The Leopard (Marakand)

by K V Johansen

  The Lady is not Marakand, said her father’s voice in her memory.

  I am not the Lady’s, Zora told herself.

  Revered Shija, a sleeve held across her face, came to her with a censer wreathed in blue smoke.

  “Breathe,” said Revered Rahel, and forced Zora’s head down almost to touching the perforated brass globe, as Shija dangled it before her. “Breathe deeply. You will be the vessel of the Lady, filled with a holiness you could never deserve.”

  “Just breathe, Zora,” whispered the Mistress of the Dance. “It won’t hurt. It will be easier. The Lady knows what’s best, she must.”

  “Breathe,” said Ashir, and his hand on her hair was possessive, caressing. “Be the daughter of the Lady.”

  Zora struggled, almost freeing herself, until the Red Masks moved even Ashir aside and held her, pushing her head into the thickest smoke. It stank. She tried not to breathe, but it seemed to crawl in by her eyes, up her nostrils, between her clenched lips, until finally she had to gasp. And once she did that, breathing was easy. Slow and easy. She was dizzy almost at once.

  Whatever poison it was, it was swift. Poison. Remember that. Poison. Not holiness. She began to feel drunk, her body slow and heavy, but her arms strangely light, floating at her sides, though the guards gripped her as if their fingers would meet in her flesh. Her head sagged. Drunk. She’d only been drunk once, celebrating, celebrating something . . . One of her free-days, going with a friend to visit her family, and they had been celebrating a brother’s betrothal. The hangover had put her off unwatered wine altogether.

  This was bad. She floated, muttering prayer. It wasn’t the Lady she prayed to. Had the priests heard? This was very bad. She felt . . . something. Touching her. Finding out the shape of her, like a woman holding up a garment, wondering if it would fit.

  She had seen the Voice. There had been no room left in her own mind for herself, that was what had come upon that pitiable woman, the day of the earthquake. The Lady had ceased to speak to her, to whisper words for her to pass on, and had taken her, wearing her skin. And now Zora was going to die that same life in death. She would dribble and drool and shamble empty-eyed, while the Lady put on the husk of her to rant and froth in the temple.

  “Papa!” she cried, because who else was there to come to save her?

  He couldn’t save her. He was dead.

  “Hadidu—No! Not him. No!”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing yet. It’s just the smoke speaking.”

  “Smoke smoke smoke.” She was babbling already and was there nothing in her mind but herself? It was her mind, her place, her palace, a cave within which she dwelt, alone, darkness, waiting, until the day she could open the door and let the secrets fly free.

  “Fly,” she said. “Not yet. I didn’t—I didn’t tell—not yet.” Something brushed over her. “So beautiful,” she giggled. Her own voice, not her thought, was it? “G-Great Gods,” she said, and clamped her mouth shut. She was a child of—a child of—the Lady could not take that from her, could not, could not, she was afraid, and there was a hand reaching for her and she took it, a man’s hand, broad and strong. Papa? His hands had been narrow, callused fingertips but delicate, musician’s hands, don’t think that don’t think it, don’t give them his name. She squeezed her eyes shut too, watering in the smoke. Eyes, she remembered, dark eyes and restless energy, he was never still, even sitting by her mother’s bed as she gasped and choked her last, hands drawing music from his tanbur, soft and soothing, at odds with his burning anger, till when the end of his own life came he had lost even that. He had stared with wide unseeing eyes, arm twitching, unable to make music even with a drum. She took his hands in hers and held them clasped together, feeling them hot, hot, hot, as if he burned. Don’t think of him. Mankul, a street-singer, died of a brain-fever. Nothing more.

  What more is there? Voices murmured in the distance of her mind, one so faint she could barely hear it. One was her own. One laughed, greedily.

  Mansour, of Gurhan’s Hill. He died mad, of a growth in his brain. He sent his daughter here to die.

  Child of Gurhan, I name you the Voice of the Lady of Marakand. Hear me. Hear me. In Gurhan’s name. Tell my city, warn them, the Lady is not the Lady is—

  Let go now. Let go let go let go. You will fall. I will catch you. I will hold you, close under my heart, my heart, you will be my heart, mine.

  She clung with both hands, digging in her very nails, but the big rough hand was gone, as if she had grasped smoke. She fell.

  Zora went limp, as the words poured through her, a flood.

  “Oh, you have lied and lied and lied and you think you are not mine but the city is mine, my city, he is dead he is gone he is fled he is buried he cannot have you lying cuckoo child—Shall we tell the priests what you are who you are what you do who are you—

  “My city, mine, none other, tell them tell them tell them—

  “She is dead she is dead she is dead. Let the child speak for me, oh let the priestess speak . . .

  “—the child will be my child my daughter no other my daughter mine good daughter good girl to speak for me she will be my daughter—

  “Treachery deceit and lies and lies in the mouth of the cuckoo child and you hate me you betray me and they will come back for me—

  “Close too close death is coming.”

  She—who was she was not Zora . . . she saw him, standing, smiling at her, as he had stood all her life since she was a little child, but then he was only a shape, a man-shape, a hole in the air, outlined in yellow-white flame. She saw her, smoke and scarlet fires twisting into a pillar. She saw a sword like a splinter of stone, spinning frost across the stars. “Death is walking the road of death of dreams of walking death is sleep is ice is death—”

  Hide!

  Voices. Her own. Two. Three, screaming in her head, vying for her tongue.

  “Papa!” she screamed, and once started could not stop—“Papapapapa—” until she choked on mud.

  “My daughter, my Voice. Hear, Marakand, our Marakand. No other god, no other power no goddess no mother none but me no no god no—”

  I see your heart, traitor child. I see. Secret servant of Gurhan, who was too weak, too small, too blind to defend your city. What can your little gods do, when death comes in ice and flame and great armies of godless men? I see your lies, and lies upon lies. And they are coming he is coming he must be coming a Red Mask died this day you see as I see you know as I know but do you understand? A Red Mask died who cannot die, cut down at the Eastern Wall and she the killer rode away. You know. He it must be he plans to take the Praitans from me, but we need them, we will have them, they are meant for ours and one by one we will have them. All our enemies gather. You, my enemy, my daughter, close under my heart. You thought to see my secrets, you thought to know my truth, to betray my truth.

  “No!”

  I have sought them. I see them now I see them now.

  No, someone wept, and it did not seem to be her own voice. No, no more death no more no more.

  “Traitor!” she cried. “I see him now, the traitor—traitor of long years, slow treason, slow rot, slow poison. He betrays the city, he betrays me, you betray me, dreamer of empty dreams—you cannot see—you cannot free them—you cannot see them you are mine he is—he is—he is—he the worm in the heart of Marakand the enemy the rebel gods dead gods no gods but the Lady—

  “No!—

  “The daughter of the priest of Gurhan the daughter my daughter fool no threat no threat a whisper a dream too weak—

  “No!—

  “Before me bring me the man Hadidu of the Doves he will stand before me—he will stand will stand he will know he will hear himself condemned out of your mouth out of my mouth. I see him now I know him now. The priest of Ilbialla lives he plots to be my death to free the feeble gods to be our death—no!—and now I see him I know him I hear him—”

  I see him in your memory, Mansour’s daughter, do you
know yourself a traitor now?

  “—there is a wizard visits his house who dares to creep within our gates my gates are closed against him bring him bring me the wizard to face the Lady in the deep well as is my law my word the Lady’s word—

  “No!

  “We are betrayed betrayed betrayed,” she shrieked, and the words piled atop one another, tumbling, cascading. A woman, somewhere, wept.

  Consternation among the priests. Two Red Masks started up the stairs to meet others from the barracks. They would go, even if the fool priests did not hear her did not understand needed more to understand—

  “They plot against us against us Gurhan stirs Ilbialla cries out I drink their dreams I see their dreams my children of Marakand in the deep caves in the secret water she sees she knows the sword brings night we cannot see beneath the river of night brings fire brings ice the sword of the ice the ice brings death . . .

  “The Doves, the priest of the Doves, the hidden priest, he hides a wizard who comes to him he hides his secrets he hides his goddess they mean our death our deaths his death is ordained the Lady speaks. Bring him to me.”

  Whispers. A priest of Ilbialla? But they all died after the earthquake, the whole family, didn’t they? What’s the Doves, what does she mean? Some wineshop, some caravanserai, a tavern, the guard will know, send to the commander on watch . . . A younger priest was sent scurrying up the stairs to wake the commander of the temple guard. No need to summon the Red Masks; the priests knew the Lady would send them where she would, without any need for word from the Right Hand or the Beholder.

  Somewhere a girl was crying, not she-Zora. Weeping, voiceless, no sobs to shake her, to betray, just the slow hot tears that gathered, pooled, and rolled down her face, and the heavy arm over her that pinned her down.

  Somewhere a weary old woman keened, arms hugged tight about herself. My city my folk my sister my brother, ah, Marakand, Marakand, hear me, Marakand, save me, let me go.

  “Let me go let me go let me go—”

  Somewhere a woman stood guard, sword in hand, stood on a city wall, watching the road to the west, and in her mind she saw it black with moving bodies, spilling from the road, filling the pass, and their minds were filled with love of him and fear of him. He was coming to make the world his own, no rivals, no allies, no friend or lover or kin would stand by him; he burned the air and he would open the road with the dying of the world and the gates of the cold hells would be shattered and the very stars would fall, but she could save them, stop him, she could hold the east . . .

  “Get out!” Zora cried, and the priests pushing close around her backed away as she clawed at her face, till a Red Mask crouched to seize her hands.

  Zora. Cuckoo’s egg, cowbird’s nestling, Gurhan’s lost servant, but you are strong, strong as Lilace was not, will you be Lilace, will you be a Voice as Lilace was, a broken instrument? There is another way, a better way. She was unfit, unworthy, and it was not yet time but the time is come the time is here.

  No, no, no, no, no . . . Let me go let her go let us go . . .

  There is a better way, an easier way, a stronger way. To be honoured, not pitied. Worshipped, not loathed. To be strong, to be Marakand . . . hold me. Take me into your heart.

  No! She tried to fling herself away, to run, and was trapped in Red Mask arms.

  “What’s she saying? Bring the censer nearer, Shija, she needs the smoke. She’s growing too wild. Voice, Revered Voice, what does the Lady say?”

  Lilace broke. Lilace was burnt away. She was only a priestess, a speaker for the Lady, a messenger who carried words to the well and back. The ribbon that bound them was too thin, too delicate, the thread the lightning followed. She was weak; she shattered. She was the Voice of the Lady, but she could not bear the weight of the Lady once the Lady became great, became strong, became me . . .

  . . . she lies, I am not . . . she is not . . . oh, hear me, let me go.

  But I am the Lady and the Lady will pour through you, empty you, scour you clean with flame and you will be the Voice be Lilace be what she became . . .

  Or will you join with me? Will you let me in of your own will? To be whole and strong, worshipped and loved and feared, yes, is it not the better way, the truer way? How will you serve your god, through infantile decades of death in life, a mouth for the Lady who cannot dares not must not be seen—

  And she saw, she saw the Lady form of mist, she saw her waver, falter, shiver, young and old, dark and golden, beautiful and homely. A red light struck her eyes and her priests fell back and one cried, “She is not the Lady, she is—” but it was only her fear, only imagining, only what might yet be, for the priests had no faces, they were nothing but saffron robes with masks, the silver moon-mask of the Voice in the temple, which hid her slack and twisting features.

  No! And the vision was rent away, not for her, not that thought for her but she had seen and the old woman the Lady said, See? Child of my brother Gurhan, see, be strong, seek truth.

  Yes, see this truth.

  Zora saw herself, a bloated, grey-faced, sagging creature, grown stiff and heavy. The weight of her hair, dry, brittle, dull, dragged her down. She sat in a chair in a locked room. The windows were barred, and she rocked and rocked and rocked her body and spittle dribbled down her face and no one came to wipe it away, and she rocked, and her hands twisted and fought one another, and her face bore old scars, pale scars, where she had tried with her very nails to peel it away.

  No . . .

  What will you? She saw again the woman armed, the woman strong and beautiful and clean, and Ashir bowed and Rahel, Rahel was afraid, Rahel rubbed her hands together and said, “Lady, what will you?” And she said, “Let the senate palace be raised again, let the senate meet, let the wards choose elders of wisdom to sit with them. Let the guilds be for the folk, not the folk to feed the guilds.” She saw the ruined houses of the great earthquake, the ones enmeshed in Family claims, landlords holding, waiting, never building, while the poorest paid all they earned for a room lightless, airless, hot in summer, damp and cold in winter, and the fevers took them, and her mother coughed herself to death. “Build,” she said. “The temple hoards, when it should build. The Families pile wealth upon wealth and there are children who sleep huddled in the ruins and the street guard are sent to drive them out. Let us build . . .” And Marakand was great and golden again, and the senate met in wise and solemn dignity, and the houses gleamed with plaster white and golden and there were flowers laid at Ilbialla’s tomb and Gurhan’s, in memory of gods that once had been, honoured dead. She rode out of the city with the folk crying blessings upon her, and they threw flowers beneath her horse’s feet . . .

  Horses scared her.

  . . . And there was a hospice built where the compound of Gurhan’s priests had once stood, all green and airy gardens and white paths and sweet-scented plants, and low, cool, bright rooms. The poor lay in white beds, while physicians in the yellow robes of the temple tended them, or they sat on benches in the sun and grew strong again.

  And Zora who was the Voice as Lilace had been the Voice . . . Her body sagged and hung in heavy folds of fat about her, breasts dragging, heavy, belly flaccid, overhanging her private parts; her vast thighs shuddered as she moved, but her feet, her slender, her shapely feet were still her own, though her swollen ankles settled heavily on an anklet of dancer’s bells. Shija and Rahel dressed her in the black gown of the Voice, and she gasped for breath with the effort of moving the great grub she had become. Her lips whispered the flowing thoughts of the Lady’s mind, the jabber of her own fears, “No, not me, this isn’t me this mustn’t be me this is death in life is death let me go . . .” She watched—with loathing for herself, with hunger—as they brought the mask, the silvered moon-face, delicate, beautiful, with its tiny eye-holes and the slit in the rosebud lips through which she drank the smoke . . . she hungered for the smoke and licked her lips, as they settled the helmet-like mask of lacquered paper over her, showing her beautiful face
her mask the face of the Voice to the world, and draped her in the veil of white silk tissue, that fell to her knees behind and before, and they settled her into a chair, not a closed carrying-chair such as senators and the wealthy of the Twenty Families used to travel about the crowded streets but a gilded throne that needed six strong temple guard to take its poles, because she could not walk so far, not from the Voice’s hospice on the bank of the ravine to the Hall of the Dome and the high pulpit where she would drink the smoke, bathe in the smoke, open herself to the Lady’s will and speak in answer to the questions of the priests, or to judge the accused, the blasphemers, the traitors, the rebels, the wizards who sought her death . . .

  Oh, she hungered for the smoke . . . but in the back of her mind she was still Zora, still Mansour’s daughter, and she wept and beat her hands against the prison of her flesh, and still she cried, No, I am not yours I will not be yours you will not have me.

  And she was the Lady, riding her gleaming chestnut horse with a sword at her side against the barbarians who had slain poor pitiable Lilace, who raided the caravans of the road, her road, or levied tolls they had no right to, and threatened her city, who could be tamed and turned to good and virtuous folk of Marakand, to become her armies when the dark tide flowed up the pass . . . and the folk threw flowers beneath her feet and loved her. Was that so bad? And in the hospice on the hill, Gurhan’s hospice, in memory of Gurhan who had faded and died, honoured and remembered, as gods did fade and die, a woman who might have been her mother lay in a white bed in a sunny room and put an arm around the little girl who stood by her bed, a little girl in a clean, neat caftan, and said, “I’ll be coming home soon, my darling.”

  Choose, said the Lady.

  Zora wept.

  I cannot force you. Choose. You must ask me in ask us in, to be one with me with us, to be strong, to be free, to be wise and great and ruler of the city, to make the east great and save your folk Gurhan’s folk all the folk of all the blind gods of the east against the death of the world that comes. Or not, and be still the captive Voice, a defiant soul a broken slave a prisoner in your own repulsive body in your own rotting mind as it slowly burns away.