Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

  In the tumult they didn’t see her, and for an instant she was stung dumb by what she was looking at.

  Then she screamed, “Stop it!”

  The men froze and gawked at her, this brazen Tnemghadi woman. One of them was holding a leather-cased scroll, about to rip it apart. Golana’s finger jabbed at him. “Do you know what that book is?” she demanded.

  “Do you know what it is? That is the Book of Urhem!”

  The man looked stupidly at the thing he held in his hands.

  “Don’t you know how many of your people died for that book? You will not destroy it. Give it to me!” Golana held her hand out, it was a command. The man shoved the book into her arms and then fled past her.

  “Now get out, all of you. Destroy whatever else you wish, but you will not touch these books!”

  And indeed, the intruders broke and bolted from the library, leaving Golana behind.

  She dropped to her knees, as though awakening from a trance. Cold sweat glazed her body. It was a miracle they hadn’t torn her to pieces like the peacocks. The noise of devastation through the rest of the house still pounded at her ears, and the smoky air bit at her, but she realized she was a survivor.

  Golana hugged the book in her arms, pressed it to her breast and kissed it reverently. It was, in fact, an almost worthless old geography.

  Then she scrabbled among the parchment scraps littering the floor like sawdust. Here were the remains of the Book of Urhem, the fragile ancient scroll shredded beyond reclamation. Golana threw herself down upon the torn pieces and burst into tears.

  Sitting in his makeshift throne-room, Jehan Henghmani was an imposing figure. This was the holy sanctum of the Arbadakhar temple. Jehan had appropriated one of the Chief Priest’s great stone chairs, and set it up on the platform that had previously held the golden idol of Tnem Sarbat Satanichadh. Now he sat there flanked by his aides, towering over them as godlike as the Emperor.

  A woman stood before him, her eyes glittering.

  She was not a young woman, almost forty, but her skin was taut and of an extraordinarily fair hue. Her facial contours retained the imprint of high-cheekboned beauty, and, although streaked with gray, her black hair was still striking. Tall and slim, she bore herself regally.

  She had come here on foot, from the burned-out shell of her once-grand home. Two Urhemmedhin servants had accompanied her, having sheepishly returned after the riots quieted down. But they waited outside. She came before Jehan alone.

  Jehan looked coldly at her. He surmised she was after some special treatment, perhaps even restitution of her losses. Many from the old privileged classes had come like that to grovel before Jehan. All had been spurned, and he resolved this woman would fare no differently.

  Perhaps she would offer herself to him, but it would not help her. It was a familiar sequence by now: Jehan would take these women to his bed, use them, and then cast them out. Their pleas would be refused.

  The woman stepped forward and bowed before the warlord, but not too low. Her homage was proper, not lavish. Jehan noted her graceful bearing in this brief ritual. Here was a woman of true refinement, which was disappointing: While it enhanced her desirability, it also made her unlikely to submit to him.

  “Salutations, General,” she said, dipping her head a second time. “With your leave, I wish to introduce myself. I am Madame Golana Resseh Mutsukh, widow of the late Magistrate of Arbadakhar, Eshom Mutsukh.”

  “I see,” said Jehan, deliberately brusque.

  “Perhaps you will remember who my late husband was?”

  “Should I?”

  Golana smiled tightly. “Six years ago, when you were captured by the army, you were brought here to Arbadakhar. You were arraigned before the Magistrate—my husband, Eshom Mutsukh.”

  “Only six years? It seems longer. At any rate, perhaps I should be grateful to your husband. His sending me to Ksiritsa saved my life.”

  “It was my idea that you be sent there.”

  “Then what kind of man was your husband, to take the advice of a woman?”

  “He was a very wise man. He was wise enough to take the advice of a woman when it was sound advice. I wish you the good fortune of such an adviser, as well as the wisdom to heed her.”

  Jehan gave Golana a penetrating look, then chuckled. “That was well said, Madame.”

  She merely nodded.

  “So speak equally well your business here.”

  “That, I have already done,” she replied.

  Jehan squinted his one eye at her. “Don’t play games with me,” he warned.

  “Begging your pardon, General, I did not mean to do so. I have indeed already fulfilled my mission in coming, that being to introduce myself to you.”

  Jehan was dubious. “And that is all? You don’t want anything from me?”

  “That is all, unless you should wish something further of me.”

  “Such as what?” said Jehan with a leer.

  “I might humbly mention that I am an extremely well- educated woman. I can read and write both Tnemghadi and Urhemmedhin, and a few other languages. I am well versed in history, geography, mathematics, the arts and sciences, and every other subject. As I’ve mentioned, I assisted my late husband in his public functions. I am therefore intimately familiar with the art of politics and government, and with the province which fortune has entrusted to your hands. For those reasons, you may possibly find my services and counsel of some usefulness.”

  Jehan Henghmani shifted in the stone chair and rubbed his chin. He was decidedly abashed at this proposition from a well-bred Tnemghadi woman, of exactly the class he was busily exterminating. But he was not going to be charmed into foolishness; he remained wary. After all, this woman might be aiming at sabotage or betrayal.

  “Why do you come to me with such an offer?”

  She smiled boldly. “I will not be disingenuous. My house has been wrecked, my wealth is gone, and I’m lucky to be alive. You know how dangerous it is in this city to be a Tnemghadi, not to mention the widow of the former Magistrate. But self-preservation is not my only motive. I have closely followed your exploits this past year—and, much as it may surprise you, I have a considerable admiration for you.”

  Against her disarming mixture of candor and flattery, Jehan put up a stony front. “How can a woman like you have any admiration for my cause?”

  Golana’s white teeth shone. “I did not say that I had admiration for your cause.” She looked him straight on and lowered her voice. “No more than you yourself admire it.”

  Jehan Henghmani’s head jerked up, taken aback by this audacious remark. Even a man wouldn’t speak with such temerity. Jephos Kirdahi, seated nearby, leaned forward, and there was an agitated rustle among all those present. For a moment, the remark hung in the air, drawing no response.

  “This lady has quite a tongue,” said Jehan at last. He leaned back with studied laziness in the stone chair. Golana’s face was fearless. Then Jehan snapped his fingers and ordered the hall cleared. Obediently, Kirdahi and all the others got up and shuffled out. They winked at Jehan, and at each other, surmising what would now happen to this brash, handsome Tnemghadi woman.

  They faced each other alone.

  He spoke softly, so that no eavesdropper might hear. “Don’t fear me. I won’t rape you.”

  When Madame Mutsukh replied by snorting with disdain, Jehan decided that she was a smart woman indeed. She could read his mangled face better than he could read her perfect one.

  “Just what did you mean by what you said?”

  “We may be from different worlds, but I think we understand each other, Jehan Henghmani. You are an opportunist, using the misery of the peasants to advance your own ambitions. You beat them into the ground during your old bandit days, and now you’re giving them land and food only to get what you want from them in return.”


  “I thought you said you admired me.”

  “Yes, I do admire a man who knows what he wants, knows how to get it, and has the courage to do it”

  “I think you are correct that we understand each other, Madame. You know why I have embraced the cause of the peasants. But what about you? Are you here to get what you want?”

  “Certainly. I said so.”

  “But what, exactly, is it that you want?”

  “The same thing you want.”

  Jehan smiled, then grinned, then shook with laughter. All the while Madame Mutsukh watched him soberly. Jehan stopped laughing and riveted his one eye on hers.

  “I do believe,” he said, “we understand each other.”

  “Cosmically.”

  BERGHARRA—Kingdom of Taroloweh, copper double falu of Jehan Henghmani, year 1182. Obverse: uncrowned portrait of Jehan, left, showing facial scars. Reverse: cornucopia with inscription, “Urhemmedhin Kingdom of Taroloweh,” and Arbadakhar mint mark. Breitenbach 1987, 30 mm. Choice Very Fine with a rich dark green patina. Scarce. (Hauchschild Collection Catalog)

  5

  IT WAS SUNNY in the spacious garden of the Arbadakhar temple. The burnt plants and brush had been cleared away, and the garden had begun to sprout greenery again. The sun was warm, but there was a light breeze; a pleasant day to sit in the garden.

  Sunny too, and light were Maiya’s eyes as she relaxed on a bench. She was watching her son at play, and laughing with him. Everything seemed so happy and fine. And yet, to watch the boy’s unburdened gaiety produced a gentle tug of melancholy. Maiya could not identify it, and shrugged if off. Perhaps it was because she had left her own childhood so prematurely, in another life.

  Maiya never dwelt upon the past any more; its memories were at last becoming vague blurs, almost expunged. The past was not what mattered now. Ever since her arrival at Zidneppa, Maiya was swept up with a rapturous vision: that her father would become a king, and she herself a princess. And her son would be a king one day too. She would be the mother of a king, the founding mother of a glorious dynasty.

  There was Maiya’s vision of her certain destiny, shaped between two kings, father and son, her father and her son. To them, the mighty warlord and the little boy, Maiya would devote her life. She was mother to the boy, and to her father all but wife. And in thusly consecrating herself to father and son together, Maiya saw the perfect harmony, the three of them all linked together through her body, intermingled, spawned and spawning.

  Such a pleasant little family it was, even in the midst of war and tumult. Jehan always found time for them to be together. He adored his daughter, returned to him as though from the dead. And he adored the boy who had his name, Jehan, Jehandai, little Jehan. He would spend hours playing with Jehandai, carrying the boy on his massive shoulders, playing with balls and toy soldiers and many other games. He was the picture of a doting grandfather.

  And no matter how often Maiya would insist the relationship was closer, Jehan ignored it. He gave up trying to reason with her and concluded that, at least regarding Jehandai, his darling little girl was mad. It was, if anything, fortunate that she had any sanity at all left; surely there was ample cause for her one mania. What she had been through! Who could come out of that dungeon with a mind all in one piece? Had Jehan himself?

  So he forgave her touch of madness. It seemed little enough price to pay for having her alive and well.

  Her eyes sunny and light, Maiya sat in the garden watching her son at play. It was a splendid day.

  So quickly was her vision coming true! Hardly a year had passed since she’d trekked on foot, dirty and hungry, to Zidneppa. Now she was sitting in the pretty garden of the Arbadakhar temple, from which her father ruled the Province of Taroloweh.

  He was, in everything but name, the king. He had carved out a new kingdom for himself, yet strangely, he’d abjured a crown. Even his newly minted Taroloweh coins portrayed Jehan bareheaded.

  This Maiya found perplexing and irksome. One day, she fashioned a mock crown out of parchment with nuts, grapes, and berries for jewels.

  “Won’t you let me crown you, Paban?” she said, displaying her handicrafted work.

  Jehan laughed with delight when he saw the charming toy crown. He knelt at Maiya’s feet, bowing his head. Ceremoniously, with Jehandai watching, giggling, Maiya performed the coronation rite.

  “In the name of Sainted Urhem, I crown thee Jehan the First, King of Taroloweh. And tomorrow, thou wilt be Emperor of all Bergharra.”

  Jehan solemnly rose to full height wearing the paper crown. “Emperor of Bergharra! Why, I am deeply honored, fair maiden. But don’t you think we ought to wait until we get to Ksiritsa?”

  Maiya cawed loudly. “Ha! Old Tnem Sarbat must be shaking in his boots. We’ll be there soon enough.”

  Jehan took the crown down from his head and turned it slowly in his hands. “It’s a very beautiful piece of work, you know? I’m impressed that you made such a lovely thing. I’m touched and grateful for it.”

  “My crown, Paban, is even better than a real one. When you grow tired of this crown, then you can eat the jewels!”

  “Oh, Maiya, by the time I ever grow tired of such a pretty crown, these grapes and berries will be far too old to eat.”

  Maiya shook her head. “No, Paban, the paper crown is only temporary. You must soon exchange it for a real crown, a golden one with real jewels. You are the King now!”

  Jehan nodded, sighing thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it’s true, I really am the King of Taroloweh. It is what I dreamed, yet it seems such a miracle. Perhaps my dream was so audacious that the gods that be were tickled by it, and just for amusement’s sake, they granted it. Sometimes I wonder, too, if the gods have raised me up only for the fun of knocking me down again.”

  “Oh, no! Don’t let them!”

  “No, Maiya, I won’t let them. I will fight even the gods if I have to.”

  “And what about a crown, Paban? What about a crown?”

  Jehan shook his head. “I have all the power of a king. That’s what counts. But a crown—no, that would be a mistake. As long as I have the power, I don’t need the crown; and if I take the crown, then I could lose the power.”

  “But why?”

  “I did not get here on my own. It was the people who gave me this power. They shed their blood and died for me. They are the scum of the earth, and they fight for me because I am one of them. To put a gold crown on my head would change that. They’ve been ruled for centuries by men with crowns, and it was never good for them. In me, they see hope for something different. I can’t afford to become just one more king to them.”

  Maiya reflected for a moment. “These words came from your lips, but not from your head.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then whose idea was it that you take no crown?”

  “What difference does that make? It’s a very prudent idea, and I agree with it.”

  “Then why are you ashamed to tell me whose idea it was? Was it Kirdahi, that Tnemghadi? No, he’s too stupid; I know who it was.” Maiya’s voice became laced with scorn. “It was that otherTnemghadi. That woman.”

  “That woman; that Tnemghadi woman.”

  These words were becoming annoyingly familiar, often whispered behind Jehan’s back, sometimes even blurted to his face.

  Madame Golana Resseh Mutsukh had manifested like a weird spirit from another world. Everything about this woman suggested that she ought bitterly to despise Jehan Henghmani. And indeed, had she not publicly insulted him? She had performed subtly, she had smiled, and her insult had the weight of truth. But it was nonetheless an act of gross impudence.

  There was consternation among Jehan’s entourage when there was no reprisal for the woman’s insult. And that consternation was to deepen.

  Jehan was as coarse as any of his underlings, yet he could appreciate the
substance of Golana Mutsukh. He left their first encounter strangely moved; she stuck in his mind like a fishhook. She was more than merely intelligent. Never had Jehan met a woman who would dare speak out as Madame Mutsukh did, and her voice was not sheer nerve. This was a woman who knew what she was talking about. And what struck Jehan most powerfully was her candor. She had bared not only Jehan’s motives, but her own as well.

  Even so, Jehan was cautious at first. He invited her back to the temple, resolving to say little, but to get a firmer impression of her. On this second visit, she came prepared with a written agenda of items for discussion. One by one, she read them off, making detailed comments. For the most part, the points were routine: She advised repairing the decayed old aqueduct, permitting Tnemghadi money to remain in circulation, reducing tolls on certain roads, and so forth.

  “But these are minor things, Madame,” he complained when she concluded her list.

  The woman smiled indulgently. “Yes, they are all trivialities, albeit necessary ones. You see, you don’t trust me yet—you couldn’t—so I must start you off with trivia. Once I’ve gained your confidence, then we can proceed to more weighty matters.”

  “Leave your list with me,” Jehan said.

  And it was not long before he was discussing the most serious, affairs with the Madame. He discovered that she hadn’t exaggerated her depth of learning and political expertise. After a few weeks, Jehan could not imagine trying to govern Taroloweh without her.

  Governing it was quite a task; the province was in a shambles. Its paramount problem was food. Not only was Taroloweh still suffering bad times, but all chains of supply had been disrupted. Indeed, the whole province was turned upside down, all local government had been swept away with nothing to replace it but chaos. Moreover, Jehan’s triumphant march across the province had not meant the end of war. Taroloweh was still in the throes of bitter fighting, not just between the new order and remnants of the old, but among rival inheritors of the power struck out of Tnemghadi hands.