The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  He switched tactics. “So is it war, Aunty? If I can call you Aunty, exactly."

  "I fear so,” she whispered.

  "Father will be happy, then. I suppose that's why he took his able son Surya with him to Champa."

  Silence. “Your father hates war."

  "He feels bad about it after it is over. I don't think it's because he's sad there is no more war. I think it's because he sees the results, you know, guts in trees. But his eyes and his smile gleam when he knows one is coming. I suppose he forgets all about the blood and the killing."

  "Your father has to deal with whatever is real."

  That smile. He's about to come out with that horrible laugh. How could a woman as lovely as his mother have such a son? Sometimes I think his heart is as shrivelled and twisted as his legs.

  "I cannot,” he said, “deal with what is real. So really, what I have to say is of no value."

  "If you say so, Prince, it will be true."

  "Ah! How terrible for you, if what I had to say went unattended."

  Patience, Kansri. He deliberately annoys because he feels mean inside, and who can blame him, poor boy? “I find it terrible if anyone is not listened to."

  "And you make such efforts to listen to me, and I am grateful. I can see you working so hard at it."

  Oooooh! He really is trying to make me angry. Enough!

  "People are not perfect, Prince. Even if their limbs are. Perhaps you expect too much from people who are whole. Forgive us for being frail. I am afraid the sad truth is that even kings and queens have much to learn."

  It may have been the point he wanted to make. “I will remember that lesson,” he said, in his beautiful voice. Something deep inside the voice made the teak floors quiver.

  * * * *

  Late afternoon, golden light, silken footsteps, rustling of cloth—Fishing Cat entered the upper storey with a bronze bowl.

  Queen Jaya had not asked for anything, and it was generally known that she was not comfortable when the King's consort served her. “Cat,” said Queen Jaya. “This is kind of you, but I ate earlier today."

  "It's no trouble, Lady.” Fishing Cat lifted the bronze lid and vapour rose smelling of cardamom and rice and fish.

  Cat and Princess Indradevi were in a conspiracy to make Queen Jaya eat, to help her resist what they called the Bird Temptation.

  The Temptation was to starve away all the flesh and take to the heavens in spirit. Intellectually Jaya knew that it was wrong; starvation did not, finally, improve the spirit. But her heart felt like a caged bird; she wanted to open up her ribcage and let the bird fly free.

  "Oh, that all looks so delicious. I will take something, thank you."

  Cat stayed, arms folded. Watching to make sure that I swallow something? Am I so far gone?

  Queen Jaya reached forward and pressed together rice and fish. Cat moved behind her and began to unwind her hair.

  Really, this sisterly attention. Jayarajadevi almost understood why people felt that mixing categories broke the natural order. It produced awkward situations like this.

  Fishing Cat said, “I'm worried. I fear my son has been troubling you again."

  Should she prevaricate, deny? “Yes, Cat, he has."

  "He is too combative. I don't think he realizes yet he has the power to wound."

  Oh yes he does, thought Jaya. But then it would be difficult for any mother to believe wrong of her son.

  Cat sighed. “He is a warrior, trapped inside that body. We have to get him away from here."

  Queen Jaya blinked in surprise. “How? Why?"

  "He's turning in on himself and outward on everyone else.” Cat's hands, soothing the Queen's hair, were calm, but her voice caught. “We need to get him to his father. We need to get him into a war."

  Queen Jaya turned.

  Who is this woman? She is stolid and blunt and yet she always manages to astound me. I certainly would never have prescribed war for any of my children, and yet what a relief, and how selfish of me to feel relief.

  I do want her son gone.

  Queen Jaya turned to look at her. “It's not for me to say, Cat. You're his mother. But I have to say, I think you're right."

  The look on Cat's face shocked her. It was smiling, knowing and kindly all at once. It meant Fishing Cat knew. She knew that her son needled the Queen, that he was more than an annoyance. He had become a trial. The look meant that Cat saw through her. Queen Jaya had a slight inclination to stand up and leave. She resisted it.

  Cat said, smiling, “You are allowed to sigh with relief."

  Making light of it, Queen Jaya, blew out an exaggerated showy sigh of relief. “Whew!"

  The slave-consort's chuckle was simply a rhythmic hissing of breath. “My son assumes everybody thinks he is a monster, and, without realizing it, tries to live up to it. I tell him he's rude and will lose friends, but he is not wise. So. We must make him wise."

  "But send him into battle. How? What will he do in a battle?"

  "I don't know,” said Cat. “If we make him think it's his idea, he'll tell us what he can do."

  "Cat, this is a plot."

  "Tooh! It has been a plot since his birth. A mother knows; I knew when I held him. The way he writhed. He was a little devil then.” Cat's eyes gleamed with a smile.

  But I must not play along with this, Queen Jaya thought. This must be her doing. Jaya said nothing else.

  Cat said, “Tonight at supper, we will gather all the children, and talk about the situation. We might suggest that his brothers go back with the messengers to join the King. All except him. That would do it."

  Her eyes were suddenly sad.

  * * * *

  Aunty Indradevi mentioned it over supper.

  The boys’ excitement danced like the light from the tiny oil lamps. Even bookish Virakumara became agitated. “Oh! Yes! I will note all the great actions and write an inscription!” he said.

  Little Rajendravarman said, “I will go and Suryakumara will teach me to throw a spear!"

  Vira bounced up and down. “We can all travel together, we can all protect each other!"

  Queen Jaya was becoming frightened for the boys. “How can you forget strategy! Remember the Lord Yashovarman, who sent all his sons to the same battle! That is why we have this war now, all his heirs were killed."

  Rajapati had stretched himself out on the middle of the table. “Perhaps you should send his useless son instead."

  Queen Jaya was beginning to get annoyed again. “None of the King's sons are useless!"

  "Except the one who cannot walk. Or resist breaking things.” He looked at the Queen askance. He was forever looking at Queen Jayarajadevi askance, as if there was something about her he could not believe.

  "If you keep degrading yourself, Prince, sooner or later people will start to agree with you!” Jayarajadevi felt her eyes flash.

  "Heaven forfend, no, that's an outcome I had never imagined!” His voice was mocking. Ooooh! It made Jayarajadevi angry. He knew what he was doing to himself, so why was he smiling?

  Rajapati said, “I'll tell you what I could do in a battle.” He was coiled now, like a cobra. “You know the bronze standards, the tall ones? With an image of the Monkey, borne aloft for luck? I could stick myself up on top of one of those. I could be carried for luck, like Hanuman, God of Strength."

  His mother is right. He is a sword swung inside a house that will either cut his family or cut himself.

  "What good would that do?” said his half-brother Vira.

  "Well, at first I thought that my deformities would terrify the enemy. But then I thought: I could be a bronze image with eyes. If you held me up high enough, I could survey the battle. I am not unintelligent; I can understand the basics of warfare even if I can take no more part in it than a floor rag."

  Silence. Vira looked down at the table, in some kind of embarrassment or shame. Rajapati could say things that reduced everyone to silence.

  "Then that is what shall happen,” said
the Queen. She tried to keep her voice soft and kind. “You will get your wish."

  Cat spoke. “And none of your brothers will go. Only you. And understand, Son, that this is a punishment. For being rude."

  "Only about myself.” Rajapati sounded surprised. His smile slowly faded.

  * * * *

  Rajapati left at dawn with a detail of soldiers.

  He was put in the care of one of the soldiers, who had been blinded in a battle. Rajapati detested the man. He was always smiling; what on earth did he have to smile about? The soldier's name meant Root Vegetable. He was a soldier nia, who followed the troops and cooked them noodles—a peasant, stupid, always cheery and smelling of sweat.

  But today there was a breeze, the sun shone pink and gold on the clouds, and the clouds scurried in the sky like pennants in a battle. Rajapati felt himself soar, being carried on the back of a man who was as incomplete as he was.

  "Sing us a song, good Root. I will warn you of potholes."

  "Okay, Little Master, okay.” Root kept thinking Rajapati must be a child, to be so small and wriggly. “You boom along well too. You have a voice like a drum, sir. Despite your age!"

  And Root sang a children's song about the tricky white rabbit. That's me, I'm a rabbit, thought Rajapati. I must survive on my wits.

  Rajapati tapped Root on his left shoulder and Root edged to the left. “No need to guide me, sir, I can hear from the men ahead of me where to go."

  Which of us is worse off? Rajapati wondered. I would give anything to have your strong legs. But blind? If I had been blind since birth, then I would be used to it. But if I knew that someone had taken a knife to my face to cut my sight from me deliberately, I would never forgive.

  I would never forgive the world. I would never smile except if I had hurt someone. So how does this blunt peasant keep his good cheer?

  "How long have you been blind, Root?"

  "I don't know. Hard to say.” Root turned his head back over his shoulder, dipping respectfully, with a slightly abstracted smile.

  "What....four years, five years?"

  Root answered. “More, more than that. At first I would not walk, I was too scared, I thought I would fall over. I was very angry. But your father came and talked to me, and I was not so angry afterwards."

  "Dharma,” said Rajapati, exhausted by his father's virtue, and his father's distance.

  Root nodded up and down enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, the Dharma is good, it takes away my anger.” Up and down and smiling.

  Peasant, thought Rajapati. Bumpkin. I would not be so easy to talk out of anger.

  But you are happier for it.

  I suppose peasants are happier, I suppose they just live, I suppose they have no little beast gnawing at their hearts. They also have no ideas. If someone of a higher category tells them something, they believe it. They are grateful for it. They smile and bow. They are only just one up from the beasts of the fields. If a blind elephant could talk, what would it say that was any different from what this bumpkin says?

  Someone took my eyes away, but I got used to it, and now, hey! I'm happy.

  Root said, “Sounds can make a world too, you know. You hear a world as well as see it."

  Rajapati tapped his right shoulder. One side of the dike had fallen in. You didn't hear that, thought Rajapati.

  "And anyway, if I fall over I just pick myself up!"

  "And if you roll into thorns?"

  "Then I pick the thorns out."

  "And what if your wife is cheating on you and you don't know it?"

  Root roared with laughter. “She did! She left me!"

  "Ho, ho that sounds like a good joke."

  Root made a sound of sympathy for his wife. “Aw. I don't blame her. She needed a husband who could provide. It was not that she didn't love me. In the dark, I tell you, a blind man is as good as one with sight.” Root made a boastful gesture with his fist and then grabbed his own genitals. “Ah! Ha-ha! I ask the girls, was I good, and they all say, oh, Root, you are so energetic! Ha-ha. I tell them it is because I have to be good or I may not get another chance. Ha-ha!"

  Rajapati felt a stirring down below. “You buy women? How can you afford them?"

  The three soldiers in front had been listening. One of them, a real brute called Scarface, turned back and grinned. The Bharata-Rahu had tried to blind him as they had Root; there was a healed gash across his nose and forehead. Scarface said, “Sometimes we buy one for him."

  Root chuckled. “I have very good friends. Sometimes your father does. So I am one grateful boy."

  Scarface grinned. “The young prince is interested, eh?"

  Anger writhed inside Rajapati like a serpent. “My hips are so twisted I can't get my dick inside a woman. My bones get in the way."

  Blessed silence. It was as if his words had scorched the air, blackened the earth. The troops looked down at their feet and marched on in silence.

  Once they left the province of the Eastern Buddha, they had to march at night. The darkness was no disadvantage to Root. He took part in the whispering debates. He could hear forests or rivers ahead; he knew marshy ground from dry by the sound of wind or the smell of the earth. The others saw the fires of their own patrolling Khmer troops.

  They were avoiding Khmers, for Jayavarman was a traitor to the Usurper.

  They crossed the great river at night, in a canoe. Rajapati lay on his side on the floor of the boat like an awkwardly shaped piece of driftwood, and the others took turns paddling.

  Rajapati was pleased with the discovery that he was not afraid. Not of the night, or the river, or the crocodiles, or the Khmer troops. He was edgy and alert, but not anxious. He knew that Virakumara would have been jumping at every noise, his hands crawling about the boat in fear. Is it only that I have nothing to lose? That I really don't care as much about leaving this life? For if I'm born into another life, then it is at least likely I will have straight arms and straight legs.

  Or is it just that I am a soldier at heart?

  "If we're caught, let me do the talking,” he told his troops.

  He felt a kind of jolt go through the messengers. “I am a good liar,” he added. “All I have is my tongue. I wield my tongue like a sword. I hope one day to behead someone with words."

  Rajapati had meant it as a joke. The silence again, the shocked air, as if the world had gone breathless from the extremity of his words.

  Root spoke. “What will you say, young Prince?"

  "I will say that you are taking me to the temple hospitals at Champa in the hope of a cure. They will ask me why can't I go to a healing temple at home, and I will answer: because I am an affront to my father, who feels that many people say he must have done something bad to have me for a son. And so I am really being sent away from my homeland in exile, to keep me out of sight. I will lie so well, that I may even be fooled myself and be so moved that I start to cry."

  Root said, as he drove the paddle into the water, “That will make it look like your father is a small man."

  "That is why it will be believed. The easiest lie is one that invites people to scorn someone else. I will say that, and you will all agree. You might even grumble about having to be exiled with me. Agreed?"

  It took some moments. What they were really adjusting to was the fact that Rajapati had become their leader.

  Finally they all murmured, “Agreed."

  It is well you agreed. After all, I am a prince, and I intend to be obeyed.

  They entered the lands of Champa, and from there the danger lay in being killed as Khmer spies. An escort of Champa warriors was supposed to guide them into the hills, but they were not waiting at the appointed place. The little detail of troops would have to travel unaccompanied across Champa lands.

  "Can you read, Young Master?” Root asked, fingering a fan of palm leaves.

  "Of course I can, you oaf. What else would have I been able to learn? Javelin throwing, perhaps?"

  Rajapati had finally wiped away Root's cheerf
ul smile. The nia said, “Don't be angry with me, Prince, I am just a simple man."

  One should never treat a mount cruelly. Firm but fair was the way to train an animal. Or a dolt.

  "Give it here, then, Root, and don't go taking everything personally, as if you were the center of the world and every shaft was aimed at you."

  Rajapati felt bad. He snatched the palm-leaf letter from Root's hand. He had to twist his arm upside down to do so, and he dropped the letter.

  He sighed. “That was my fault, Root. As you will learn, it is difficult for me to hold things. Can you kneel down and pick it up? It's in those reeds by your right foot."

  Root knelt down, leaning Rajapati far forward and to the right. Rajapati nearly toppled. Both of his hands bent inward at the wrist, and they flailed trying to get a grip on Root's thinning hair.

  Finally Root felt the letter, and righted himself. He held it up and Rajapati read it. It was a letter of passage from the Cham Lords, commending these Khmer troops as allies.

  "Give me the letter,” commanded Rajapati. “It was very foolish for you to carry it. What if Usurper troops had found it? No one would think I am anything but a cripple. They won't expect me to carry letters of state."

  "Sir,” said Root gently. “You needn't cut yourself all the time."

  "How do you mean?"

  "All this talk about your legs and hands. It hurts you."

  Rajapati suddenly seethed. “I am just stating what is true. Acceptance is Dharma, isn't it?"

  "Anger is not,” said Root.

  They marched by day through Champa lands, the wide, wet, green fields. And then suddenly upwards into the high hills.

  Life was at its worst whenever Rajapati had to do his business. Root would lower him to the ground and offer, “Do you need any help, Prince?"

  "No, I do not!"

  "There are snakes, my Lord."

  "And what could you usefully do about snakes? Sing them a song? You can't even see them. I can wipe my own bum, thank you."

  Rajapati would shrug his way into bushes. He couldn't quite reach his wrappings. He had to double up from the middle of his back and pick at the knot. He could only do them up again by tossing a neatly rolled package of linen up and under himself. The whole process took many minutes, as sun blazed, insects buzzed and creaked, and the messenger warriors slumped in the shade.