by Stewart Ross
The form advanced into the light and became more distinct. Giv stared at the apparition in open-mouthed astonishment and wonder. Before his beloved Timur he used to tremble with fear and admiration. And now, only days after his hero’s death, he was overcome with the same feeling of awful idolisation – for a woman, too! This was no breeding slave standing there in the moonlight, no despicable flabtoad. No, it was none other than a second Timur, a creature whose very presence exuded majesty, might and terror.
Flanked by her eunuch bodyguard of captured males, Xsani, Malika of the Kogon Zeds, stood on the balcony and surveyed the scene. “Yeth Jintha?” she said in a slow, menacing lisp. “Why are theth dumbmanth here?”
“They bring head of Malik Timur, O Malika,” answered Jinsha.
Xsani glanced at the trophy at the Zektiv’s feet. “Timur of the Grothny?”
“Yes, Malika.”
“I will come down.”
Xsani and her devoted bodyguard disappeared into the opening and reappeared shortly afterwards out of a door to the left of the balcony. Now she was on the same level as him, Giv saw that the ruler of the Kogon was not a tall woman. Her authority came from her confident bearing and quick bright eyes that darted hither and thither like restless sandflies. Beneath thick blonde hair, cut short, her oval, symmetrical face bore the triple Z tattoos of a Zektiv. Without them and in a different age and culture, she might have been considered beautiful.
The Malika stood before the two captives with her hands tucked into the broad sleeves of her loose, open-fronted gown of blue silk. She glanced from one to the other, summing them up before taking a step towards Jamshid. She looked down in utter contempt at his rough, ugly face and scarred body. Wadis of dried blood ran from the wounds inflicted at the time of his capture. But Timur had not made this man a Captain on the basis of looks. He had been chosen for his fearlessness, loyalty and basic common sense. In moments of crisis the two former qualities tended to outweigh the latter – and for Jamshid this was a moment of supreme crisis.
Kneeling in the piazza waiting for the Malika, the Captain’s uneducated brain had attempted to take in what had happened. He had been captured by women – the shame of it! And this blonde dwarf was now standing over him and inspecting him as if he – Captain Jamshid of the famous Grozny – were nothing but a breeding slave! His ferocious courage, temporarily subdued by the goading in the woods, swelled back through him like a drug. He tugged at his bonds in angry frustration.
“Tho, dumbman,” lisped Xsani, “you are a Grothny?”
“No, flabtoad!” roared Jamshid, rocking from side to side like a boat in choppy seas. “Captain Jamshid is Grozny. Groz-z-z-ny! Got it, you –”
Whatever Jamshid had in mind to say – if he had anything in mind – will never be known. In a single movement, Xsani took a leather whip from her sleeve and lashed it across his mouth. A further three blows fell, all merciless, all to the face. Jamshid, shocked into silence by the sudden fury of the assault, slumped forward onto the weed-strewn cobbles of the piazza. Xsani nodded with satisfaction, stopped to wipe the blood off the thongs of her whip on his hair, tucked the weapon back into her sleeve, and moved over to Giv.
“Dumbmanth are tho thtupid,” she said, smiling down at him. “Don’t you agree, Grothny?”
Giv was bewitched, spellbound. He nodded vigorously. “Yes – I mean yeth – O Malika!”
She smiled again. “You learn fatht for a dumbman. But do not copy my thpeech, fool. It ith thpecial, for Malika only, thee?”
Again Giv nodded furiously. “Yes, Giv see, O Malika.”
She ignored him and, lifting Timur’s head by the hair, held it before him. “You know thith, dumbman?”
Giv blinked. “That man not dum – er, Giv sorry! Giv very sorry!” he gabbled in panic. “That man – that, er, dumbman – name Timur. My Malik.”
“Wath your Malik, Giv. Wath your Malik. Tho, tell me how you came by thith … object.”
As best he could, Giv explained what he knew. He told how the Grozny had captured Roxanne, and Timur had learned something from her that interested him greatly, something about a ‘Sotion’ as Giv called it. When she escaped, Timur had spent many moons pursuing her. In the end, he had gone to the Constant settlement of Alba – Giv was unsure why but he thought it was to do with the ‘Sotion’. From Alba, Timur had never returned.
“Giv leave Captain Jamshid – go look for Malik Timur,” he concluded, “and find dead. In long hole. Giv cut off head and bring for Grozny. Grozny follow head of Malik Timur. Head powenful, O Malika! Timur head very powenful.” As he ended, he looked pleadingly up into the face of the woman with whom he was already besotted.
Xsani had listened intently throughout the garbled tale. When it was over, she asked Giv a few more questions before congratulating Jinsha on bringing in these two dumbmans and their trophy. “I have learned much,” she said. “Yeth, I think thith may lead thomewhere interethting. Very interethting.”
“And now I kill the dumbmans, Malika?” enquired Jinsha.
Xsani took a hand from her sleeve and laid it rather gently on her Zektiv’s shoulder. “Not Giv,” she said. “He may live while we need him. But the other one…” She looked at Jamshid’s lacerated face then at the head of Timur. “No, he may live too, Jintha. A Captain of the Grothny will be uthfull to me. Very uthfull.
“Come, Jintha. I need you inthide with me.”
Taking the young Zektiv by the arm, she led her away. The bodyguard followed without a word.
3
Snakes
As soon as it was light, Cyrus entered the Ghasar and began sifting through the books brought up from the vault the previous day. He set aside four volumes: Peter Pan, the first book he had ever read; The Odyssey; his precious dictionary – and a new discovery. On its front, in large print and surrounded by photographs, it read, An Illustrated Encyclopaedia for the Twenty-first Century. He had recognised its value immediately. Using its clear articles and colourful images and diagrams, he started piecing together a new mosaic of the world.
It was a slow process. Much of the vocabulary required long and difficult searches through the dictionary. It was during one of these – a hunt for the meaning of ‘syllabus’ – that Yash and Sakamir came in, followed by Sammy and fourteen others.
“Hello Cyrus,” said Yash, waving cheerily at the group behind him. “These are the Albans I’ve chosen to learn all about reading and writing.”
Cyrus nodded. “Ah, so you meant it when you said you’ll decide who I’ll teach?” He was still annoyed that he’d been given so little say over who was to be in his class.
“Better that way,” Yash replied. “I know them better than you, don’t I?”
Seeing there was no point in arguing, Cyrus invited everyone to sit down and set about getting to know his students. The youngest were Jalus and Poso, Sakamir’s four-year-old twins by a previous copemate. The rest of the group comprised Sammy, a boy and a girl of five, two nine-year-old boys, four twelve-year-olds, and four fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds. The latter were headed by Miouda, an attractive woman with thoughtful blue eyes, sandy hair and a broad mouth that spread easily into a smile. Although she had been in a relationship with a copemate for three years, Cyrus learned, she remained childless.
When they had introduced themselves, Yash explained his plan. “We – that’s me and Sakamir and the others – we’re the leaders, the special ones. We’ll learn from you, then we’ll pass on what we’ve learned to the rest of Alba. Simple, eh?”
Cyrus resisted the temptation to laugh at him. “Well, perhaps not simple, Yash,” he said, “because learning to read and write is very difficult.”
“Ah, but we’re the clever ones, Cyrus. Like you, we’ll learn fast.”
“I’m sure you will. But how’ll you teach the others? What’s the plan?”
Yash waved his hand in a gesture of irritation. “Plan? Don’t be boring, Cyrus. We’ll deal with that when we get there. Now, let’s start learning
. The sooner you’re not the only person who can read the secrets of the Long Dead, the better!”
Not exactly tactful, are you? thought Cyrus. Keeping such reflections to himself, he eagerly set about passing on the skills Roxanne had given him.
The first three days went fairly well. He enjoyed his new role as a teacher and his pupils were eager to learn. Sadly, their enthusiasm wasn’t always matched by their ability. Poso, despite help from the kindly Miouda, had difficulty concentrating. One of the nine-year-olds left after the first day, saying he’d rather learn how to be a warrior so he could kill Zeds.
The biggest problem was Yash. His interest in weapons had been replaced by a new obsession. They had not been at work long, learning the huge letters Cyrus wrote on the back wall with a piece of chalky stone, when he called out, “When can we get on to that Salmation thing, Cyrus? That’s what really matters, not all this letters stuff.”
Cyrus breathed deeply. “We can’t do anything until we can read, Yash,” he said calmly. “Wherever this Salvation Project is – whatever it is – it won’t be any use until we’re literate.”
“Hang on,” frowned Yash. “You mean you don’t know where it is?”
“I imagine it’s written in one of these books,” said Cyrus, indicating the piles heaped up on the floor. “It may take a long time to find. That’s why you all need to learn to read – to help me.”
The conversation was cut short by Sakamir. Frowning, she leaned across to her copemate and whispered something in his ear. Yash shrugged and fixed his eyes on the large letter d on the wall behind Cyrus. Similar interruptions came at regular intervals. Not surprisingly, when Cyrus began stringing letters together into words, the Emir was one of the slowest to grasp what they said.
In contrast to their leader, three students stood out. By the end of the fourth day, Sakamir, Sammy and Miouda were able to read their names and a dozen other simple words. A fierce competition developed between them. When either of the younger two grasped a word before Sakamir, she threw them a glance of conspicuous loathing. They both noticed it. To Cyrus’ delight, they goaded her further by laughing and redoubling their efforts to outdo her. The room crackled with unspoken rivalry.
The tension within was less than that outside, however. It came to a head on the morning of the fifth day, when Bahm strode into the Ghasar and demanded to speak to the Emir.
Yash stood and turned to face him. “Yes, Bahm? What do you want?”
“You!” bellowed the furious Konnel. He looked around the hall. “Excuse me,” he went on, struggling to control himself, “but we chose Yash to be our leader. Now we never sees him!
“Emir, there’s decisions to be made while you’re sitting here staring at that there scribble on the wall. A while back one of the Patrol Gate guards noticed movement in the woods. About a thousand paces distant, it were. It may have been nothing, of course, or perhaps only an animal. But it could’ve been a Zed. And if there’s one, there’s hundreds of ‘em. That’s danger, that is.”
He paused to let his words take effect. “The point is, we don’t know. And we can’t know until we sends out patrols. And who gives the command for that, Yash? It’s you, isn’t it? We needs our Emir outside, not in here with all this daft talk of living for ever.”
The meaning of this last remark became clear to Cyrus later. Apparently Yash had boasted that he was going to find the Salvation Project and be the first Constant to live to one hundred.
Yash might not have shone in the classroom, but his skills as a leader of warriors were undeniable. He looked Bahm straight in the eye and said carefully, “I hear what you say, Konnel, and I will consider it. But take care! He who challenges an Emir challenges the whole of Alba. I believe you spoke in good faith, so this will go no further. But it’ll stop, got it?”
“Yes, Emir.”
“Duty, Bahm! Duty! Now leave and I’ll join you in a moment to see about this patrol.”
Bahm nodded and left the hall. Yash, after a quick word with Sakamir, followed. Cyrus sensed there was no point in going on and dismissed the rest of the class.
As she was leaving, Miouda asked Cyrus whether she could borrow one of the simpler books to help her with her reading.
“But you’ve only just learned the letters,” he said. “Are you ready for a whole book?”
“I can try to read one. Like you’re doing.”
“But I’ve got my dictionary.” He thought for a second. “And do you think we’d better ask Yash?”
“Ask him what?”
“About taking books out of the Ghasar.”
She looked directly into his eyes. “What’s it got to do with him?”
He smiled and looked at her carefully, almost for the first time. Her neat figure and sandy-coloured hair were not so unusual, he thought. It was the way kindness and seriousness combined with an unexpected strength in her clear blue eyes that distinguished her from the other Alban women he had met. She alone appeared to grasp the significance of what he was trying to do.
He forced his mind back to the matter in hand. “Well, Yash’s the Emir, Miouda. Best to keep him on our side.”
“Maybe. But he won’t know, will he?”
Cyrus grinned and slipped the copy of Peter Pan into her hands. “No. He won’t. And maybe you could come and read in here. You could use the dictionary to look up words you don’t understand.”
“Thank you, Cyrus. I’d really like that.” Sensing that the conversation had gone far enough, she thanked him and hurried towards the door. I hope her copemate is worthy of her, thought Cyrus as he watched her leave. She’s special and deserves to be appreciated.
Over the next few days, neither Miouda nor any others in the class progressed as rapidly as he had hoped. It was not through lack of effort or enthusiasm but because of a decision made by Yash after Bahm’s intervention. From that day onwards, he announced, reading classes would take place only between sunhigh and early evening. That way, he said, he had plenty of time left for his duties as Emir.
Bahm and some of the other Konnels welcomed the decision. Yash himself seemed relieved – although he never admitted it, he wasn’t really cut out for what he called ‘scribble’. Sakamir was, though. And every day, Cyrus noticed, her obsession with the Soterion grew. It was like a new partner to her, one she wanted all for herself.
The Bahm incident reminded Cyrus again of the need for tact. If he was to get anywhere, he had to show that the Soterion meant hope and unity, not anger and division. He also needed physical activity. So, in an attempt to patch up his relationship with Yash, he volunteered to go out on patrol.
“Not yet, Cyrus,” was the enigmatic reply. “Alba needs you alive, my friend. It’d be daft of me to let you go wandering off outside the walls when we haven’t even found this Salmation Project.”
Once more, Cyrus decided not to argue. Instead, he worked off his frustration by working furiously on the terraces. He returned to the Ghasar as the light was starting to fade. Having settled himself comfortably, he took up the encyclopaedia and began flicking through the pages to find a word that had been troubling him for some time. No sooner had he found it than he was interrupted by Sammy bursting into the hall as if he had a whole tribe of Zeds on his heels.
“Thought I’d find you ’ere, Mister Cyrus,” he panted, slamming the door and leaning up against it. “Got somethink what you ought to know.”
He had just returned from his first training patrol, he explained. All the others were proper archers and it was really exciting. They didn’t see any Zeds, but he did find something else. They’d gone along the ravine where Timur’s body had been thrown. They had seen the corpse but hadn’t gone near for fear of disease. Rotting flesh was known to attract flies and other insects whose bite was extremely poisonous.
“Well, the others mightn’t have been keen to take a look, but I was. I’ve only got one eye what works, but it’s pretty good and I could see Timur didn’t look quite right. Peculiar, I thought. I’ll just
go and take a peep.
“I hadn’t got very far when the bloke in charge yells at me to come back. I did, pretty sharpish. But I’d already took a good look at the body. It was chewed up alright, Mister Cyrus. That was animals. But what else I saw weren’t done by no animals. Guess what it was?”
Cyrus looked puzzled. “I don’t know, Sammy. Had someone tried to preserve it, like Roxanne mentioned…”
“No, nothing like that. Opposite. His head was missing. Cut right off!”
Cyrus frowned. “Are you sure, Sammy?”
“Sure as I ain’t going back to that Gova lot, Mister Cyrus. It was neat, too. Like it’d been done with a knife or something.”
Strange, thought Cyrus. Who’d want a mouldy head? It didn’t tie in with anything he’d seen or heard. In the end, after he’d talked the matter over with Sammy a bit more, he decided that either his friend had been mistaken or some animal had bitten the head off neatly and dragged it away to eat elsewhere.
Only later, after Sammy had gone, did he discover the true significance of the news.
He had returned to the encyclopaedia and, reading by the blood-red glow of the sunset, was trying to make sense of the entry on ‘religion’. The dense language of ‘belief systems’ and ‘spirituality’ made little sense to him and he skimmed further down the page. There, under the heading ‘Totem’, a grisly photograph caught his eye. His face tensed. Beneath the image was a long caption. Slowly, frequently resorting to the dictionary, he read to the end.
When Cyrus had finished, he set the book aside and gazed up at the wooden roof. He had noticed something up there during the trial of Padmar, a strange shape carved on the end of one of the beams. He looked more carefully now. It was a human head. He glanced back at the picture of the totem, then up at the carving once more. If a Constant had made a totem, why couldn’t a Zed? He shook his head. It was ridiculous. Zeds were far too stupid to think of anything like that. Yet Timur hadn’t been stupid. Far from it…
