The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  The Prince would then came crawling out from the bushes. “I hope that gave you all a chance of a good rest,” he might say. “I have my uses after all."

  "Sir. It would go more quickly if I helped. I don't mind, sir."

  "No. I suppose you don't, you're used to mucking out animals."

  "Sir, don't say that,” Root's eyelids had scarred closed, and his gaze was always slightly misdirected. Talking somewhat to the skies, he added. “Who better than me, sir? Many people are modest like you, sir. I have the advantage of not being able to see."

  "You can still smell,” said Rajapati. “I can assure you my shit smells not one bit better because I am a prince."

  "Oh, sir. I'm not the man to tell you that your royal shit smells like cardamom and honey. But it can't smell any worse than mine."

  "I'm not a baby to be nursed."

  Root sighed. “Consider, sir, the military problem."

  "Military problem?"

  "Sir, we lose time while you go off. It holds everything up. And, speaking frankly, sir, you don't become a footsoldier without having to see other men taking a shit."

  Root was right; of course he was right. If you're not frightened of war or dying, Rajapati, what frightens you about this level of personal service?

  You are frightened that it makes you seem helpless. You are frightened that he might mock you, or say your dick is small. Good Lord, ‘Pati, look at the man. He's a dolt, but he's good-hearted.

  He would never do anything to hurt you.

  If only because he loves your father.

  "All right, Root, next time you can help me."

  Root nodded, and reached back and gripped Rajapati's knee, which was as bumpy and fragile as a cat's skull. “That is good, sir. I am glad you let me help you."

  Was it possible this dolt felt sympathy for him? Was sorry for him?

  Rajapati hated people feeling sorry for him, but he found that this time, he didn't have the heart to kick back or take revenge for it.

  He patted Root's neck, as if he were a good bullock. Root began to sing another white rabbit song. Rajapati suddenly understood; the song was meant to amuse Root, not him. He was not singing it because he thought Rajapati was a child.

  'Pati, ‘Pati, sometimes you make yourself into a fool. You get angry and mean for no reason.

  Remember the morning you left, Rajapati, and all of the world felt like a flag that was unfurling? It could be like that all the time. It's the same world, the same sky.

  So Rajapati joined in the singing. The white rabbit was fooling the small brown bear. He did it through stealth and cleverness, not power. Everyone knew and loved the white rabbit.

  Rajapati never sang. Cripples always ended up making music, sawing away at instruments off in a corner where they couldn't quite be seen. Music was what cripples did.

  But it felt good to sing, anyway.

  And Root sang with him, rollicking his head from side to side. Root was laughing. He's happy, thought Rajapati. He's happy for me.

  h

  The army of Champa was gathered in the high hills.

  The encampment was vast and hidden in the woods that clung to the sides of the hills. Rajapati's detail were expected, greeted and then led ducking under branches, past shelters made of bowers. No fires, not tents or banners—nothing to give away the presence of the Cham army. Even the path was not worn. Evidently the troops took a different route each time so there were no paths to be seen.

  "Root, it's enormous,” said Rajapati. “It is huge, there must be 100,000 men here hidden away. But there's no smoke from fires, almost nothing to give it away. And you wouldn't think to spy out this many men clinging to hillsides. The plan must be to swoop down from the hills, cross the river, and do a forced march before the Servant can gather his forces in one place."

  "Your father is a wise man."

  "Can you hear where the soldiers are walking? Keep ducking low, we're going through leaves, you will scrape me off!"

  "What do the Chams look like, sir?"

  "Like us, only they wear too many clothes. Their helmets look like lotus flowers upside down. They concentrate all their wealth on their heads."

  Root smiled blindly over his shoulder. “A wise place to concentrate it if it stops a sword."

  "Root, a gathering like this, it must mean that there will be a battle soon!"

  Root's back twitched like the haunch of deer. “Don't wish for that, sir."

  "Oh, Root, I'm so bored at home. And I don't care if I die."

  Rajapati unsheathed his soul and swung it over his head. I shall see a battle; I shall be part of it!

  Root stumbled on the loose rocks, the slippery layers of fallen leaves. “Keep heading north,” murmured Rajapati.

  You had to admire the genius of it. Dappled with shadow, the camp of the Chams spread out on either side of them, silent, disciplined, and still. The eyes of the Chams followed them with suspicion. These are hard faces, Rajapati thought, these are murderous faces.

  We both write in Sanskrit. We use the same titles and even the same names. We are cousin peoples. It is like looking in a mirror that tells unwelcome truths. The reflection is not unfailingly beautiful. We are suspicious of them, they are suspicious of us, the alliance is temporary, uncertain; and our swords can be turned on each other.

  Danger tickled Rajapati's belly and made him smile. By God, this is the real thing!

  His father sat under a tree, as round as a ripe pear. You may not look dangerous, Father, even with your back wisely turned towards the downward slope. His father looked up, and his eyes smiled at each of them in turn—Root, Scarface....and Rajapati, Son, how good to see you.

  Rajapati explained, “I was becoming a nuisance, so my mother sent me to you to get me out of the way."

  The King floated to his feet, gracefully. His whole body said: nothing can deflect or distract me.

  "I'm sure you were,” said his father smiling. “Your mother is a wise woman."

  "You can just bury me in a ditch, if I am too much trouble."

  The King smiled. “You? You are no trouble, Rajapati. A prince must be able to judge his impact precisely."

  Jayavarman turned to his men. The messengers all dipped in respect. As he always did, the King bowed back to them. This indicated that respect was due to all beings on the cycle of samsara. Oh, we're all potential Bodhisattvas aren't we, Father?

  The letters were produced. Jaya read them himself, flipping the dry palm leaves over with a snap. He chuckled at something. “My wives are telling me many things indirectly,” he said, glancing up at his men with smiling eyes.

  You think more of your men than you do of me, Father.

  Jayavarman finished and looked up. “Root,” he said warmly, and “Root,” again with a happy chuckle. “My wise friend, how are you?"

  "I am well, sir. Rajapati and I have become friends, sir. I am his elephant, and he is my guide."

  Jaya turned and looked at his son with an equally friendly eye. “And what have you learned, Son?"

  "To be a leader,” Rajapati said.

  Jaya bowed once. “That is a lot to learn in such a short while."

  Root intervened. “Sir, he is a wise one. He knew what we should say to the Servant's troops if they caught us."

  Scarface nodded. “He is brave."

  Jaya's smile was imperturbable. “It seems to me you have also learned how to win friends, Rajapati."

  They ate packed cold rice and dried fish. Rajapati hated dried fish, because his hands had to hold the leathery flesh and tear it with his teeth. Impatient people would be tempted to help him, feed him like a baby, or cut it up for him like he was a child.

  The soldiers and Jaya sat joking after their food, exchanging news from home. Jaya asked delicately of his first Queen's health. Was she looking thin? They moved on to the situation here, how things had nearly come to the point.

  General Namasivaya strolled casually up the hill to join them. A Buddhist like his King, Namasiva
ya squatted on the ground next to the soldiers. How they followed the Path, these kings and generals.

  Namasivaya explained that they were to march soon, now that their strength had gathered. It would be a forced march, down out of the hills; and the Chams had a plan to build a temporary bridge across the great river. Elephants and war machines could cross and swiftly overtake their troops. They would march as far as Poduli if they could get there before meeting the Usurper's army.

  Rajapati found he was yearning to tell his father his plan, the plan for him to be a useful lookout. He kept trying to catch his father's eye. He wanted his father to talk to him as easily as he chatted with the soldiers.

  Root said, “Rajapati has a good plan, my Lord, for how he can help."

  Jaya turned the full focus of his attention onto his son. “Excellent. What is it, Prince?"

  His father's gaze was like a blast of sunlight full on a delicate flower. Rajapati found his idea shrivelled in this hot, revealing light. Suddenly, it sounded small and stupid. “I....I sit on one of the standards. I look out high up, and I see what is coming."

  Jaya nodded. “How would you stay on?"

  Rajapati felt a flicker of annoyance. “I have strong hands, I would hold on."

  "The march would last all day and all night. You would be rocked and buffeted."

  Rajapati found himself turning to Root. “Root....Root would buckle me on to the image."

  "Root won't be able to march and carry you, Son. How would you tell us what you had seen?"

  "I....I would just say."

  "Over the sound of battle? You would have to shout. That might make you a target for arrows. The enemy might hear you. If you were right, it might discourage them, but if you were wrong, it might mean we made mistakes."

  Root spoke. “My Lord. If I walked with the bearers, he would just need to whisper. I have sharp ears. I would hear him."

  Jaya turned, his eyes full of affection. “You are a valuable man to risk in battle, Root."

  "I am a useless blind man, but you find a place for me. Your son, sir, has the heart of a prince! He is so smart, sir. He would not mistake the deployments; he would be like a bird in the air who could tell you what he saw. And he is brave, sir."

  Jayavarman's eyes were wells of sadness. “I don't doubt he is any of those things.” He looked round at Rajapati. “If the standard is dropped, Rajapati, you would be left tied to it on the battlefield. I would not send in anyone to find you. I would not ask anyone to risk his life, and, frankly, I would not risk my own. Do you understand that?"

  "I am a soldier,” said Rajapati.

  "Yes, you are,” said Jayavarman.

  * * * *

  The conch shells sounded over and over.

  The Chams, squatting at the ready, stood up, sniffed, and folded away their dice. They seemed to Rajapati to be unbelievably calm. He felt nervous, shaken. The musicians began to beat the drums to get them marching and he was still not aloft.

  It was noon on the Mekong plain and beds of reeds as tall as a man shivered and waved with the hidden passage of the Usurper's troops. The gongs began to moan out their great long notes repeatedly, meaning: The enemy is here.

  The standard lay on the ground. Rajapati lay on top of it. “Root! Root!” he called.

  "Here, sir, here,” said Root, carrying long loin wrappings, light and soft. Fumbling, he tied the young prince to the top of the standard, lashing him to a holy image of the Monkey God.

  Standard-bearers scuttled past them. “You! Boy! Standard-bearer!” Rajapati called to them to carry him. They ran on, or stopped to take another one of the standards, their backs turned firmly towards the Prince. “Standard!” the Prince called. They pretended not to hear.

  "Cowards! None of them want the responsibly of carrying me."

  "It's all right, sir. I knew this was how it would be.” Root felt the ground for the pole. “So did your father."

  With a wrench of his strong shoulders, Root hoisted and held the young prince twenty-five feet above the ground. The brass standard rocked and swayed like a heavy pendulum. Rajapati could see the mass of Khmers crawling towards them through the reeds in three great deployments, with cavalry ranged in front, like the prows of great ships.

  Their own troops marched in two great separate blocks, hoping to slam the Khmers from two different sides.

  Root called up, “Can you see anything, Prince?"

  Rajapati turned what he saw into a battle plan in his head. “The Khmers are laid out in the Formation of the Gods.” This meant battalions ranged in three wings as Siva, Vishnu, and Brahma.

  "The forces, particularly the elephants, are concentrated in the Vishnu.” The other two wings would be lighter, faster, and able to close in like pincers. It had been less clear than it might have been; there was a mass of infantry also in the Vishnu center.

  Booming, bashing, wailing, the Cham troops advanced.

  Root began to jog to catch up, fighting to keep the standard balanced. “Can you see the Cham generals, Sir? Can you see your brother or Namasivaya?"

  "Yes, but they are far from us...” Rajapati broke off. Soundlessly from this distance, the Vishnu wing launched itself forward, cavalry and foot soldiers only, sweeping towards them.

  "Root, the Vishnu wing is driving between our two forces!"

  Root bellowed, “Messenger! Messenger!"

  "They will separate our two blocks!"

  "Messenger!” Ducking between legs, a slip of a boy appeared, lightning-footed.

  "Are you there, boy?” Root bellowed. “Tell the generals that the enemy are in the Formation of the Gods, Vishnu wing driving between our two blocks."

  "How can you see that?” said the boy in scorn.

  "Look up. The King's Eye is borne aloft. Now run, or the advantage of knowing that will be lost."

  Like an arrow shot to skid along the ground, the boy turned and was gone, darting through the wall of men ahead of them.

  "Keep going, Root, catch up."

  "You see anything else, sir?"

  It was the reeds. Chams were not used to fighting in them. The wedge of Khmer troops whisked through the high grasses unseen between the two blocks.

  "They've already separated us and we haven't even seen them!"

  Suddenly, as if seized with a paroxysm, one of the Cham formations shuddered to their left and charged.

  "The Chams have realized. They are charging!"

  Root called up. “That will be your doing, sir."

  Like a dam breaking, the Siva wing suddenly poured round in a great arc, mowing down reeds.

  "The arm of Siva is swinging round to the left."

  A Khmer horseman trotted towards them, led by the messenger boy. The horseman was a high category warrior in scintillating colors on the back of a white mare. He reined in the horse and shouted up, “What now?"

  Rajapati shouted, “Siva wing circling to the left. It's coming round behind our southern block!"

  The cavalryman said, “Namasivaya wants you to join him. The boy will guide you.” Then the horseman clicked his tongue, flicked the reins; his horse spun around and spurted off towards the lumbering elephant on which Namasivaya rode.

  The boy seized hold of Root's arm, to lead him. Root shouted up, “Hold on, sir."

  Root began to run, the messenger boy holding his hand. The standard lurched. The elbow of the bronze Monkey God rammed Rajapati's fragile ribcage. The whole world spun crazily, as if the countryside were drunk. Wincing at the battering of his ribs, and the chafing around his wrists, Rajapati still tried to see. Ahead was a jolting, blurring mass of lances, reeds, heads, and cavalrymen.

  Everything bounced and jostled. Rajapati suddenly felt the wrapping around his wrist give. Root stumbled, and with a jerk, the cords suddenly loosened more. Rajapati felt himself drop down slightly.

  The boy still guided them, pulling Root's arm. “Make way, make way for the King's Eye,” the messenger called. Rajapati turned and tried to wrench his hands round to ti
ghten the cords. His tiny forearm bent double in the middle, and his huge hands, long and slightly limp, wriggled, trying to reach.

  Rajapati looked up. The Chams had bitten into the Vishnu wing, but Siva had closed on their southern wing, and now the Brahma wing had moved, sweeping down on their northern flank.

  "Brahma wing moving on our north!” he yelled. “Brahma wing moving!” The messenger boy took off, leaving them. Rajapati tried to see his family in the mêlée. His father always made it his business to be relatively invisible on the battlefield. But Surya! Despite arguments with his father, Surya was under parasols in a howdah, posed like a god.

  Oh! to be astride an elephant, bow in hand, to call encouragement to troops, to swing around and let fly arrow after arrow, like Brahma on his hamsa.

  Instead of being tied wriggling to a stake. What a stupid idea, what an absurd, undignified, silly way to die.

  To die.

  The cords were coming untied. He couldn't blame Root; he'd had to tie them quickly. The whole idea was flawed, his father had seen that, but he didn't stop him.

  It's one thing to kill yourself with your stupid notions, Rajapati, another thing to kill Root. You hang on and do some good, for a change.

  Rajapati stopped trying to tie the cords. He gripped the Monkey's arms and held.

  Root stumbled, still trying to find his way. The standard pitched forward, nearly flinging Rajapati from it. Another cavalryman reared up on another white horse. “What do you see?"

  Rajapati shouted, his voice breaking, “Surya's been caught between Vishnu and Siva. Same on the north with Brahma. Both our blocks are fighting on two fronts! No movement. They're bashing each other to pieces!"

  Root repeated it. The horseman charged off towards Namasivaya. A huge Khmer footsoldier helped Root to steady the pole. Rajapati's hand slipped from the Monkey's shoulder. It was as if the smooth bronze were greased. His long, limp fingers found the Monkey's mouth and the serrations of the image's teeth. Okay, teeth, pierce me if you will, but just hold me!

  It was only then that he realized he had been turned round the wrong way, away from the battle.

  He tried to twist around to see, but his hunched back stopped him like the limits of a hinge. “Turn me around!"