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THE NEXT DAY, I’M FLIPPING through a book idly when Relka looks up from where he’s sorting the laundry.
“Tuanku?”
“What is it?”
“I have a...” He steps closer, and whispers. “There are people that can help you escape. If you want, they can take you across the Straits with them.”
I stare at him, stunned. It sounds too good to be true. I want to leave. I want to go back to Maha, to the only place that felt like home, even though I know that it never was and never will be. It’s tempting.
What if it’s a trap?
“Who? Who are these people and how do you know them?”
He flushes. “I told you my ayah is missing. He sent me a message. He’s with them. A troupe.”
“A troupe? Mahan or Bayangan?”
He chews at his lip. “Mahan?”
It sounds like a guess. I frown.
“They need a reply, whether you’re interested in going with them or not. I’m supposed to leave a note when I drop off the laundry.”
That’s too fast. I don’t know anything about Sulaiman or this group.
“How sure are you that the message comes from your father?” I ask.
Relka looks stricken. “Why would it not be Ayah? He asked after me.”
“Forget I asked,” I say, but it’s too late.
“Do you think he’s not really missing? That Tun Jeffett has him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not implying anything. Maybe he really is safe.”
I rummage around my desk for something to write with. Still, I hesitate.
Be smart, Yos.
“Do you have their original note?”
Relka shakes his head. “I can’t...a woman spoke to me.”
“Someone you know?” Amanah’s second was a woman. Could it be her?
Another shake. “A spy, I think. She sounded Mahan.”
“You trust her?”
He hesitates. “Ayah sent a message through her. I trust Ayah.”
“How do you know it was really your father who sent the message?"
“Because he called me by my nickname.”
“Your—” I stare at the paper in my hand.
“No one else outside our family knows this nickname,” he says with confidence. “They can take you to safety, Tuanku. You and Ayah.”
I want to tell him that all kinds of information can be obtained by coercion or torture. I don’t. That’s not the point right now, and frightening Relka will not help me make a better decision. Yes or no? To trust them or not?
Relka puts the laundry basket down and comes to stand by me. “You don’t have to—I can wait until tomorrow...I mean, they said to leave the note when I did the laundry? I could wait until tomorrow to do that.”
What difference would a day make? Yet if I decide not to go, it would mean putting the troupe and Relka’s father in danger for longer when they could be making their way to safety. My indecision is tearing me apart.
O Kudus, why can’t You just speak a word in my ear? Now would be a good time.
Nothing. My heart pounds in my chest and my ears as I ponder what to write. My fevered brain cannot decide if this is a trap for them or a trap for me, or if everything is innocent.
Please Kudus, let this be the right thing to do, I pray as I write. I fold the note and hand it to Relka.
He slips it into his pocket, gives me a solemn smile, and then picks up his basket and walks out of the room.
It’s done, for better or worse. I don’t know how they will find me, or how they plan to extract me from this place, but I have said yes.
I spend the night on my knees in prayer. It’s only me and the Firman open before me. I don’t light the candles—they’re pointless without the incense. I don’t know if Kudus will hear me, but I choose to believe that he does. After all, Uskup Agung Ikhlas repeated time and time again that Kudus looks at the heart, not at the trappings of our services. It’s hard to believe when the Temple puts so much emphasis on observing the forms.
O Kudus, Maha Esa, berkatilah hamba-Mu dengan kuasa ajaib-Mu.
The Amok Strength settles around me like a blanket. I can feel Kudus’ infilling from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. Heavy and light, a weight and a release. I don’t have to do this alone.
Help me. I don’t understand. What if this is a trap? I thought You said that I was to stay, but it seems as if You are chasing me out. Is this message from the troupes truly for me? Is it Your will that I should go?
There is still no answer. I sit back on my heels, disappointed. What had I hoped for? A voice telling me what to do? Yet, as Ayah always said, Kudus has given us brains for us to use, not to follow blindly like sheep. I miss him so much.
My knees creak as I get to my feet. I start to stash away the Firman again, though I know it’s useless. Who’s to stop them from searching the room and finding it? I leave it in my bedside drawer instead. I am tired of hiding.
There’s no point when I’m already exposed.
Relka returns with the clean laundry and a written reply the next day. His eyes are shining.
“I saw Ayah,” he says as he hands me the note.
“Sulaiman was there? Safe?”
“The woman wouldn’t let him come to me, but I saw him. He looked tired.”
“Good, that’s good.” It’s proof of life, at least. I smooth the note out on the table. “Tomorrow. After dinner. Dining hall,” I read for Relka’s benefit. That’s all it says.
I don’t understand how they’re going to do that. Jeffett will be there. Azman will be there. The Majlis will be there, along with their personal guards. I’ll be surrounded by Jeffett’s men.
“Are you sure we can trust them?” I ask again, but there is no dissuading Relka now, not when he has seen his father for the first time in months.
“My Ayah is with them,” he repeats. Then he looks at me with hopeful eyes. “Can I come with you?”
“If you want...” I start, uncertain now as to whether this is the best choice. It feels like I am deserting my people, leaving them behind in their time of need. “But what about your Ibu and Tanya?”
His face falls. “Maybe they can get all of us out.”
“I hope so.”
There’s not much time to prepare. I don’t know if I will be able to bring anything with me, so I spend the time putting my affairs in order. I throw away the empty incense bottles, go through my papers to see if there’s anything I should destroy. I can’t bring myself to destroy the Firman or the censer, so I tuck them under my clothes and make a trip to my father’s house.
I don’t even lie to the guards, telling them that I need privacy to mourn. They inspect my parents’ bedroom, making sure it’s empty before letting me shut and lock the door on them. The room has been cleaned up, no traces of their deaths left. I search until I find the false floor the investigator mentioned. The empty box is still there, though the lock is broken. I slip the items out from under my shirt and put them in the box. There’s no way to seal it, but this is all just an illusion of security anyway, so I simply close it and put it back in its hiding place.
Then I sit down on the floor and really mourn my parents. When I leave the room with red-rimmed eyes, neither of my guards say anything.
––––––––
WHEN THE TIME COMES, I dress in comfortable clothes, strapping my keris to my waist. I drape the ceremonial jubah over it to hide what I’m wearing. I decide to bring nothing else with me. Relka braids my hair down my back so that it won’t fly in my face or distract me if it comes to a chase. He follows me down to the dining hall, sticking close in hopes that he will be able to escape with me as well.
Everyone in the hall freezes when I enter, sharing expressions of guilt at having started dinner without me. Servants start scrambling; there’s a collective scrape of chair legs on the floor as they stand to greet me. I wave for them to sit as I continue down the hall. I ignore their shocked exclamations as I avoid the main table—and Jeffett—and take a seat at an empty table near the stage. In seconds, the servants load the table with food.
I study the dancers before me, but do not recognise any of them. Gossip swirls around the hall, and I overhear whispered speculations as to whether I have quarrelled with my uncle.
Has it not been obvious enough that Jeffett has been shutting me out ever since he took over as Regent? I keep my mouth shut and my eyes fixed on the performance. A growing feeling of unease settles in my stomach the longer I watch. The troupe keeps their dance and actions simple, and I cannot find any trace of the finger code in their movements. It’s evident they are not from Maha, that they’re not even Tawanan.
Why would a Bayangan troupe try to smuggle me out to Maha? Where is this ‘Mahan lady’ that has been sending messages to Relka? I don’t see anyone who might match her description in the group. Neither do I see anyone who might possibly be Relka’s father—not that he would appear in public if Jeffett is searching for him. I push my food around on my plate mulling over the question. I shouldn’t go with them. It was a bad decision, too hastily made, and I should rectify that now. I push my plate aside.
Relka glances at the troupe, hoping no doubt to see his father among them, or among the extras who sit along the edge of the stage. He makes a sound of disappointment but hurries after me as I leave.
There’s a deserted corridor at the end of the hallway. I pull Relka in behind me, checking to see that no one is following us.
“I don’t feel comfortable with this plan anymore,” I say before he can ask.
“But Ayah—”
“Did you see the Mahan lady you talked to in there?”
“No...” He twists his fingers in the hem of his shirt.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t feel right.”
His face falls.
“I’m sorry, Relka. I truly am.” There’s a sinking feeling in my gut that I am playing into Jeffett’s hands somehow. I just don’t know how. “Go back and enjoy your dinner. Look for your father amongst the troupe afterward. I hope you find him. If you don’t return, I’ll know you managed to leave with them. You have my blessings.”
I’m halfway to my suite when I realise that the guards aren’t following me. They haven’t caught up at all, though I expected them to burst in on us while I was talking to Relka. I stop and look around. There are no guards in sight. For the first time in months, I am alone. The realisation is almost paralysing. Nothing moves in the corridor, no strange shadows flicker. There’s no one to stop me if I decide to run.
Is this what the troupe planned?
No time to figure that out. I make my way down to the stables, maintaining a leisurely walk. If anyone stops me, I can just say I’m going out for some fresh air. Not suspicious.
You’re playing into his hands, the thought strikes me again. I pause at the door to the courtyard. There is time to turn back yet, time to play at innocence. Where would you go?
I could ride to the port, take a boat to Maha; though I know that Jeffett has closed the port. I could steal a boat, or commandeer one—surely there will be people willing to obey their Raja!—but I don’t know how to sail one on my own. There are trade partners in the west I could head for, but they would have no incentive to help me, or even think that they needed to. They would just return me to my uncle, proving to the Majlis that the lies he’s been telling them are true. A frustrated grunt escapes me; I didn’t use to be this indecisive, this paralysed. I don’t have enough information, and it’s making me tense.
All is quiet in the courtyard. It’s too quiet.
Not too late to turn back.
The tension thrums in my muscles. I’m at war with myself. I weigh it one more time. Without the troupe, I do not know where to go, or how to get there. But I do not trust them. With a sigh, I abandon the route to the stables and head for the door that leads back to my suite. Back to confinement. It irks me to play it safe, but my spirit won’t settle.
O Kudus, Maha Esa, berkatilah hamba-Mu dengan kuasa ajaib-Mu.
A hum of protection. A feeling of strength. But no peace. Instead, it sharpens my senses, making me even more wary. Something is wrong. The corridors are too quiet for this time of day, as if someone is keeping people away. The courtyard is unnaturally still.
Why?
I have no answers. My hand slips between the opening of my jubah to my belt, fingering the hilt of my keris. A noise to my left makes me freeze.
“Show yourself,” I say.
No reply.
I peer into the darkness, wondering why the lamps have been dimmed. It’s not yet bedtime, when the servants dim the lights after the last of the guests have left. It’s still the dinner hour and the guests are still eating. Has the troupe finished their performance? Unlikely. Not enough time has passed. The guests need to cross this area to leave the castle.
Only my heightened senses save me from being killed by the first strike. I hear a whoosh as the spear speeds its way towards me and duck just in time. I feel the wind of its passing right above my head. It strikes the stone wall beside the door and clatters to the ground.
Spinning on my heel, I fall into a fighting stance. Two men approach, parangs held ready. I shrug off the jubah, unsheath my keris, and centre myself. I should have brought the parang instead—I’m not used to this ceremonial weapon.
A noise behind me indicates there are more intruders, but I don’t turn. I can’t afford for my concentration to be broken. Instead, I shift so that my back is against the wall. It’s not ideal, but at least no one can grab me from behind.
“Put your keris down and surrender,” one of them says, brandishing his parang.
“Why should I? Who are you and what do you want?” No uniforms, no insignia. But they don’t look disorganised enough to be common thugs. Soldiers in disguise? I dismiss the thought.
“Does it matter?”
“You won’t take me without a fight.” My throat is tight, but I issue the challenge anyway. “Guards!” I call.
The man smirks. “It’s just you against us.”
“Guards!” I scream louder. How can four men infiltrate the castle and disarm hundreds of soldiers? It’s not possible.
An inside job. Someone is keeping them away.
No help comes. A flick of his wrist, and two of them rush at me, one from each side. I slash and parry, stabbing where I can. Adrenaline runs through my veins, but it’s the Amok Strength that sustains me, giving me power. My bladework is sloppy—I know I’m using all the wrong techniques for the keris—but I manage to push them back, disarming them.
I keep on shouting, calling for the guards, for soldiers, for anyone who will listen. No one comes. Sweat pours down my face and my back. I wipe my hands against my trousers to dry them. I cannot drop my only weapon.
Their leader frowns, then whistles. Several more intruders appear, armed with both spears and parangs. It’s a motley crew. No uniforms, no insignia, no standard equipment. There is something I’m missing, but I don’t have the time to think about it as I fight for my life.