Slaves of the Mastery

by William Nicholson

  He beckoned to Bowman. Speaking low, so that only he could hear, he pointed towards the private room to which the Johdila had retired.

  ‘You see where they went? Her servant went with her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go and find her. Tell her I must speak to her.’

  ‘How? Where?’

  ‘There’s a passage over there. It leads to a garden. I’ll go there directly after the dance. Have her wait for me there.’

  Bowman did as he was told, glad enough to have this unlooked-for chance to talk to Kestrel alone. He made his way unobtrusively round the back of the raised arena, towards the private room. As he did so, Kestrel, wearing the wedding dress and the face veil, but not the outer body veil, came out of the room and entered the arena from the front. She never saw Bowman, nor did he see her. She didn’t notice that Bowman was gone, because she was shivering with nervous anticipation. For all the danger of what she was doing, Kestrel felt a sudden surge of excitement. She had learned to love the tantaraza.

  She looked up at Zohon as she entered. He stood at the back, where he had stood from the start, staring proudly down on the arena stage. Quietly, she pressed her hands together, and interclasped the fingers. He stiffened, and gave a very slight nod. He had seen. She then made a second gesture with her hands, stroking the air before her with downward strokes, to indicate, slowly, slowly, not yet. She hoped he understood.

  The dancing master, Lazarim, who had watched the manaxa with an admiration that had turned to awe, now realised that the great tantaraza was to be danced on the blood-soaked sand of the arena. He had forgotten that he was party to a high-risk deception, and that it would not be the Johdila in the arms of the bridegroom. Only now, as he saw the slender white-clad figure return to the arena, did he realise that this must be the Johdila’s young servant. As he turned to watch the bridegroom, an icy sweat of fear broke out on his brow.

  Marius Semeon Ortiz did not spot the deception. His mind was elsewhere: in the room where Bowman was even now, he supposed, speaking to the lady with the dark eyes. But here and now, in the arena, his bride was before him, and he must bow, and offer her his hand. Together they stepped up onto the platform, and presented themselves first to the Johanna, then to the Master in the gallery above. Ortiz caught the eyes of his dance teacher, Madame Saez, who was staring at him sternly, warning him to concentrate on the coming dance. She was right: the tantaraza was not easy. He wondered whether the Johdila would be any good at it. He supposed not.

  Their respects to others paid, he now held out his right hand, and aligned his body. His partner took his hand with a firm grasp, pivoting on the balls of her feet to adopt the correct opening position. Ortiz was agreeably surprised. She moved well. Perhaps the dance would be a pleasure after all.

  Up in the gallery, the Master raised his violin to his shoulder, and started to play. The musicians below joined in: not a mere pipe and drum, but sixteen instruments, all in the hands of experts. Lazarim, standing at the back among the servants, forgot his terrors, as with all his will he reached out to his young pupil, saying in silence, fly like a bird! Fly away, child! Fly away!

  The musical introduction ended, and the dance itself began. Ortiz moved to the left: step, step, step. She was with him. To the right: step, step, step. And the salute. Perfect! No attempt at grand gestures, just the correct move, pure and unadorned. And now, with the sudden sweep of the music, round into the spins, round! Round! Round! And stop! She was there! What an arrest! Madame Saez saw it, Lazarim saw it, Ortiz felt it thrill through his body. She could dance! Hands out, heels and toes clicking, they came in for the re-join, and as he took her in his arms he sensed her joy in the dance, and all other thoughts, all other hopes and fears left him. This was the tantaraza, the dance of love, and he was in love, and he would dance as he had never danced before. Round and round they swirled, lost in the rhythms of the music, their flying feet barely touching the blood-soaked sand.

  Now that all eyes were on the dancers, Bowman approached the door to the side room, and quietly opened it. There was a young woman sitting at the far end with her back to him. She wore the clothes Kestrel had been wearing, and she was looking out of a window at a small garden beyond. Her head was bowed, her face was in her hands, and she was crying. But he knew at once that she was not his sister.

  He was about to turn and leave, when the young woman turned her tear-stained face, and seeing Bowman, uttered a low cry of joy.

  ‘Bowman!’

  Bowman was too astonished to move. The weeping lady dabbed at her eyes and looked at him in a strange intent way.

  ‘You are Bowman, aren’t you? Kess has told me all about you.’

  ‘Who are you?’ How could she look at him as if they were intimate, when he had never seen her in his life before?

  Sisi realised that he hadn’t worked out the exchange she had made with Kestrel. He had no idea she was the Johdila Sirharasi of Gang. After all, she was wearing the dress of a servant.

  ‘I’m called Sisi,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the Johdila’s servants. Like Kestrel.’

  ‘Where is Kestrel?’

  ‘She went out earlier. The Johdila likes to have her by her side all the time. They’re friends, you see.’

  Sisi found saying all this quite delightful. But Bowman was already turning to leave.

  ‘I have to find her.’

  ‘Not yet!’ cried Sisi. ‘She doesn’t want anyone to know about you. You’re her secret.’

  ‘But she told you.’

  ‘That’s because we’re such close friends. Come, sit down. Wait till the dance is over.’

  Reluctantly, Bowman sat down. There seemed to be nothing else he could do. He was still bewildered. How had Kestrel left without him seeing her?

  ‘I know all about you,’ said Sisi, watching him intently. ‘Kess was going to arrange for us to meet, and now we have.’

  She smiled radiantly.

  ‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’

  Bowman blushed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, hardly aware of what he was saying. ‘I’ve never met you before.’

  ‘What difference does that make? You have only to look.’

  ‘No, it does make a difference.’

  ‘Does it?’ She looked disconcerted. ‘How long do you need? You can look as much as you like. I won’t let them put your eyes out.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, anybody.’ Sisi covered her mistake as best as she could. ‘Go on looking. Are you getting to like me?’

  ‘What an odd person you are.’

  ‘Odd, but beautiful. Go on, admit it.’

  ‘Yes. You are beautiful.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ Sisi clapped her hands with joy. ‘That means you love me!’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Of course it does. Everyone knows that. Men always love beautiful women. Are you a tiny bit stupid?’

  Bowman looked at her, and for the first time made the effort of reaching inside her mind. He found a confusion of childish fears, and a simple longing for affection.

  ‘Why were you crying?’ he asked more gently.

  ‘I don’t want to be –’ She was about to say ‘married’, but stopped herself just in time. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘May I give you some advice?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘Leave. There’s going to be trouble here.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I know.’

  ‘Tell your mistress. Ortiz won’t marry her. It would be better for you all to go home.’

  ‘He won’t?’ She stared at Bowman, greatly astonished. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He’s in love with someone else.’

  ‘You mean I won’t have to – with who? Who’s he fallen in love with?’

  ‘With Kestrel. With my sister.’

  Sisi stared and stared. How was it possible that a man who had the chance of marrying her could prefer a funny-looking person like Kestrel? She felt no jealousy, only bewi
lderment. Then –

  ‘Of course! The veil! He’s never seen – her. Or me. I expect if he saw me, he’d fall in love with me. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Yes. I expect so.’ Bowman smiled. Sisi was lovely, but she was absurd. ‘Now I’m going to go.’

  ‘All right. Go if you must. But you’ll find out you do love me in the end, you just wait and see.’

  ‘If I do, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Bowman slipped out, and returned unnoticed to his place at the back of the arena: unnoticed because every eye, every heart, was captured by the dance. Ortiz and Kestrel, like birds on the wind, were carried by the pulsing sweeping melody, round and back, falling into each other’s arms and allowing themselves to be tossed away again, like the very soul of yearning fickle love itself. Bowman watched, and knew at once that it was his sister out there on the sand. Lazarim was following every move with miniature echoing moves of his own small body, and without realising it, his mouth was uttering low cooing sounds of ecstasy. The Johanna was so absorbed that he forgot the discomfort of his crown, and tipped his head this way and that as the dancers flashed before him. Madame Saez watched in complete rigidity, her body straining, her mouth open, frozen in anticipation of each unfolding beat. And as for the dancers themselves, they were possessed. Ortiz no longer thought of the sequences of steps, or of guiding and leading his partner. Neither of them led. They flew together, in the only way possible, the way the music commanded and their bodies desired – away, away, and round, reaching, not yet touching, and away! And back! Spinning into each other’s arms – ah, so lightly, barely brushing as they met, before passing and leaping, down on one foot, the spin! The return! The clasp!

  Kestrel danced as if after this dance her life would end: as if nothing and no one existed but this man, this music, this small spinning stage. He was her enemy, the man she must destroy, and he was her partner, her lover, herself: for as long as the dance lasted, they were two bodies become one.

  She felt his strong arms around her as she fell back, confident that he would not let her fall; and felt his beating heart as she rose again, her breast pressed to his chest. She spread her arms wide and he lifted her, and as she dropped to the ground, feeling almost weightless, the broken drumbeat began again, that sound of startled birds crackling up out of bracken, clacka-clacka-killacka-clack, and together, within the same heartbeat, they exploded into free flight. One mind, one song, two bodies in motion: precise poise and total abandon, melting together in a dance that was one long unfolding embrace. In this state of grace, Kestrel knew there were no rules, no limits, her body could do anything, because everything it did was beautiful and necessary and right. She danced like one who falls from an unthinkably great height: to fall truly she need do nothing, except not resist. And so, smiling, glowing, lovely, she fell towards the climax.

  The pipes and the fiddles came surging back, to tell the raptured dancers that the final phase had begun. Without conscious thought, both slipped into the arise, parting, hands raised, meeting for the merest fingertip touch, parting again, in an accelerating rhythm. With each retouch they came closer together, though by no more than an inch, and held their touching hands higher; with each parting they spun farther away from each other. So that as the music began to hammer towards its climax, they were hurtling away and throwing themselves back, into an almost-embrace, closer, closer, arms higher, higher, and on the long high call of the pipes, arms up high above their heads, face to face, breast to breast, they turned slowly, still not touching, the spectators hardly daring to breathe, famished for the promised embrace, until the music released them at last, and they fell into each other’s arms.

  Silence. The Master lowered his violin. Then a great sigh arose from all over the arena. Then the applause. Not the crazed screams that followed the manaxa, but the deep steady satisfaction that greets a true ending. Only Zohon stood, still as a statue, and silent.

  ‘That,’ murmured Lazarim, weeping, ‘that is the tantaraza!’

  Ortiz held Kestrel close, and felt her shiver as she panted to regain her breath, and saw that her face veil was fluttering away from her lips with each breath. He leaned his head close over her shoulder and whispered,

  ‘May I dance with you till the day I die.’

  It was no more than the conventional compliment of the bridegroom to the bride at the end of the tantaraza, but he meant every word. He was also watching her veil. She did not give the customary response, but her breath moved the light silk, and for a moment he glimpsed her mouth and chin. It was enough. He had been studying that face all morning. Somehow, impossibly, his partner in the dance was not the princess he was to marry, it was the unknown lady he loved. Bursting with joy at the discovery, thinking nothing of the consequences, made bold by her presence in his arms disguised as his bride, he moved to kiss her.

  Zohon’s eyes flashed towards his waiting captains, and his hand began to rise in the signal for attack. But before he could complete the movement, Kestrel turned away, slipped out of Ortiz’s embrace, and ran off the platform.

  A ripple of surprise rose up from the arena. Ortiz bowed to the Johanna, and to the Master, and returned to his place. Here he beckoned Bowman to his side.

  ‘It was her!’ he whispered. ‘Did you see the dance?’

  ‘I saw,’ said Bowman.

  ‘She’s the true princess! Only a princess could dance like that!’

  Kestrel re-entered the side room, her feelings in a turmoil.

  ‘Kess!’ cried Sisi, jumping up. ‘I met him! I talked to him!’

  Kestrel hardly heard. Her fingers shaking violently, she began unhooking the bridal dress as fast as she could. She was burning with shame inside. How could she have danced with her enemy? No, far worse, how could she have allowed herself to love the dance?

  ‘Bowman! Your brother!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was here. We talked. Oh, Kess, he’s so sweet. So grave and kind. He thinks I’m one of my servants. He says I’m beautiful. He’s going to love me.’

  Kestrel stopped thinking about the dance, suddenly aware that the critical moment was now upon them. She pulled off the tight white dress and helped the Johdila to put it on.

  ‘But Sisi, you’re about to be married.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’ll never marry him. Never ever ever.’

  ‘What will your father say?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  She pressed her pretty lips together and made her most stubborn face. Kestrel finished dressing herself, and then took the Johdila’s hands in hers and spoke to her gravely.

  ‘Listen to me, Sisi. I’m your friend. You must realise what you’re doing.’

  ‘Oh, I do, darling. I’m going to my own wedding and not getting married.’

  ‘There’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Of course there will. Everyone will be frightfully cross.’

  ‘Trouble, and fighting, and danger.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’ A flicker of anxiety clouded her amber eyes. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Stay close to your father and mother. The guards will protect you.’

  ‘And you, Kess. You’re my friend.’

  ‘No. I must go with my brother.’

  ‘I want to go with him too.’

  ‘It’s impossible, Sisi. You know it as well as I do.’

  ‘I don’t know it! How do you know what I know? You’re not me.’

  ‘I know you’re a princess, who’s always been looked after by servants. You won’t like it where we’re going. It’ll be too hard for you.’

  ‘No, it won’t! Why are you being horrid to me?’

  ‘You’d have to walk all day, with the wind and rain on your face, and sleep on the hard ground. You wouldn’t be beautiful any more.’

  ‘Oh.’ That gave Sisi pause for thought. She frowned as she struggled to understand her own feelings.

  ‘I wouldn’t like not to be beautifu
l. But I wouldn’t like to lose you and Bowman, either.’

  ‘Who knows what will happen to us all?’

  She gave Sisi a quick hug, and a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Just in case we don’t meet again. I’ve liked being your friend.’

  She lowered the veil over the Johdila’s sweet and troubled face, and let the gossamer cloud of the body veil drop around her, and opened the door.

  20

  The wedding goes wrong

  The Master looked down on all he had created, and was pleased. This great domed hall was his own design; as was the palace-city of which it was a part, and the lake from which it rose, and the nation all round it. He had given his life to the making of this nearly perfect world, in all its details. Year after year he had drawn the best from his people, and caused them to work together without conflict. Year after year he had weeded out the shoots of rivalry and discord, he had given discipline to the idle and purpose to the lost. By his will alone he had forged out of the mess and muddle of humanity this work of art: and now, with this wedding, which effectively made him the ruler of the civilised world, he was weaving all the threads of his creation together into a single great performance. His people were his instrument. From them he was drawing his sweetest melody, his most stirring music. He was playing the world.

  The climax of this long-planned masterwork was to be the exchange of vows. All the musical motifs, from the moment the bride had entered the High Domain, had been designed to culminate in the mighty chords that were about to rise up from every player and every singer in the Mastery. United in sound, all would rejoice as one.

  As the Master waited for the bride to return, he let his gaze travel over the packed hall below. At first it had irritated him to see the great mass of Johjan Guards occupying the space he had set aside for his own people. But then he had reflected that these soldiers too were now in effect his people. Let them see, and hear, and marvel. Their ruler and his fat wife looked up as if the whole proceedings overawed them, which was as it should be. Young Marius had danced to perfection, which made the Master smile down upon him. And there behind him –