by David Hair
‘Leaving us for ever in the shadow of the Shaliyah veterans,’ Lukadin sighed. ‘If only we’d been born a few years earlier. Then we’d have been there . . .’
That was something they could all agree on as they finished their food and drink, revelling in the shade and each other’s company. They’d been together for a decade, more than half their lives. There had been arguments and making up, a romance (Waqar and Fatima; his first taste of sex, and a vitriolic break-up), and the joys and trials of mastering the gnosis. Now even silences between them carried weight and meaning.
Finally they heard a clamour below, and a thumping noise. When they peered over the rail, they saw the prayer platform was crowded with men all looking up at the tower they were perched on. Waqar looked at Baneet. ‘Hey, did you ward the door below?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, I think you’ve locked out the Godsingers.’
Baneet’s face dropped. ‘Ya raabi!’ He lunged for the door, but Waqar grabbed him.
‘Wait, Bani – it’ll take ages to get them up here. That stair’s only three foot wide!’ He peered down at the shouting men and waved. Hundreds of men waved back, and a few shouted for him to get on with it. He grinned. ‘Hey, how hard can all this singing be?’
Lukadin went pale. ‘That’s blasphemous!’
‘Why?’ Fatima asked.
‘Because we’re not Godsingers! And you’re a girl!’
‘I’ve got a better voice than you,’ Fatima replied, ‘and someone has to do it.’
‘You know the songs, right?’ Tamir said to Lukadin. ‘We’ll harmonise.’
Lukadin was aghast. ‘But I’m only a trainee Scriptualist—’
‘We are all trainees on Ahm’s journey,’ Tamir replied piously. Lukadin glared at him.
Waqar peered at the sea of faces below. ‘Let’s do it – come on Luka, lead us!’
Lukadin rolled his eyes, then in his best Godsinger wail, he began the call to prayer. The thundering on the door below stopped momentarily, then redoubled in fury, echoing up the stairwell, but to Waqar’s joyous amazement, the crowd below, after some confusion, went down on their knees. In a few seconds the five of them were chanting every prayer Lukadin could remember. Then he spotted the black-robed imams making their way to the front of the takiya.
‘Okay, okay, stop!’ he said. ‘The speakers are arriving. We’re done.’ He grinned about him and said, ‘I guess we should go downstairs and . . . er . . . face the music.’
The maula of the dom-al’Ahm was waiting with a coterie of lesser clergy and a squad of armed guards, who thrust spears in their faces as they emerged from the stairwell door – but the weapons sparked off their gnostic shields and the soldiers’ eyes went wide in fright.
As Waqar stepped forward to take responsibility, the maula glared at him. ‘Waqar Mubarak,’ he said. He didn’t look at all intimidated. ‘I thought as much.’
‘Is there a problem, Maula—?’
‘I am Ali Beyrami, Maula of the Yamas Masheed. This is a holy place, Prince Waqar, not a place for young people to blaspheme against Ahm.’
Not many high clergy were so blunt around his family. ‘There was no mockery,’ Waqar protested. ‘We sang the proper words . . . well, as best we remembered them.’
The maula’s flinty eyes bored into his. ‘The songs of Ahm are reserved for the Godsingers, Prince, who spend years in rigorous training – and women may not sing the prayers at all.’
Fatima lifted her chin pugnaciously, but before she said anything inflammatory, Waqar said, ‘We meant no offence – when the Godsingers didn’t come up, we stepped in so that the prayers could go ahead.’
Ali Beyrami’s beard jutted antagonistically. ‘My Godsingers had specific verses to sing this evening. The lessons prepared by my imams hinged upon those verses.’
‘Shihadi verses?’ Tamir enquired. Songs of Shihad – holy war – were everywhere in Sagostabad right now.
Beyrami’s eyes flashed. ‘Do you think to criticise my choice in my own dom-al’Ahm?’
‘There are too many fanatics.’ Tamir’s lack of stature had never prevented him from voicing his opinion.
‘There are no “fanatics”,’ Beyrami countered, ‘only men who love Ahm as he should be loved . . . and those who fall short. Do you fall short, Student?’
Waqar sensed his friends beginning to anger; no one talked to one of them like that. ‘We sang because your Godsingers were late,’ he insisted, to head off a fight. ‘And now we’re leaving.’ Try stopping us.
As he and Beyrami locked horns, Waqar was a little impressed that the maula showed no fear . . . but neither did he. Then the tension ebbed as Beyrami backed down. ‘Then we won’t keep you, Prince Waqar,’ he said with just a hint of condescension. ‘I’m sure your noble uncle is anxious about you.’
Waqar didn’t want to think about Rashid just then. He strode towards the exit, Beyrami and his coterie watching them. There was something distinctly unsettling about their demeanour.
Fanaticism. Tamir’s right. Some people want war so badly they’re beyond reason, and Ali Beyrami’s one of them. It was uncomfortable facing a man so convinced of his faith that he would face up to a mage.
He knew I wouldn’t touch him . . .
Waqar didn’t feel comfortable again until the Yamas Masheed was five hundred yards away. He could tell they all felt relieved as they looked at each other a little sheepishly.
‘Do you think we came across as a pack of irresponsible noble brats?’ Tamir wondered.
‘Definitely,’ Baneet laughed.
‘Phew. I was worried we’d made a positive impression somehow.’
*
‘I hear you and your friends made trouble at the Yamas Masheed,’ said Rashid Mubarak later that evening. Waqar found he wasn’t surprised the news had flown so swiftly. Attam and Xoredh, lounging on the divans on Rashid’s right, were grinning at Waqar’s discomfort.
‘We were just taking the view, Uncle. It was a misunderstanding.’
Rashid, Emir of Halli’kut and Hero of the Third Crusade, was seated cross-legged on a large cushion, facing Waqar across a low table that held an austere mix of dishes. Crystal wine glasses and a chilled bottle of Rondian wine were the only mark of his uncle’s enormous wealth and reach.
‘So you met Ali Beyrami,’ Rashid said. ‘What were your impressions?’
No lecture, Waqar thought with relief, then he concentrated on his report. ‘He’s a Shihadi, obviously – and unafraid to confront us. Most people are scared by our family name, or by the fact that we’re all magi, but he wasn’t, not at all.’
‘He’s all front,’ Xoredh drawled. He feigned blowing a man over. ‘A straw-giant.’
Rashid ignored him and looked speculatively at Waqar. ‘Tell me, Nephew, what is your impression of the Convocation thus far?’
‘Futile,’ Waqar answered, knowing that his uncle respected forthright opinions – if they could be backed up with sound reasoning.
Rashid raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? Explain.’
‘It’s futile because war on Yuros is impossible right now. Even if the Bridge were above the water, which it won’t be until 940, when the next Moontide comes, Kesh and Dhassa aren’t in any condition to fight. Irrigation has failed everywhere but in the Hebb and farmers are leaving their lands. The sultan is pouring money into aid, but corrupt officials spend it on themselves. Your own Hadishah have left to serve noblemen all over Kesh and Dhassa. Our armies have disbanded – many of our soldiers are now brigands. It would not take much to see Kesh and Dhassa come apart. Or so it seems to me, Uncle.’
The emir rewarded him with a nod. ‘Your analysis is largely correct. The sultan’s efforts to rebuild are failing and the central authority is floundering. The armies which won the war are now a danger to the very people they saved – but the Shihadi leaders are not blind: they know the situation. So why do they still clamour for Holy War?’
‘Because our honour demands blood,’ Xoredh put in,
drawing a belligerent nod from Attam.
Rashid didn’t dismiss the remark. ‘Honour does demand it; that is a powerful imperative. But there are others.’
‘Power and money?’ Waqar suggested. ‘If the Shihad is declared, then funds must be given to the generals, not the civic authorities – they can conscript and commandeer supplies and demand priority use of strategic buildings and bridges.’
‘Correct,’ Rashid answered. ‘And you should none of you forget what a haven the army is for many men: place a nation on a war footing and all is simplified. Men will flock back to our banners the moment they are raised.’
‘But if the generals don’t deliver war, they will be cast down,’ Xoredh mused. ‘If Shihad is declared, battle must be joined, otherwise the men will turn on their generals.’
‘Correct also,’ Rashid remarked, making Xoredh sit straighter.
‘But we’re aligned with Salim,’ Waqar protested, wondering if Rashid now favoured Shihad.
‘I’m aligned to the greater good of Kesh, and so is Salim,’ the emir said. ‘The Kalistham demands that a man should always do what’s right, and if what’s right isn’t possible, then he must make it possible.’
‘Are you saying that it’s right to make war on the Rondians?’ Waqar asked.
‘Are you saying that it’s not?’ Xoredh growled at Waqar. ‘The Kalistham also says that the righteous man must bring the heathen to the faith, even against their will – suffering a heretic to live poisons society, Cousin.’
Xoredh must have new Scriptualist friends, Waqar thought. He’s never managed to remember a whole tract from the Kalistham before. ‘A ruler cannot allow priests to dictate his policies,’ he countered. ‘War now would be suicidal – who’s going to feed the soldiers? Where’s that food going to come from, and who’s going to pay for it? Regardless, the Bridge is under the ocean, so it’s a foolish discussion.’
‘Wars require preparation,’ Xoredh retorted. ‘We can hardly have this debate a week before the next Moontide – and anyway, there are many places that deserve Shihad, not just Yuros.’
That stopped Waqar in his tracks. He’d not thought of that.
‘Waqar, Xoredh is right,’ Rashid interjected, ‘Yuros isn’t our only enemy. But you also are correct: Dhassa and Kesh are struggling and Salim is failing to set things right. In fact, many emirs and sheiks are usurping the tax rights, positioning themselves for independence. Unless something is done, Kesh and Dhassa will break into dozens, even hundreds of minor realms.’
Waqar had never heard Rashid sound so bleak. ‘But how would a war help?’
‘Wars can also unify, Nephew. Imagine if instead of pouring his money into rebuilding, Salim gave it to generals charged with building new armies to prosecute a war. With all the disparate parts of his realm obliged to contribute food, men and munitions, those armies would become the prime means of preserving unity.’
‘But the last war almost ruined us—’
‘Ai, Salim is spending gold like water, but Ahmedhassa is full of wealth beyond counting, Nephew, possessed by landed nobles who waste it on silk and statuary and opium and other nonsense, or worse, simply sit on it, when it should be put into making us strong again. A new war would free that money and bring us together.’
‘But Salim’s rebuilding projects are doing the same – or they should be—’
‘But, crucially, they aren’t, because rebuilding doesn’t answer the need in our hearts for justice. Three times Yuros has invaded us and we burn to avenge that – no other cause will unite us more. We will only rebuild successfully if we do so under the aegis of war.’
‘But Yuros is beyond our reach—’
Rashid smiled secretively. ‘Wars can take many shapes and have many goals.’
It was exhilarating to be privy to such a discussion, but it made him worry for Sultan Salim, a man he truly believed in. ‘Is this the advice you give the sultan?’
Even Attam realised that this was a daring question; he and Xoredh paused, waiting for their father’s reaction.
‘I serve Salim as his Sardazam: his First Advisor. I hope you know that I am also a man of my word. I may not always agree with him, but I obey: that’s the loyalty owed all rulers.’ Rashid looked at them each pointedly. ‘Families also are based on such loyalty. We four are the future of the Mubaraks. Your loyalty is first and foremost to each other, even when we disagree.’
Waqar bowed, thinking, Rashid might see me as family, but Attam and Xoredh surely don’t.
8
The Mollach Slave
Slavery
Slavery is a natural state that has existed from the dawn of time. Just as man is naturally superior to woman, so are some races naturally superior to others. It is right that lowly tasks are performed by the lowly, so that greater men may pursue more worthy endeavours.
REGIS KEVESTACK, EARL OF RELONNE, BRES 551
Dhassa, Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 935
‘Lift up thine eyes, lift up thy soul
Raise your heart to Him Above
Kore my Armour, Kore my Sword’
The old hymn rose in ragged harmony from the line of men chained together and swinging their picks in rhythm at the rocky hillside. Their clothing was worn-out, their over-long hair and beards unkempt. Their skin, Yurosi-pale, was red and blistered, and many limped or bled. None looked upwards, despite the words they sang, because the only thing above them was the sun, beating them down as it travelled west, where they could no longer go.
Most were Rondian, former legionaries who’d been trapped deep in Kesh at the end of the Third Crusade five years ago. Deserted by their generals and magi, they’d been forced to surrender. Since then, forced labour had been their lives. Some still spoke of escape, but there was nowhere to go; their white skin marked them out as invaders. Hopes of prisoner exchange had long since vanished: the Rondian Emperor was dead, their captors told them gleefully, and the new empress didn’t care. Few of them hoped for anything now.
Neither Valdyr Sarkany nor his comrades could conceive of a life without chains any more. The weak of body or mind had already perished, throwing themselves from cliffs or beneath wagon wheels, or hanging themselves in their cells.
Valdyr had decided he could live, even without hope.
A horn sounded, echoing through the desert air, and was taken up along the lines upon lines of black- and white-clad prisoners. Those in white fell to their knees and began a chant in praise of Aluq-Ahmed, the Eastern Prophet. The black-clad ones just slumped over their picks, panting and wheezing and spitting out rock dust. Then the overseers came through, cracking whips, and they all rose: the work day might be over, but there was still the slow trudge back to camp, the pitiful rations and the long hours of the night to endure: a nightmare without variance or end.
Valdyr had spent seventeen of his twenty-six years in captivity – twelve in a breeding-house, five in the slave-camps – after fighting like a Helkat to be allowed to join the Second Crusade, because his elder brother was going.
Why did Father let me go? he wondered for the thousandth time, and still he had no answer.
‘Val,’ the man next to him murmured. Arton, a stolid Rondian from Canossi, pointed at a pair of triangular-sailed windvessels above, heading up the valley. ‘Keshi skiffs.’
‘Fuck them,’ Valdyr growled. Skiffs meant magi – Keshi magi, the scum bred by the breeding-houses he’d once had to endure.
‘Looks like they’re going to our camp,’ Arton noted.
Valdyr hoped not. The last thing on Urte he wanted was one of them sniffing around. He’d long-since abandoned his real name, calling himself Valyn Timak to avoid such attention. He was the only Mollach in the camp and if he’d thought he could get away with it, he’d have pretended to be from somewhere else entirely. He’d discovered to his cost that it didn’t pay to stand out here, especially not someone like him.
He scanned the slopes above. There was a line of archers positioned on the rid
ge above, Dhassan sentries who were bored silly having to watch chain-gangs breaking rocks all day. Sometimes a few men would take picks to their chains and attempt to escape, but no one had ever succeeded: the archers were too damned good. Sometimes they shot slaves just on suspicion, and let the prisoners haul the body around all day until they got back to camp.
‘Perhaps there’s news?’ Arton still hoped that one day a Rondian ship might come for them. He was in his thirties, bitter for his lost life in Yuros – Valdyr had been chained to him for the last fifteen months. Parryn, the man on his right, never shut up . . . he’d had a strident singing voice and belligerent manner, until one of the Keshi overseers had cut his tongue out; now he mangled prayers to Kore all day long.
Valdyr couldn’t think of any news that would matter to him. There was only this, until the day he fell down and couldn’t get back up.
‘Back to the road,’ one of the overseers shouted in Rondian, and Valdyr’s group of twenty struggled to their feet. The skin around their manacles was chafed and scarred, a thick ridge of hard flesh that had become numb to the metal.
Another chain-gang, their white robes marking their conversion to the Amteh faith, marched past, eating figs and singing in serene voices, ‘Sal’Ahm, Sal’Ahm, miz merja hajji.’
Parryn made a rattling sound and Arton, recognising his request for another hymn, chanted, ‘Kore, I fly to you, on wings of song . . .’ and they all took it up.
One of the white-robed prisoners turned his head and tossed a couple of figs, which landed in the dust closest to Parryn. The mute fell on them and gobbled one down like a starving dog.
‘Rukk off, you godless whores,’ Arton snarled. ‘Turncoats! Traitors!’ His insults were taken up by those about him, including Parryn who started barking like a wild dog.
After three years, half the prisoners had succumbed to the Amteh Godspeakers – those who converted got better food, more water, prayer breaks and better living conditions. The genuinely devout (or better actors) had even been allowed to become overseers; Valdyr suspected most were at least semi-sincere in their change of faith. But he could never do that: Kore was deeply entrenched in Mollachia: if he turned from his God, he would no longer know himself. So Valdyr was still clad in dark robes, still housed like an animal, still whipped for no reason. There was a perverse pride in defiance.
