by Kit Downes
Red
A spectacular dawn broke over the Great Desert. Sunlight exploded across the pale sky in a tide of glowing gold. The endless brown sand-dunes were lit up like rolling seas, captured in time and held still. The light reached Azamed, the city of flowers and carpets, making its white buildings shine.
The city was built on the sloping, ragged sides of an extinct volcano. The mountain’s fiery heart was dead and cold, but the ashes provided rich soil, perfect for growing flowers in particular. Thousands of them, in myriad bright and beautiful colours, growing in gardens, pots, pools and window boxes, awoke and drank in the warm light as the new day dawned. Above the city’s roofs and streets, the first few magic carpets took to the air, gliding, rising and falling as their riders went about their business.
The Caliph Masat II of Azamed watched all of this with approval from the window of his throne room. He looked old and wizened inside his royal robes, but his mind was still sharp and quick. He cared very much for his city and its people and that morning he could tell, just by watching the sunrise, that all was right within it. He nodded his head, wrinkle-faced and white-bearded, and turned his attention back to the throne hall. This was a long white room, his golden throne at one end, the rest filled with shimmering curtains, comfortable velvet cushions and a cool bubbling fountain carved from pale pink crystal. A few proud peacocks strutted around.
Painted behind the throne was a beautiful mural of Azamed’s god, the Celestial Stork, breathing the world into existence as she cried to the first dawn she saw as she flew into this universe. Now she flew eternally around the world, the beat of her wings sweeping peace and harmony and happiness down onto its people.
This morning the hall was packed with the Caliph’s viziers and ministers. They were all still discussing the last item on the agenda, which had allowed the Caliph to pause to enjoy the sunrise.
The Caliph cleared his throat, careful to make it as quiet and soft as possible. Only about three of his advisers heard him, and the Caliph smiled at their frantic elbowing and kicking of their colleagues to bring them to attention.
“Now,” the Caliph said. “What next?”
One of the Caliph’s four Secretaries of Documents, Records and Important Lists snatched a scroll from the hands of a colleague and leapt forward to read from it. It was the Caliph’s personal policy always to have at least two men doing the same job. The rivalry and suspicion this created ensured that everyone who reported to him was always absolutely truthful. If they were not, their colleagues would be quick to show them up. In Azamed’s court, no bad news was dumbed down and no good news was embellished, and the Caliph always had accurate reports of what was going on.
“The next item, Your Excellency,” said the secretary, “is the upcoming Great Race.”
Approving murmurs ran around the throne hall. The Great Magic Carpet Race was something everyone enjoyed arguing about.
“Oh, splendid,” said the Caliph, who liked the race himself. “Please begin.”
Before the secretary could, one of his colleagues had snuck up behind him and snatched away the scroll. This secretary then recited what had been done in preparation for the race. Following this, one of the seven Ministers for Culture stepped forward and described the various race preparations that were still going on but would be finished by the big day. The eleven Viziers for Public Spectacles then had a brief, discreet fist fight to determine who would list what still needed to be done before the race. When the bruised winner was finished, the arguing began in earnest, with plenty of shouting, foot-stamping and colourful insults. The Caliph again found himself looking out of the window and reflecting. He loved all things about his city, but the race was by far his favourite.
The race was Azamed’s greatest attraction. It was held once a year and travellers struggled across the desert to the city from all directions just to witness it. Only citizens of Azamed were allowed to compete, but that made it no less of a draw. Thousands of magic carpets, exploding out of the city and flying along an obstacle-filled track through the desert at tremendous speeds, was always a sight worth seeing. The only thing more spectacular than watching the race, the Caliph mused, was participating in it.
He had done it only once, at the age of twenty. He had disguised himself as a tax collector to ensure that anyone who might recognize him kept their distance, and had come last because of his carpet getting tangled in a palm tree. Still, despite the long hot walk back it had been one of the most fantastic days of his long life. Out over the desert was the only place where carpets could truly be flown. They were thrilling within the narrow streets and tall buildings of the city, to be sure – no one could make the zipping turns necessary to get through the market district without their heart racing. But in the Great Race, pushing your carpet to a speed that made your eyes water, with thousands of other riders trying to out-manoeuvre and overtake you, you truly felt alive.
The Caliph brought his attention back to the loudest argument, between the first Respectable Revenuer and the first Financier Bursar.
“We will need those extra seats!” One of the three Respectable Revenuers stamped his foot.
“You can’t afford them!” The first Financier Bursar said, while the second held out a scroll of complicated sums.
“That’s why we’re asking you to pay for them!”
“We can’t afford to either!”
“Yes, you can!” The third Respectable Revenuer pointed to the sheet. “You just don’t want to.”
“Gentlemen,” said the Caliph. They all stopped in an instant and bowed to him. The Caliph motioned the fourth Vizier of the Palace Treasury to step forward.
“Would I be right in thinking that the income from the race is always quadruple the expenditure?”
The fourth vizier was a young, nervous man and he hesitated for too long, allowing the fifth, who was older and more experienced, to push him aside and step into his place.
“It has done so for the past nine hundred and ninety-nine races, Your Excellency,” he said. “There is no indication that this year will be any different. Most of Azamed’s hotels are already full up.”
“Yes,” said the Caliph. “I suspected as much. Have the royal stables opened up for the travellers’ use. Be sure to put down some fresh straw. And with regard to the extra seating the Respectable Revenuers require …”
The revenuers’ faces lit up.
“… the Financier Bursars will pay for them …”
The bursars’ faces fell.
“… and the palace will repay the bursars once the race is finished.”
The whole court broke into approving, impressed murmurs. Several social climbers began clapping. Both the revenuers and bursars looked relieved, and the Caliph decided it was time for a little fun.
“Now,” he said. “Who are the favourites to win this year?”
Several people tried to answer at once. A scuffle followed and the winner was the eighth Irrigation Minister.
“Opinion is divided between two candidates, Your Excellency,” he said.
“And they are?” the Caliph asked.
“The Thesa family and the Shadow Society.”
The Caliph knew of both, and had opinions of both, but he chose to keep them to himself.
“I see. And what has made them the favourites?”
The ninth Irrigation Minister beat his colleague to the punch.
“They are both rumoured to have woven six-coloured carpets this year, Your Excellency.”
The Caliph was impressed. There was a moment of awed silence in the court, then excited talk of odds and bets began.
“Well, well,” said the Caliph, sitting bac
k on his throne. “This year’s race should certainly be spectacular then.”
“Yes, sir!” said the second Entertainment Minister, who was determined to be promoted to first. “It could only be more exciting if someone were to weave a rainbow carpet!”
Everyone in the throne hall burst out laughing. The third Entertainment Minister slapped his colleague on the back. A couple of the peacocks cawed. The Caliph smiled. Then one of the Catering Viziers began an argument with two of the Ministers for Foodstuffs about a missing consignment of leeks and potatoes. The Caliph shook his head and turned to sort it out.
The Caliph failed to notice, as did everyone else, a large wicker basket at the far end of the hall. As the debate continued, the basket’s lid lifted a fraction and a pair of dark eyes peeped out. The figure hiding in the basket held a large red crystal, and tapped his left fingertip against it in a fast, precise sequence. Each tap made light flash deep within the crystal, like a tiny star exploding in the night sky. No one noticed the basket, or its occupant, at all. As far as they were concerned, everything was as it should be. The race would begin in two days’ time.
“The … Thesa … family … and … the … Shado—and us!”
In the attic of a building halfway down the mountainside from the Caliph’s palace, an identical red crystal lay on a table top. It was the twin of the one held by the spy in the basket, and light flashed within it at just the same time. Shar sat before the crystal and watched the flashes without blinking. He held a sheet of parchment that showed which sequence of flashes corresponded to each letter of Azamed’s alphabet, and he was translating the conversation in the throne hall as the spy relayed it to him.
“Well of course we are one of the favourites,” said Haragan.
Both boys were fourteen and dressed from head to toe in the dark brown clothes of the Shadow Society. Brown scarves were wrapped tightly round their heads and faces. They wore gloves and even had their trouser legs tucked into their shoes. On chains round their necks they wore gold Shadow Society medallions. All that could be seen of each of them was their eyes and the bridge of the nose through the eye-slit in their scarves. Haragan had burning green eyes and Shar, watery blue. Shar was kneeling on the floor before the low table and Haragan was behind him, seated cross-legged on a magic carpet, woven of reds and oranges, that floated, rippling like lake water, in the middle of the room a few inches above the floor.
“What else are they saying?” he asked, spinning a coin between his fingers.
The Thesa family was no surprise. Haragan had known he would have to face them since the proud day when he had been commanded to win the Great Race for the Society.
He did not intend to fail.
The Shadow Society had been founded nearly a thousand years ago by near-legendary and much venerated Salladan Shadow: magician, soldier, intriguer and prophet. To him it had been revealed that the legend of the Celestial Stork was nothing but camelpat. The real creator was the Cosmos Vulture, the last survivor of an older universe. Picking the meat from the bones of the ancient gods, the vulture had acquired their power to create substance from nothingness. Obligated to use the power he had obtained, the Cosmos Vulture had created the new universe and everything within it. Now he flew around the world each day; night came when his wings passed in front of the sun. He looked down on the people he had created and judged how well they were using the gifts he had given them.
The Shadow Society believed in using everything the Cosmos Vulture had given them to the full. They led lives dedicated to self-improvement – physical exercise, scholarship, the fulfilment of potential and the overcoming of obstacles – all for the glory of the Cosmos Vulture, who would reward those who did not take his blessing for granted but strived to aid themselves. The most faithful were permitted to ride upon his wings in the next life.
Part of the Society’s necessary discipline was secrecy. It had to be kept pure from the poisonous influence of everyday Azamed, or its members might become lax and lazy. The members of the Society (no one knew how many there were, as most were brought in at birth) hid in broad daylight. They never ventured from their secret headquarters without their protective brown clothes and scarves. All they desired and all they strove for was the blessing of the Cosmos Vulture and the continued glory of the Society – although not necessarily in that order. Most members saw nothing wrong with a little moderate breaking of the Caliph’s laws. He did worship the false Celestial Stork after all.
Haragan was as dedicated to the creed as any of the Society’s teenage acolytes. His muscles still ached from his morning fitness training, a sign he was doing it well.
“The Thesas…” translated Shar. “They … they have … a six-coloured carpet!”
Haragan’s head shot up.
That meant only one thing.
She was helping them. It was the one possible explanation. There were too few people in Azamed capable of it. The Thesas were the only team she had reason to help. And who else would they ask? Beneath his scarf, Haragan’s face twisted into an ugly grimace. It showed in his eyes and made Shar nervous enough to lean away from him.
She never seemed to be satisfied. She always came back to bite him again. Her hunger for his failure seemed to be insatiable…
He began to calm down. Getting angry would not help. Discipline was everything to the Society’s members; to Haragan, it was one step removed from food. In fact, the news changed very little. She would not beat him.
“A six-colour carpet?” he said to Shar, a plan already forming.
“That’s what they said.” Shar’s voice was muffled. He was new to the Society, sent to Haragan for mentoring, and was not yet used to speaking with half a mouthful of scarf. “Six colours. Just like ours. They’re going to be the biggest competition.”
“No,” said Haragan, holding up a gloved finger. “What does one do to a disadvantage?”
The question was an ancient piece of Shadow Society doctrine, and Shar’s answer was perfect.
“Eliminate it,” he said. “Do all you can to achieve victory before any game begins.”
“And the race is no different,” said Haragan. His plan was formed in his mind. “The Thesas have a six-colour. That could have made them our biggest competition…”
“But it isn’t going to?” Shar suggested.
“Correct.” Haragan smiled behind his scarf.
She would not beat him.
Orange
Zal Thesa stood in his garden and practised. It was the family garden, but so early in the morning, when he was the only one awake, he felt as if it belonged to him and him alone. It was a small and very private garden, with a high stone wall all the way round it. There were no plants, just fresh green grass and a tall, twisting apple tree, which grew beside a small silvery pond. Zal stood beneath the tree, utter concentration on his face. In his left hand was his sword; in his right, seven silk handkerchiefs, each a different colour. He held the sword’s wooden grip tightly so it would neither slip nor rub. Zal slowed his breathing and tried to concentrate harder. He had spent an hour last night sharpening and polishing his sword, and the curved blade gleamed like snow at sunrise. He shifted his feet on the damp grass. His knees felt tense, so he relaxed them and did the same for his elbows. He wouldn’t get anywhere unless he relaxed. He breathed out, and could wait no longer.
Zal threw the handkerchiefs high up into the air. The bundle separated, and all the colours of the rainbow filled his vision as they descended. They fell, twisting and rippling. Quick as lightning, Zal swung the sword up and began to cut back and forth in the air. He moved so fast, his arm became a blur. The sunlight flashed and exploded up and down the moving blade. This was the seven-colours test; a test of swordsmanship that required the utmost skill to pass. The aim was to cut all seven handkerchiefs in half before they fell to the earth. Zal slowed his arm and came to a stop. His muscles were burning. His sword had seemed lighter than a feather at the start of the exercise, and now felt as heavy as lead
. He breathed deep and slow again, drawing air into his dry lungs, and looked down at his feet.
All seven handkerchiefs lay there intact. For the ninth time that morning, he had missed every single one of them.
“Curses!” Zal spun on his heel and kicked the tree trunk. His little dog, Rip, who was dozing at the foot of the tree, opened his eyes to discover that the blue handkerchief had fallen onto his nose. He shook it off and stood up on his paws, yapping in indignation. Zal was too angry to listen.
Why couldn’t he do it? He could cut one falling handkerchief without even having to think about it. Two, he had only to glance at. Three, he had to glance and blink once, and so on, up to six falling handkerchiefs, all of which he could cut in half, or even into thirds. But seven! Seven somehow eluded him, and he couldn’t understand why. No matter how hard he practised, it still eluded him, and this was the third morning he had tried seven, and still…
“Still no luck?”
Zal looked up and realized, to his horror, that he was still standing on one foot. He put his other foot down and straightened up.
“No, not yet,” he replied.
Zara Aura was standing at the top of the steps to the house and she was, as usual, the last person Zal wanted to see. The opposite was true for Rip, who scampered forward, yelping with joy. Zara crouched down and scratched behind his long floppy ears, causing him to roll about in ecstasy.
“Would you please not do that!” Zal said in exasperation. “It isn’t making him the kind of fighting dog I’m going to need.”
“He’s never going to be the kind of fighting dog you think you’re going to need,” replied Zara as she carried on scratching. “You should be content with the dog you’ve got. And he’s just adorable.”
They glowered at each other. Zal was thin and wiry but strong. His face was pleasant when he wasn’t scowling, and his light brown hair swept forward into a cocky crest. Zara was slim too but feminine with it – a little shorter than Zal, with blonde hair that came to just below her ears. They were both twelve and had been engaged to be married for six years now. Their two fathers had seen nothing but good in an alliance between the Thesa and Aura families. The children had disagreed, and time had done nothing to lessen the mutual contempt Zal and Zara felt for each other.
