by Stewart Ross
After he’d been gone a while, Cyrus noticed a group of figures advancing along the terrace. He stood up, peering into the darkness. “Thought I might be finding you here,” said a gruff voice. “Going mad down there, aren’t they?”
It was Bahm. He, his freckle-faced copemate and seven of their friends – four men and three women – had taken one look at what was going on and left in disgust. It made him want to weep, he said.
“Me too,” said Cyrus, inviting the new arrivals to sit beside them. They talked about the change in Yash, about Sakamir’s return, and about the purpose of the festival.
“I don’t mind them drum things,” said Bahm, tapping the rhythm on his knee. “But I don’t like that wine stuff. What’s it supposed to do, send you to sleep?”
“No, at least not straight away,” said Cyrus. “It’s got something in it called alcohol that changes the way your brain works…” He broke off and sprang to his feet. “Oh no! Where’s Sammy? He went ages ago.” Without another word, he sprinted off towards the square.
“Sammy! Sammy!” he called as he pushed through the throng gathering before the platform. “Sammy? Anyone seen Sammy?”
He finally caught sight of him, flush-faced, leaning against a wall talking to a pair of young women. They were all laughing. As Cyrus watched, one of the women stooped and patted Corby on the head. Sammy was gesturing wildly with his left hand. In the other he held a beaker.
“Sammy!” Cyrus called. Anger and sorrow welled within him. He dodged round an archer who had his arm round the waist of a heavily pregnant woman, and ran up to his friend.
“What the…?” he cried, dashing the beaker from Sammy’s hand so it smashed to pieces at his feet. “I told you … Jannat … I warned you! Can’t you see what’s going on? It’s a trap!”
Sammy looked at him blankly. “If’s trap, is very nice one!” he slurred.
Cyrus grabbed him by the collar. “Sorry, Sammy, but you’re coming with me!”
“Oi, Cyrus!” shouted the shorter of the two women. “Leave him alone! He’s having fun!”
“Maybe fun now,” snapped Cyrus. “But you wait…”
Half dragging him, half lifting him, he hauled Sammy over to the well and pushed his head into the water bucket. “Drink!” he commanded. Beside him, Corby sniffed at the red liquid in an abandoned cup and wondered whether it was this that had made his master behave so strangely. He licked cautiously at the surface.
The crowd around them laughed. Cyrus should stick Sammy’s head into a wine bucket, they joked, just like the dog was doing. He ignored their banter and, as Yash was beginning his speech, he elbowed his way to the edge of the crowd and led his friend stumbling back up the terrace. For the first time in his life, Corby did not follow his master.
“I’m sorry,” Cyrus said as he lowered Sammy onto the wall beside Miouda, “but we need your help. If you’d stayed down there, we might never have seen you or Corby again.”
At the time, he did not realise how close to the mark his words were.
During Yash and Sakamir’s coronation, Cyrus explained as best he could what was going on. He knew much less than Yash on the subject, though he had read enough to see that the Albans were being hoodwinked. As far as he could remember, the Long Dead had done away with kings and emperors – some good, some bad – a long time before the Great Death. That was why, he imagined, Constant settlements had been established with rules that allowed the people to choose their own leaders. Yash was not taking Alba back to 2017 but to a time long before that. He had to be stopped.
As he was speaking, they became aware of someone else making their way up the slope in their direction. It was Jannat. She had been looking for Cyrus everywhere, she said. She wanted to apologise. She couldn’t remember exactly what she had said or done after Yash’s wine testing, but she was deeply ashamed. While searching for Cyrus, she had tried to warn others about the effects of the wine but few were prepared to listen. She was being a killjoy, she was told, trying to stop others doing what she herself had done a couple of days previously.
Cyrus welcomed her. He’d forgotten their meeting by the well, he said – there were far more important things to worry about. As briefly as he could, he outlined the fears shared by Bahm, himself and the others in the group. Their mission, very simply, was to save Alba. Jannat, her face pale and serious, pledged herself to the cause.
But what cause? Bahm asked. It wasn’t quite as straight-forward as Cyrus made out. Both men agreed that Yash was destroying the settlement. But while Cyrus blamed the man himself, Bahm said the Soterion was the real root of the problem. Its influence was doing more harm than good. He admitted that after Jalus’ cure he had thought it might be worth preserving. But seeing what Yash was doing, he had reverted to his old position. He did not want to burn the books; he just wanted them restored to the vault and the key destroyed. Then everything could return to normal.
“Even if I agreed with you, which you know I don’t,” replied Cyrus, “it’s probably already too late to put the books back.”
“How so?”
Looking around to check that they were not overheard, Cyrus signalled for the others to gather closely round him. What he had to say was of deadly importance. If it was true, then they had to act at once, not wait for the morning.
“It’s about Sakamir,” he said. “I’m not sure, but I think, while she was away, she may have come to an agreement with the Zeds.”
“Eh?” said Bahm, frowning deeply. “Agreement to do what?”
Against the noise of the frenzied festival, Cyrus outlined his theory. He explained about Timur’s head, about Sakamir’s willingness to go out into Zed territory, about how she had behaved after her escape compared with Roxanne, about the lure of the Soterion and the Salvation Project, and about why Yash had done his best to lower Alba’s defences. There was an ominous silence when he finished, followed by an avalanche of questions.
Everyone except Sammy wanted to know more. The dousing with cold water and the experience of being dragged up the hillside had quickly sobered him up, and he tried to focus on what was being said. It was impossible – he was plagued by guilt. In a few stupid moments, he had failed his two best friends. He had made a fool of himself in front of Cyrus and allowed Corby to go missing. The dog would find his way back, of that he was sure. He remembered going down to the square with him and he half-remembered seeing him when Cyrus was shoving his head in a bucket. Yes, Corby would be alright.
But Cyrus? How could he begin to make it up to the man who was everything to him – rescuer, friend, hero, guardian and role model? Since escaping from the Children of Gova and joining the Soterion Mission, he had done his best to live up to his father figure’s expectations. Despite blindness in one eye, he had made himself into a half-decent archer, learned to read quicker than most, discovered heaps of things about the ways of the Long Dead… And this evening he had spoiled it all.
Cyrus had been cross with him only once before, when he challenged him to cure Jalus. But he had never seen him as angry as he had been in the square. Worse, he had been upset, too – and it was Sammy’s own fault! And he would have done it at this crucial moment, when the fate of their mission was in the balance, wouldn’t he? What a thick-headed idiot he’d been! Forcing himself to concentrate, he listened to the talk a while longer. As he did so, it dawned on him what he had to do to make things right again. Of course! He checked his knife and, without a word to the others, slipped quietly off into the night.
“Well, how about that?” said Yash, shutting the front door of the Emiron behind him. “I deserve a little reward, don’t I, Sakamir?”
He walked up behind her and slid his arms round her waist. “What do you think the king and queen should do now, eh?” he asked, pulling her closer.
For a moment, Sakamir froze. She then carefully unclasped his hands and turned to face him. “Later, Your Majesty. We have things to sort out first, don’t we?”
Yash exhaled noisily in f
rustration. “As usual! Oh well, if you insist. But afterwards we’ll enjoy ourselves, ok?”
She flashed him one of her blank smiles. “Yes, afterwards I’ll certainly enjoy myself a lot. And I hope you will too, dear copemate.”
“Ha! Can’t wait!”
“You’ll have to. But not for long, I promise.” She took off her crown and threw it casually into a corner. “Right, to business. I’m not quite sure, King Yash, that we’re sticking to our original plan, are we?”
He sat on the floor and lay back against a hay-filled cushion. “To be honest, Sakamir, things have changed a bit. I’m more powerful now, so I’m not sure we still need those Zeds of yours.”
“Oh?”
“You see, I’ve got such tight control over the place they’ll do whatever I want. I’m sure there are enough good readers who’ll support me. I know you don’t agree, but I say it’s time to get rid of Cyrus and that woman of his, and take over the Soterion for ourselves. Then we’ll find the Salvation Project, using that electricity stuff if necessary – and there we are. All done without a single Zed.”
Throughout this speech, Sakamir stood looking down at the man lounging at her feet. What contempt she had for him! He was just a great child – a cunning one, perhaps, but still a child. And stupid. He was making things difficult for her. Fool! He was forcing her into a change of plan. So be it. What she had arranged for the Grozny to do, she would now have to do herself. It was something she had been wanting to do for a long time, anyway. But she had to be very careful. At this stage of the operation, there was no room for error…
“You make it sound so easy,” she said, loosening her gown and lying languidly beside him. “But you are ignoring one or two important things, aren’t you, Yash? First, as I told you when you imprisoned him, we still need Cyrus. He can’t be trusted, of course, but there are Zeds who understand exactly how to tame a man.”
Yash frowned. “Listening to you, Sakamir, one might think you actually liked those Zeds. They are barbarians, you know!”
“Of course! And we’re not. Anyway, my second point: tomorrow, the effects of your wine will have worn off. As we found when we tested it, it does not leave people in a good mood.”
“That’s their fault. They’ll still listen to me.”
“Or to Bahm? Or Cyrus?”
“Eh?”
“Your Majesty was so wrapped up in his speech, he didn’t look carefully at the crowd, did he? I did. I saw who was and who was not there.”
“Meaning?”
“A handful of people stayed away from the square. Not many, but they were important. People like Cyrus and Bahm and two other Konnels. They’re probably plotting against you even now, Yash. So you do need my Zeds, don’t you?”
“I doubt it. Still think it’s best to call them off. All we have to do is keep the gates shut. Even drunk guards will be able to keep them out.”
That sealed it. Time for her to move. With a sigh of resignation, she raised herself onto one elbow and kissed Yash full on the mouth. “Ah well! I said ‘later’, didn’t I?” she whispered huskily. “Do you think this is late enough?”
“Mmm!” He stretched out a strong arm and pulled her on top of him.
“Ow!” She rolled quickly away.
“What is is it?”
“Your knife, Yash. It was sticking into me. Here, let me take your belt off. That’s better. Your knife’s very sharp, isn’t it? It could cause a nasty accident…”
From the terrace Sammy made his way to a point some hundred paces above the square and sat for a moment searching for Corby. No sign. Ah well! he sighed. The dog was quite capable of looking after himself – and his master had something very important to do.
Yash was behind everything that was going wrong, wasn’t he? He’d lowered Alba’s guard and persuaded the people to make him king so he could do what he wanted. If he wasn’t around, there wouldn’t be a problem. Cyrus and Bahm could warn about a possible Zed attack and get the guards back on the walls. They could deal with everything if Yash wasn’t around… If Yash wasn’t around…
Sammy had killed only once, when he had finished off the Zed pinned to the ground by Corby during the Grozny attack. If he could do it once, he told himself as he skirted round the edge of the square on his way to the Emiron, he could do it again. He eased his knife in its scabbard, making sure he could draw it freely. There was no point charging in, he decided – Yash was stronger and a more experienced fighter. He had to rely on surprise, strike at close range.
The Emiron was on the right side of a cul-de-sac at the north-east corner of Lion Square. A brick building with a roof of crude thatch, it had once been a store house. Several years previously, an Emir had made it her personal residence and her successors had kept the tradition going. Sammy knew the place. He had called in shortly after arriving in Alba, so although from the outside it was like the other store houses in the area, he had no difficulty identifying it.
He had made a quick plan on his way down from the terrace. Yash must be destroyed, that was certain. If necessary, he’d sacrifice his own life in the process. But he was no saint. He wasn’t looking for martyrdom and saw no point in taking deliberate risks. So rather than carry on through the square, even though he might find Corby there, he skirted round to the left. Reaching the piles of rubble and other rubbish at the end of the street where the Emiron stood, he flattened himself against the wall of the next-door building.
Now what? Yash might have gone out to show himself to his people again. In that case, Sammy would wait for him to return before striking. He hoped Cyrus wouldn’t come looking for him in the meantime. And what if Sakamir was also at home? He’d have to kill her too. That would be tricky. Realising this sort of thinking undermined his determination, he clenched his fists and told himself to get on with it. He’d deal with problems as they arose.
He drew his dagger and peered cautiously into the street. The way was clear. He was on the point of stepping out when he heard Yash’s door opening. Someone was coming! He darted back and squatted down in the shadows. Moments later, a figure hurried by, heading away from the square. It was Sakamir. He watched carefully as she edged round the rubbish heaps and disappeared down the slope in the direction of the Soterion Gate.
How strange, he thought. But at least he wouldn’t have to deal with two of them. He slipped out of his hiding place and, keeping in the shadow at the side of the street, edged his way to the door of the Emiron.
Knock or burst straight in? Not wanting to alarm Yash, he tapped lightly on the door. No reply. He knocked again, harder this time. Still no reply.
Gingerly, Sammy put his hand on the latch and pushed the door open. Not a sound. He paused on the threshold and called quietly, “Yash? Hello!” Receiving no response, he called again. “Hello? Are you there, Yash?” Not a whisper.
He hid his dagger behind his back, went inside and shut the door quietly behind him. The single large room was lit by one of the new oil lamps. Sammy looked around. Ah! Yash had not gone out. Head thrown back and arms and legs outstretched, the self-appointed king lay sprawled across a large cushion. He was fast asleep.
At least I won’t have to fight, Sammy told himself. His hand shook as he brought out his knife. Standing there, summoning up the courage to strike, he wished Corby were with him. He missed the animal’s wet nose nuzzling against his leg at moments like this. He wanted to reach down and give his long ears a reassuring tickle. The thought made him pause, awe-struck at what he was about to do. No, he reminded himself, this is not murder. This is execution. I’m just doing what the archers did to Padmar. It’s what all traitors deserve.
Fixing his eyes on his quarry, he advanced cautiously. Quite what happened next, he wasn’t sure. Either because of his partial blindness or because he was concentrating so hard on Yash, he didn’t notice the floor directly beneath him. Half way between the door and the sleeping figure, he stepped in something dark and slippery. His left leg shot from under him and he crashe
d headlong forward. Instinctively, he put out his left hand to break his fall. It hit Yash on the shoulder, rolling him off the cushion and onto the floor. There he lay, motionless.
Almost sick with fear, Sammy scrambled to his feet and picked up the lamp from the low table to his right. He was shaking so much it took him a while to get the light where he wanted it. When he did so, he gasped in astonishment.
The sticky substance he had slipped on was blood. Yash’s blood. Sammy followed the warm, purple-black stream along the floor to its bleeding source. The King of Alba’s throat had not simply been cut, it had been hacked wide open. The gash, deep and wide, ran right across his neck from cheek to pallid cheek. In the half-light, it looked like a freshly cut slice of watermelon.
Quivering and open-mouthed, Sammy stared in amazement. He had seen countless dead bodies before, including some cruelly slain in warfare. But this was different. Whoever had murdered Yash – and he was pretty sure who it was – had done so with a mechanical, cynical viciousness. They had wanted not simply to kill, but to butcher him. It was an act of passionate hatred.
A shout from the crowd in the square brought him to his senses. How ironic, he thought, to be found with the corpse of the man he had come to execute, but who had actually been slain by another. No one would believe his innocence. He had to get out, fast.
He crossed to the door, grasped the handle – and stopped. No, wait. I’ll never get this chance again – I can’t just walk out empty-handed. Letting go of the handle, he returned to the centre of the room.
“It must be here somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “Must be.”
Urgently, trying not to get too much blood on his own clothing, he searched Yash’s body. Nothing. Holding the lamp high, he scoured the walls and the heap of bedding at the far end of the room. Nothing there either. He went through the assorted mugs, beakers, plates and storage jars piled on shelves along the back wall. Still nothing. Maybe Sakamir had taken it? That really would make things difficult.
