must say grudging bonus considering the dangers faced, so my obligation to you is now at an end. I am not an employee of the Amrit Shakti—and I hope never to have the misfortune to be one.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a timid mouse, Cyrus—that’s not like you at all. We will make a fine new contract—with a handsome bonus written into it. Besides, Ongkara and the captains of his pirate swarm will now be heading east to confront the Grand Fleet of the Celestial Republic that is even now bearing down upon Singarasam. I have had reports that Ongkara has, in fact, already left. He won’t be there. And we could change the ship’s name, disguise her somehow, if you are truly concerned for your safety. Anyway, I would only ask that you drop Lila and me at the harbor. You could touch the quay and go—with your payment, plus a substantial bonus in your hand. Shall we say ten thousand ringgu in all?”

  “I am not going to say this again. I will not take you to Singarasam.”

  “I would hate to have to report to General Vakul that you, a formerly loyal citizen of the Federation, were being difficult about this,” said Mamaji. “What would our good General think of you then?”

  Captain Lodi lost his patience. He shouted, “I could not give a ten-kupang arse-fuck what General Gods-damned Vakul thinks of me.”

  “I wonder if you would use the same intemperate language if you were in the presence of General Vakul himself,” said Mamaji, frowning at him.

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Are you sure? Before you answer, let me ask you one question. Have you ever seen General Hamil Vakul?”

  Lodi shook his head.

  “Have you ever met anyone who has met him—face-to-face?”

  Lodi just stared at her.

  “I thought not. Only a handful of people have. Well, then, I will let you into a rather special secret of state. There is no General Hamil Vakul. He doesn’t exist. He is a phantom of my imagination—and everybody else’s, of course. Or, if you prefer to think of it another way, I am General Vakul. For I am the one who truly controls the Amrit Shakti.”

  The sailor just shook his head at her. He closed his eyes. “No,” he said, “no.”

  “Captain Lodi—I hereby commandeer your ship the Mongoose in the name of the High Council of the Indujah Federation,” said Mamaji formally. “I will issue you with the correct paperwork in due course but for now you are to waste no more time and set a course to the city of Singarasam. We must leave here without further delay.”

  “No! No—it cannot be true!”

  Mamaji sighed. “Must I do this? It appears so. Very well, Captain Lodi, I will say only this to you: Compound 44, Upper Jasmine Avenue, South Sector, Dhilika.”

  “What? That is my parents’ house. That is their address.”

  “I know that. I also know that you have a wife and two young sons living in the compound with your parents—is that not correct?”

  “Uh, yes. What of it?”

  “Do I really need to spell it out for you? If you disobey me, you will be declared a traitor to the Federation. Do you know what happens to the families of traitors?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard . . . things.” Captain Lodi’s tanned face had gone white as milk.

  “Very good—now there has been more than enough delay,” said Mamaji. “You will set a course for Singarasam immediately.”

  “You are a monster,” said Lodi, slowly. “You are a vile creature beyond . . .”

  “I have been told all that many times before. Now, will you obey me or will you make your whole family suffer for your stubbornness?”

  “Yes,” Lodi whispered.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, Mamaji,” said the captain.

  CHAPTER 49

  The servant in the absurd golden coat was standing in the slid-back door in the side wall of the Audience Hall and looking inside, awestruck at the carnage. The bodies of more than twoscore Jath guards—some still alive and moaning, weeping—covered the marble like a bloody, black, moving carpet. The charred bodies of two human forms lay in still-gently-smoking, slightly greenish heaps, one by each wall. One pace from the servant’s slippered feet was the decapitated head of Ongkara.

  Semar took charge. “You there, the golden fellow! Summon the rest of the palace servants and get this dreadful mess cleared up quick as you can. And send for the healers of the Temple of Vharkash. Some of these men’s lives may still be saved. Quick now!”

  “Who are you?” said the servant.

  “We are the ones who have justly executed the Lord of the Islands, the corrupt and foul tyrant Ongkara, and massacred his elite bodyguard. I might also mention that we have bested his evil sorcerer in a contest of magic. We are the new occupiers of the First House—therefore, we are your new masters, that is, if you wish to keep your employment. So, off you go, quick, summon your servant friends and send for the temple healers.”

  The golden man turned on his heel and disappeared without another word.

  “Why did you not just seize his mind and compel him to do that?” said Jun sourly.

  “That takes a good deal of mental energy and I am . . . I am very tired just now. The fellow will do as he is told, my prince, never fear.”

  Jun felt the wave of tiredness hit him, too, just then. Wielding the awesome power of the Khodam had left him completely drained. He longed for somewhere to sit down but the Audience Hall was bereft of chairs. Finally, his knees sagging, he climbed up onto the Obat Bale, lifted the upended gilded throne, positioned it in the center of the white mass and sank down in its surprisingly comfortable seat.

  “A throne suits you,” said Ketut. It was the first time she’d spoken since transforming back into her usual shape. She stood at the base of the Obat Bale and looked up. “I didn’t think it would, richboy, but it does. You look—well . . . quite regal.”

  Jun saw that her eyes were red from weeping but she seemed otherwise unaffected by her possession. He glanced at the heap against the wall that was all that remained of Tenga.

  “My deepest condolences for the loss of your . . .” Jun had no idea how to express his sadness for the death of their comrade. “I’m so sorry about Tenga.”

  Ketut looked down at the floor. She sniffed. “She is with the Queen of Fire now. I know that. I saw her go there into her keeping when I was in that . . . other place.”

  “How do you do that, Ketut?” Jun asked. “I mean, how do you summon the Goddess without, you know, without the temple, the smoke, the music . . .”
/>   “I don’t know. Semar has been teaching me some things. But it mostly comes from anger. Anger is the trigger, I think. And my scar, too. And when Tenga was . . .” She stopped suddenly. “I truly don’t know,” she said, and bent down and picked up the Kris of Wukarta Khodam that was lying at her feet, where Jun had dropped it. The flames were all now extinguished, the fresh blood, too, had been completely burned away and it once again merely resembled an ordinary dull gray, pitted blade.

  “So this is what the fuss was about,” she said, examining the sword carefully.

  She touched the ball of her thumb to the blade and swore.

  “It’s a sharp old thing, isn’t it?”

  Nobody answered her. Every eye in the Audience Hall was on the ancient blade, which, at the touch of her drawn blood, had begun to pulse and glow. Ketut stared at the Kris; hungry flames were now licking along its wavy edges.

  “How do you turn it off?” she said, shaking the blade as if it were a burning stick removed from the fire that she wished to extinguish.

  Semar came and took the Kris from her hand. The flames disappeared but the blade glowed for a few moments before returning to its gray-metallic form.

  The servants had returned and were beginning to carry away the dead and wounded. Very carefully, Semar handed the Kris up to Jun, who slotted it back in its wooden scabbard and placed it in its stand. He did all this while barely looking at the Kris. For his eyes were fixed on Ketut, an expression of questioning wonder illuminating his face.

  “Oh yes, did I not mention that before?” said Semar, looking just a little smug. “Ketut is the illegitimate daughter of your father, Jun, the late Son of Heaven, who had a very brief though extremely passionate liaison with her mother some sixteen years ago. I thought I’d made this quite clear already. I certainly dropped you enough hints.”