| |
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Relka informs me that Uncle Jeffett has come to visit. Ever since his self-imposed exile to some remote kampung in the farthest reaches of Bayangan, Uncle Jeffett has only travelled to the city three times.
The first time, right after he’d turned down the throne and renounced his right for revenge, was for the war trial regarding the sacking of Suci. The second time was for my eighteenth birthday and coronation just a little over two years ago, when I assumed the throne. The last was to defend my right to the throne when the matter was called into question at the agitation of a small group of merchants.
He greets me with a bone-crushing hug. “You’ve lost weight,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Haven’t you been eating?”
“I’m eating fine, Uncle. How are you?”
“Old. Everything aches. But you haven’t answered my question, Yosett.”
Uncle Jeffett is the only one who still insists on using the Bayangan name Aunt Layla bestowed on me. Ayah’s breaking with tradition by naming me using Maha’s patronymic systems is a bigger problem to my uncle than the fact that I bear the name of Terang’s most famous Sultan—it means Ayah is now the last to carry the Baya family name, the very name our kingdom was named for. Aunt Layla had renamed herself Regis Ishi after Jeffett, who had raised her. She’d also died childless after Sultan Simson brought down the Court House and Mikal killed her in the ensuing duel. I don’t bother to correct him any longer. It will just start an argument that no one will win and neither of us will compromise on.
“I did answer your question. I have been eating.”
He scowls at me. “But you’re losing weight.”
“Now that wasn’t a question.” I laugh. “It’s nothing, Uncle. It’s been a little stressful lately, that’s all. But let’s talk over breakfast.”
Relka brings up two servings of roti with chickpea curry for me and a plate of rice, sambal, anchovies, and hard-boiled eggs for my uncle.
Uncle Jeffett eyes my breakfast but refrains from commenting. He also keeps his mouth shut as I bend my head in prayer for a few short moments.
“Why are you so stressed?” he asks as we start eating.
“We’ve, well, I’ve proposed several new laws, but it’s taking a while to get the nobles to accept them.”
“You’re the Raja. You just put them into action.”
“Yes, but...”
His face hardens. “It’s that religion law, isn’t it? The one about bringing a priest over from Terang. I’ve been hearing rumours about that.” He says priest like it’s a dirty thing, almost spitting.
I suppress a burst of irritation. “Having a Paderi based here would ease quite a lot of things, communication with Terang included. I’m not talking about an Uskup, who would lead a temple. But it’s not even that. It’s about reversing the law that makes the practice of faith—or belief in any god—a crime.”
Uncle Jeffett chews slowly, his expression blank. I look down at my roti and tear at it half-heartedly.
It’s a touchy topic to bring up. This anti-faith law was the last law Aunt Layla enacted before her death. Bayangan has always been staunchly atheistic, one of the main reasons for the continuing friction between Bayangan and Terang. That, and Bayangan’s hatred and distrust of magic. But the practice of faith had not been outlawed until then. It was a last push, the last move of Aunt Layla’s war strategy to justify the attack on the holy city of Suci in Terang.
Well, her war failed, she died, and I’m now the Raja of Bayangan, a Raja that is blatantly committing a crime in his own land by being a follower of Kudus. If anyone were to take it into their hands to enforce it, I’d be deposed and then beheaded—or more likely enslaved—within a day. No need for prolonged trials.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Uncle Jeffett wraps his hands around his mug, as if warming them in the heat emanating from the spiced tea.
I sigh. “Uncle, you know my stance.” It’s not like I don’t understand why this is creating such a huge backlash. With all the upheaval in the past few years, no one really knows what it means to be Bayangan any longer. This newest law has become one final thing holding the fragile Bayangan identity together.
I hope you discover who you—Hah. I push the thought aside.
“But you will not make it an official religion?” Uncle Jeffett stares at me intently. “You will not force others to convert to your faith?”
“No, my faith is mine alone. If they wish to follow Kudus, it is their choice and I will not stop them, but neither will I make them practice what they do not believe in. It isn’t faith if it’s coerced.”
He looks away for a moment, as if deciding something. “I will see what I can do.”
“You will?” I cannot hide the hope in my voice.
Uncle Jeffett smiles indulgently. “I cannot promise anything.”
“I know you can’t, but your word will go a long way with the nobles.”
“Is your father not capable of doing it?”
There’s derision in his voice and I feel my face heat up. “He’s been trying his best. But I think...I think he is too close to the issue himself. I don’t know, Uncle...”
“Ruling is not as easy as you thought it was.”
“I never implied that I thought it was easy.”
He scoffs. “Everyone thinks to themselves, ‘if I were in charge, I’d do better. I’d change this and that and everyone will accept it and prosper’! But when they are given the responsibility, they soon find that it’s not so easy to change things. It’s not so easy to get people to accept what is good for them. Especially when they don’t think it will benefit them.”
“I’m not trying to force—”
“I know, Yosett. But they don’t see it that way. Never mind, I’ll talk to them. They’ll tell me things they won’t tell your father. He’s been away for too long. He’s too...Mahan for them.” He grimaces.
Like I am too Mahan for them. There’s too much weight at this breakfast table.
“So, what brings you into the city, Uncle?” I ask in an attempt at levity.
He takes the bait with a grin. “Do I need an excuse to visit my favourite nephew?”
“Your only nephew.”
“Yes, well, that too.” He dabs at his mouth with a napkin, pushing away his empty plate.
“Ibu said almost the same thing yesterday.”
“Oh, was my sister here yesterday?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “In what universe do you, Jeffett Ishi, come to visit your nephew without talking, or planning, or conspiring, with your sister?”
“Conspiring, are we?” His tone is teasing, but the light has gone out of his face. His eyes dart around the room.
I look around as well. There is no one here but us. “What’s going on, Uncle?”
“Your mother is worried for your safety.”
I can’t stop from rolling my eyes. “So she asks you to come here and do what exactly?”
“What retired men do. Catch up with friends, visit old haunts, dig up rumours and gossip.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “You were followed yesterday.”
“Followed?”
“To the old port.”
I frown. I hadn’t seen anyone. “Nothing happened.”
“Something could have.”
“But nothing happened. Besides, Az was with me.” Azman would have said if he’d seen someone or something. Wouldn’t he? Sometimes, I wonder why Azman indulges me. Friendship aside, he doesn’t need to join me on these far too frequent pilgrimages, where I just sit and stare at nothing. He does anyway.
I push both my plate and my doubts aside.
Uncle Jeffett taps a finger against the side of his left eye. “To protect you or to spy on you?”
“Az is my best friend! Do you honestly—”
“Yosett, this is not a game. You’re old enough to know that by now.”
“I know that, Uncle, but there have to be some people I can trust!” I throw up my hands. I want to storm off, but adab holds me to my seat. Uncle Jeffett already thinks I’ve been brought up poorly and I cannot reinforce that idea. I hold on to every lesson ever beaten into me on keeping my thoughts to myself.
“Let me investigate them.”
“No. That would mean I don’t trust them.”
His voice is cold and sharp, his eyes drilling into me. “No, that would mean I don’t trust them.”
“You—”
“I won’t involve you.” He holds out a placating hand. A peace offering. “I’m just a bored old man who doesn’t remember that I’m no longer Temenggung. They’ll see me as an overprotective uncle, doing things against your will. Which is the truth. But I need to know who you trust. All of them.”
But they’ll also see you as the Regent, no matter what you say.
That’s the real problem. The real reason why he’d left the city. Because as long as he is alive, he will always be Bayangan’s revered and beloved Regent, and I will be the too-young, too-stupid foreigner who took his place, regardless of my blood.
I stare at him long and hard, then pull back my unfinished breakfast. I sop up the last of curry with the cold leftovers of my roti, buying time to figure out what to say. Whom do I trust? Mikal, who isn’t even here? My parents? Uncle Jeffett? Azman, my peer/friend/guard? Han—no, not Han, not after last night. Relka, my servant? The kitchen staff, since they haven’t poisoned me yet, though that’s not the greatest measure of loyalty. A laughably short list. But I am a Mahan sampan in a Bayangan thunderstorm, and if the waves don’t get me, the circling sharks will.
I tell him the list. “What are you telling people you’re here for? You can’t exactly say you’re here to spy.”
He raises his hands, palms upwards, in a careless shrug. “I’m here for the Regent’s Festival like everyone else, of course.”
––––––––
THE REGENT’S FESTIVAL starts two days later. The Bayangan Castle is open for the occasion—the one day in the year that anyone, from slave to noble, is allowed to visit the Castle and gawk at the wonders on display. Uncle Jeffett had begun it almost two decades ago, a year after he came into power, in a desperate attempt to hold Bayangan together. He’d originally named it ‘Bayangan Day’, to mark the end of the war and the start of a new future, but the people started referring to it by the person who created it and the name stuck.
All the Crown Jewels and the Raja’s hereditary heirlooms are on display in the throne room, with the most elite soldiers standing guard. The kitchens are working at full capacity, cranking out all sorts of delicacies for the all-day feast: hot platters and cold platters, soups and roasts, curries and breads, steaming hot rice, and all forms of sweet desserts.
In keeping with tradition, I’m required to hold the Regent’s Court in the throne room, listening to the gripes of the people and settling them as the ultimate judge over Bayangan. They’re only supposed to escalate the most difficult cases to me—the ones that have been disputed too many times, those which the magistrates cannot handle, those which need a tougher sentencing that only the Raja is allowed to pronounce. Yet most of them are petty squabbles, easily dealt with. I suspect they delay their cases on purpose in hopes that their hearing would fall during the festival—who doesn’t want to say that the Raja himself judged their case at the Regent’s Court? Twenty years ago, when the population of Bayangan was decimated, and the kingdom was in disarray, I can imagine this was a useful tool for my uncle to consolidate power and support, and to prove his ability to rule. But now? Now it is nothing but a useless spectacle.
It’s tough to listen to their long grandfather’s stories without tapping my feet or drumming my fingers on the nearest surface. I would rather even be at parang training, being humiliated by the weapons master, than this. I plaster an attentive look on my face that I can only hope looks genuine. Beside me, Azman sniggers.
‘Shut up,’ I scold with my fingers though, of course, he doesn’t understand.
Various performers congregate in the courtyard, entertaining those waiting for their turn to tour the castle with songs and stories and sleight of hand. Han and his troupe perform in the dining room all day, presenting a stunning repertoire of stories collected from the farthest reaches of Bayangan.
I don’t get to watch until the evening, stuck as I am with my duties. With the crowd ebbing and flowing throughout the day, there’s no formal protocol. Everyone fills their plates from the loaded buffet table whenever they’re hungry and finds a place to sit.
I’m almost done with my dinner when Uncle Jeffett sits down beside me with a heavy thud. His face is unexpectedly grim for an event like this. Straight ahead, the evening performance starts and his expression darkens.
“And so it goes,” Han calls.
The chorus responds, “If you will listen, O Raja.”
Han echoes, “If you will listen, O Raja.”
“This is how it went,” the chorus replies.
“In the year of the locust, when magic corrupted Terang, there stood a man head and shoulders above the others, who was not afraid to fight alone.”
They launch into a swashbuckling story of the founding of Bayangan, from when Harett Baya rejected the cult of Terang and founded his own kingdom. There are fantastic sea battles up and down the straits accompanied by dramatic declarations, until Harett finally convinces Sultan Yosua to leave them alone. Harett Baya names his newly formed kingdom Bayangan, after himself, and adds Regis to his surname. His descendants—and many nobles who aspire to kingship—tag the ‘ett’ suffix to their names in honour of him. It’s a beloved story, but not one that I would have preferred the rapt audience to be reminded of right now.
The legend they tell here is vastly different from the version I grew up with, where my namesake performed a penance and wept over the people living under the shadow of fear and ignorance. I know that version like the back of my hand, its forms engraved into my body’s memory. I dance it in my mind’s eye, tracing Kudus and faith into the palm of my hand, as Han’s troupe plays out the Bayangan version in front of me.
I try to look beyond the surface of this performance to see what Han is saying in private, but again, there are no hidden messages—at least, not for me. Did someone request this story—someone opposed to the new policies I’m trying to push—or did Han choose it of his own volition? And if the latter, to what end?
I cannot quite read crowd today. There are too many people unknown to me, and the nobles are wary. I pick out several Majlis members and their families. Che Carla smiles indulgently and I cannot tell if it’s because of the story or because of the spectacle. Azman, as usual, is entranced. His mouth hangs slightly ajar, absorbed by the fluid movements of the dancers. Che Lyn and her posse have looks of smug approval. I can’t tell what Che Willett and his faction are thinking.
“Why do they tell this story?” Uncle Jeffett growls beside me.
I look at him in confusion. I thought he would have been pleased. “Isn’t this one of the most basic histories of Bayangan?”
“Is the leader of this troupe not your Tawanan friend? One you trust? Does he not perhaps think to support your stance of reversing the law on religion?”
“He’s an entertainer, Uncle. He has to play to the crowd.” I don’t tell him that I’m not sure if I trust Han any longer.
Uncle Jeffett narrows his eyes. “There are many more innocuous stories that are crowd-pleasers. And would support your stance—or at least not oppose it.”
I look at where Ayah is sitting, several seats down. There is a pleasant look on his face, but I can see the twist in the corner of his lips that indicate his displeasure.
Uncle Jeffett notices it too. “Even your father agrees.”
“Ayah just doesn’t like this version of the story.” He’s never been pleased when someone performs it.
“Obviously, when he’s trying to achieve the opposite.”
“Not everything is a conspiracy.”
Uncle Jeffett scowls at me. “Do you listen to yourself?”
I do. He just can’t hear what I’m not admitting aloud.