The Simoqin Prophecies

by Samit Basu

  ‘I’m Amloki,’ said the khudran in a surprisingly deep voice, ‘and I have been sent by the Chief Civilian of Kol, to escort you to our fair city. I am her page, and have been brought here by the Phalanx–the Silver Dagger’s men–to be your guide, and hopefully your friend. Your asvamedh horse is being taken care of, and will be returned to you later, if you ever choose to carry on with the quest. Also...’

  ‘Wait, my dear fellow,’ said Asvin, pleased but quite lost. ‘Can I speak to one of the men who rescued me yesterday? There are many pieces in this puzzle that I cannot see, and many things I need to know before I go anywhere.’

  ‘The men you seek are no longer here. They bore you to this inn from the forest. You have been sleeping for three days now–the potion they used must have been quite powerful. We are still in Avranti, but a day’s journey should see us past its borders. The Silver Phalanx left yesterday on some other urgent errand. But I think I know what questions trouble you. And I will be delighted to give you all the answers you seek, but we do not have much time. Your guards were not your only enemies in this country. If their bodies have not been found yet, they will be soon, and many will search for you. We must be out of Avranti as fast as possible. In any case, sir, you have sworn not to return to Ektara until you have conquered the world. The Civilian offers you shelter and help. I was told to tell you that she had matters of the utmost importance to discuss with you, matters that concern not just Avranti but the whole world. It would not be very wise to refuse her–not after her men saved you from your best friends.’

  Though his grasp of foreign politics extended mainly to portaits of prospective brides from around the world, Asvin knew the little man spoke the truth. The greatest politician in the known world, Lady Temat had made the city of Kol what it was. She had kept it, and all the Free States, from falling under the dominion of any of its ‘friendly’ and immensely powerful neighbours–Artaxerxia, Avranti, Xi’en. Her iron will and brilliant intellect were respected and feared in every land, even the ones too far for Kol’s mighty army to physically invade. An offer of ‘shelter and help’ from her was, to put it simply, an offer you couldn’t refuse. Even thinking about it for too long would be very stupid.

  Asvin looked at Amloki’s face and felt very stupid. ‘Very well. I will come to Kol with you.’ he said.

  Chapter Four

  ‘He looks so peaceful, doesn’t he?’ asked Middlog.

  ‘He’s going to wake up soon,’ said Rightog. ‘He opened his eyes a few minutes ago but the hangover knocked him out again, I think.’

  ‘What was it, his first Dragonjuice night?’

  ‘Yes. The young fool took on Maya. He of all people should have known better.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop him? I would have, but I was mixing and he had already drunk four when I saw him.’

  ‘I didn’t see him either. He was the one Kirin asked, and he doesn’t care, does he?’ Rightog said, nodding towards Leftog, who was taking a nap, and, by the look on his face, not having pleasant dreams.

  ‘You don’t talk. You don’t have to spend the whole night next to him. Grumble, snap, butt, bite…’

  ‘I know. He’s getting worse and worse.’

  ‘Anyway, so who won the Dragonjuice challenge? Maya, I presume.’

  ‘That’s right. Kirin was good, though. He had nine before he hit the floor.’

  ‘What? Nine Dragonjuices on his first try? I’m telling you, that kid’s talented.’

  ‘I know. Though if he told you it was his first try, he was lying. Or the Dragonjuice hit his memory. Terrible, those side-effects. We should mix them stronger from tonight. Look, he’s waking.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Middlog said, turning as far away from Leftog as possible.

  ‘Not him, idiot. Kirin.’

  Kirin opened one eye. The world was still spinning, but only about once a second now. Some kind soul had also removed the white-hot maces that had been pounding ceaselessly on the inside of his skull. The hideous beast that had been trying to strangle him all night was, he perceived with some difficulty, his cloak. He was still alive, and the headache, though still fierce, had abated somewhat.

  ‘He’s going to say ‘Where am I?’’ whispered Rightog. ‘I just know it.’

  Kirin opened his other eye. He wondered whether or not to get up, tried, and found he couldn’t–the floor seemed to be attached to him. He saw the ogre looking at him with a concerned expression and counted the heads slowly swimming into focus. One, two, three. He was all right.

  ‘What year is it?’ he asked, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘Damn,’ said Middlog. ‘I could’ve made some money there.’

  ‘What do you mean, what year is it?’ asked Rightog.

  ‘Seriously, what year is it?’

  ‘The two hundredth of the New Age, the same as it’s been for the last few weeks,’ said Rightog, puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just asking. Never mind. Where’s Spikes?’

  ‘Somewhere. Tell me, kid, why on earth did you do the Dragonjuice challenge with Maya last night?’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what happened. I don’t remember anything.’

  ‘Now that they all say’, grinned Rightog.

  The internationally famous three-headed ogre (collectively) known as Triog hauled Kirin to his feet and trudged off to the bar. Triog was the barman-owner of the Fragrant Underbelly, Kol’s most violent and therefore most popular drinking destination. After the Chief Civilian and the Silver Dagger, he was probably also the busiest person in Kol. Making up for lost time, he started vigorously wiping dishes and setting mugs upside down behind the counter where, every evening, he mixed his mysterious concoctions, exchanged pleasantries with patrons and fought off excessively friendly and unfriendly customers–six arms and three heads were barely enough to run the Underbelly. His left head was still taking a nap as Middlog counted plates and Rightog, who liked Kirin most, kept up the flow of urbane conversation that the Fragrant Underbelly was most famous for, after bloodstains and communicable diseases.

  ‘I don’t remember why I started drinking Dragonjuices,’ said Kirin. ‘Her bragging must have annoyed me.’

  ‘She has good reason to brag, that girl. I’ve never seen anyone like her. At eight o’ clock, when Spikes was throwing out everyone who was sleeping, and you were snoring and twitching about under the table, she got up. Stood up, the girl did, after nine Dragonjuices –I’m going to mix them stronger from tonight. Straight off to the University she went. She told me to tell you to wait here tonight–apparently you said things to her that she wants to talk to you about.’

  The ogre tried to look coy and bashful and made a series of extremely horrible faces. Kirin closed both his eyes with a shudder. The mace-pounder, whoever he was, had returned inside his head.

  ‘What?’ he groaned.

  ‘Oh come on, boy, I know it all – you may act like she’s just your friend, but,’– the ogre actually simpered, a most gruesome spectacle –‘the truth is you love her.’

  ‘Go away, Triog,’ said Kirin, feeling around for his bag. It wasn’t there, and he was suddenly wide awake. ‘Where’s my bag?’

  ‘Spikes has it. And your money. I don’t know where he is. I think he’s cleaning up the dance floor. A pashan was sick on it, and that means gravel everywhere. Now get up, and get your toys. We’re opening soon.’

  The dance floor had recently been shifted from the roof to the cellars after fifteen extremely inebriated pashans, while doing an energetic Stone-boy Stomp, had crashed through the whole building, injuring many and killing the Rani of Potolpur’s pet flamingo. Rival bar-owners in Kol were always amazed at the equanimity with which Triog shifted entire establishments up and down the various floors of his inn. But Triog’s history, and that of his whole inn, had always been one of change.

  The Fragrant Underbelly had started out as an Avrantic-style dhaba, where people on the move in the city could walk in for a quick daal-roti or a cup of tea. Triog had not been wholly s
atisfied with this, and the Underbelly had been, at various points in its illustrious career, a massage parlour, a Xi’en-style pleasure-dome, a Psomedean Poet’s Forum, a vaman mini-gymnasium, and even, for one disastrous week, a belly-dance training centre with an Artaxerxian teacher. This venture had failed spectacularly when a group of pashans, not understanding the sign that said ‘Bring your own veils’, had lugged a full-sized killer whale through the streets of Kol and tried to push it through the door.

  Triog had traveled all over the world before settling down in Kol. His ancestors were, like most ogres, from Ventelot. They were a very highly respected family of ogres, who had eaten many of the famous knights of the Almost-Perfectly-Circular Table, in the forgotten days when Ventelot was the mightiest kingdom in the world, and not just famous for bad weather and worse food.

  Triog’s travels had convinced him that the best thing in life was food, especially food that helped him forget the land of his ancestors, and when he had set up his inn in what was then an unfashionable district, his sole ambition had been to serve the very best of global cuisine. This could not be done at the Fragrant Underbelly unless all its patrons had been rendered unconscious first, and so he had simply built more floors above it. The Too Many Cooks, on the first floor, was the finest restaurant in Kol, patronized by the very rich and famous. Cooks from all around the world scurried around all day in the vast and aromatic kitchen, and customers who had enough money could buy whatever food their hearts desired, be it Avrantic or Durgan biryanis and kababs, Xi’en noodles, Potolpuri roshogollas, Skuan roasts, Olivyan pastas or bland food from Ventelot. The waiters looked inscrutable and wore white, the food was brilliant and Too Many Cooks was nearly always full a week in advance. The Chief Civilian of Kol herself had eaten there a few times. The carpets were incredibly thick, and music was played loudly all the time, to provide atmosphere, but more importantly to help the customers pretend to ignore the raucous shouts and occasional screams coming from the Underbelly right below.

  There were two floors of guest rooms above Too Many Cooks, and the top floor was where Triog, Spikes and Kirin lived. It was in a large laboratory under the cellar that Kirin made the Stuff, the odd and extremely expensive collection of toys, potions and potentially lethal party tricks that had made him famous in Kol.

  He always sat, hooded and cloaked, in the darkest corner of the Underbelly, with Spikes standing next to him to take care of anyone who was too inquisitive. And there were many things that Kirin didn’t want people to know about him. For someone who looked about twenty, Kirin had a lot of secrets. Spikes, of course, knew. And Triog never asked questions.

  Not that too many people were very inquisitive–they all thought that Kirin was a spellbinder making some extra money and most people, when sober, were very discreet where spellbinders were concerned–a custom originating not from any ancient tradition but from a perfectly reasonable desire not to be turned into a frog.

  All spellbinders were forbidden by their ancient laws to touch any form of alcohol, of course. And everyone carefully ignored the fact that most spellbinders broke these ancient laws on a daily basis. There were always some thoughtful pashan who would drag teachers and students back to their hostels in time to catch some sleep before classes began in the morning. Triog made all the necessary arrangements–the spellbinders were his most loyal customers. They spent the most money, cheered the loudest at all the new singers, never killed people on purpose and threw the wildest parties.

  First-time visitors to Kol would always be told that there were monuments, works of art and museums all over the world, but there was only one Fragrant Underbelly. Everyone who was anyone went to Frags, as it was commonly known. And contrary to what most mothers told their teenaged children, nearly everyone also got out of Frags alive. This was because the security pashans at Frags were very, very efficient.

  Led by Yarni, their ten-foot tall leader, a huge limestone troll of the stalactite variety, the men of stone would tramp into the inn every evening. Their sheer physical presence was enough to discourage sober troublemakers. And their brute strength and reluctance to listen to explanations made them very good at dealing with the drunk ones. They would patrol the Underbelly silently, making sure that everyone was still alive. Of course, they never stopped fights–that would have been unsporting. But if you were breathing when you entered Frags, you were very likely to be breathing when you left, though nearly always at a very different speed.

  Of course, if people chose to carry on fighting outside the Underbelly, it was not their problem. Many passing aristocrats had tried to recruit Yarni’s Protection. They had offered insanely high wages, but Yarni had turned them down. The reason could be stated in one word.

  Spikes.

  The pashans were fanatically devoted to Spikes. Of course, Triog paid them good wages, and Yarni led them ably, but Spikes was the one they always went to for advice and guidance. Not that Spikes was eager or even willing to play mother hen to the lumbering stone-sinewed bouncers. But they never wanted to leave once they had met him. Which was odd, because no one had ever accused Spikes of exuding charisma.

  No one knew exactly what Spikes was. He looked like a strange blend of pashan, porcupine, wild boar and shaved yeti. He was shorter and slimmer than most pashans, standing about six feet tall. He also had reasonably human-like features, apart from the huge tusks and the pashan-like eyes, with their reptilian yellow-green colour and vertical lids. What set him apart from any pashan that walked the earth were his claws and spikes. When angered–and people saw to it that he was angered as infrequently as possible–long curving claws would shoot out of his hands, and long, pointed spike-like quills would rise down his spine, making him look even more menacing, which was difficult. His fingers and toes were also man-like, not the potato-like stumps that most pashans had. He wasn’t as ugly as the pashans; he was ugly in his own special way. Many a customer, wondering whether they could manage another mug of Triog’s strongest brews, had suddenly seen Spikes and decided they had had enough for one night. No one knew exactly what Spike was. No one asked.

  The reason most people thought he was not a pashan, however, was not physical. Spikes was extremely hard to trick, as many had discovered and remembered every time they looked at their scars.

  Yarni, on the other hand, was not intelligent at all but had a very good nose for trouble, and as he stomped up to Triog, there was clearly something on his mind.

  ‘Asur trouble again.’ he said. ‘Big robbery. Two streets away. Same gang that painted skulls on the palace walls last week.’

  ‘They wont trouble us’ said Rightog. ‘Whoever is hiring those idiots will probably be here anyway.’

  ‘I got some more stones today, just in case. And Spikes will be here.’

  ‘Where is that porcupine statue anyway?’

  ‘Here,’ said a voice just behind Triog’s left head. Leftog woke up with a start. It just wasn’t right, someone as big as Spikes shouldn’t be able to move so quietly.

  ‘Kirin’s awake. Upstairs,’ said Rightog. Spikes nodded.

  ‘So why the hell did you wake me up?’ growled Leftog. There’s always a grouchy one.

  Chapter Five

  Asvin was on the plainest chariot he had ever ridden, clad in the plainest clothes he had ever worn. Amloki was driving very fast–at this rate they would reach Kol in a week. They were moving westwards, on the Grand Kol-Ektara highway, through the famous rice fields of western Avranti. Asvin was glad to find that his weapons and armour were unharmed, though Amloki said the road wasn’t dangerous at all. There were very few highwaymen along this route, he explained. They all went to Kol, where all roads led; crime was much more prosperous there. He seemed genuinely shocked when he heard Asvin had never been there. He was about to embark on a full-fledged description of the city when Asvin interrupted him.

  ‘No, tell me whatever you know about what happened to me yesterday. Why did my guards, my friends, attack me? And who is the Silver Dagger?
How did he rescue me?’

  Amloki smiled. ‘Luckily for you, I know the only man in the Dagger’s band of heroes who actually likes to talk. Your bodyguards are – were – a part of a secret society started during the time of the king whose statue stands in the middle of the forest. A very good secret society, too – one that has actually managed to stay secret for over three hundred years. Apparently this king (Aloke the Eighth, said Asvin) had been imprisoned by his brother (Atanu the Usurper, said Asvin) and somehow managed to escape and kill everyone who had been part of the conspiracy against him.’

  ‘ I know all about him’ said Asvin ‘It was the end of a very turbulent period in our history. For four generations, there had been long and brutal wars between brothers. After Aloke VIII regained the throne, this stopped, strangely enough. My country has been free from civil war for three hundred years.’

  ‘After this secret society was formed.’

  ‘I see,’ said Asvin. He thought for a while. ‘No, I don’t see,’ he said.

  ‘Ill put it to you another way. What happens to younger sons in the Avranti royal family?’

  ‘Well, lets see,’ said Asvin. ‘I’ll count backwards from my uncle, who died while hunting–hmm, younger sons, my great-uncle was killed by bandits on an Asvamedh, younger sons before that… poisoned mysteriously, died while hunting, killed by bandits on an Asvamedh, no younger son, killed by bandits on an Asvamedh…. seven generations is all I know. But what does this have to do with this society?’