2

The Soterion

The morning after the fireburn, Cyrus awoke to the sound of rain. For a few moments he lay thinking about what the change in the weather brought. It meant water for the terraces that rose in measured steps above the settlement; it meant replenishment for the great well in the centre of Lion Square; for him personally it meant much more.

The rainy season heralded the onset of his seventeenth winter and his entry into what might well be the last twelve moons of his life. He rubbed his eyes. Twelve moons? He really must start using the language of the Long Dead that Roxanne had taught him. A complete cycle of seasons was a year. He had a little over a year to live – at most.

And there was so much to do! A current of urgent energy surged through him. He rose quickly from his straw mattress, pulled on the leather cape Yash had given him and picked his way between the sleeping Konnels to the door. Before stepping outside, he checked the pouch at his belt. Yes, it was still there. The key to the Soterion, to hope and to the future.

Leaving the dormitory, he turned right for the lower Patrol Gate and the site of the fireburn. He needed to say one final farewell. The flames had died down before the rain began and the sodden ashes – Roxanne’s ashes – were being carried off the rock in little grey-black streams. He watched as they hurried down to the waterlogged ground where they gathered in muddy pools before flooding under the gate and out into the woods and wastelands beyond. By the end of the day, all would be washed away. The stone altar, clean and bright, would await its next occupant. As it was with the ashes, he determined, so it must be with the events of the past half-year. However painful, from now on he had to look forward. His past was a mountain from whose summit he could see the future, not a block in the road ahead. He was sure that’s how Roxanne would have seen it.

He stood gazing at the scene, then turned and walked rapidly along the course of the wall towards what was already being called the Soterion Gate. The guards recognised him straight away and let him through. Would he need an escort? There might be Zeds…

Cyrus shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but no need. There’s less chance of Zeds being out early on a morning like this than there is of them flying over the walls. I reckon I can take care of myself. Anyway, Asal and Shyad and the other lads are still on guard there, aren’t they? I’ll yell if I get into trouble, ok?”

The guards waved him through and he set off along the slippery path that wound down the mountainside to the vault. He met no one on the way and was soon turning the key in the lock of the stainless steel door. As it swung open, he was greeted once again by the wondrous smell of leather and paper and ink and glue. All was as it had been two days earlier when he had lifted the dead body of Roxanne in his arms and carried her out into the sunlight. He swallowed, trying hard to put the memory aside.

“It’s over,” he muttered to himself, striking sparks to light the torch Yash had tied to an iron ring by the door. “It’s over.”

Orange-yellow light filled the chamber and, for the first time, he made a careful inspection of its contents. The three sets of shelves, one on each of the walls away from the door, contained perhaps as many as six hundred books. They were divided into sections with labels such as Science, History, Literature, Mathematics, Theology … the words meant little to him.

He moved to the section where he had found Peter Pan, one of the three books by which Roxanne had learned to read. He singled out another volume, took it closer to the light and tried to read. Tell me, Muse, the story of that resourceful man who was driven to wander far and wide…

He stopped reading. Though he wasn’t sure what ‘resourceful’ meant, the story could be his. He too had been driven – more or less – to wander far and wide. How weird! He wondered who or what a ‘Muse’ was. Man or woman? He glanced at the title for a clue. The Odyssey. That didn’t help. Returning to the story, he found himself tripping over further vocabulary. What was a ‘holy citadel’? Roxanne had once tried to explain ‘holy’ but he still wasn’t sure.

Having struggled to the foot of the page, he put the book down on the desk in the centre of the vault. This was no good – at this rate, it’d take him the rest of his life to read just one story. He must leave The Odyssey for the time being and find a book that explained words. Surely there was such a thing? The Long Dead must have known not everyone would be able to read fluently, not at first anyway? A word-meaning book would also allow him to understand properly the letter he had come across after Roxanne’s death. He was keen to see what it said about the Salvation Project.

He found what he needed quicker than he expected. It was in a section called ‘Reference’, between ‘Encyclopaedia’ and ‘Thesaurus’. It had Dictionary in gold letters on the blue spine. Once he had opened its covers, he was enthralled.

It was like entering a magic cave in a dream, a Soterion within a Soterion. Old familiar friends were there, lying side by side with strangers. It didn’t take him long to get the hang of it. When he had done so, he turned to ‘holy’ and read, ‘perfect in a moral sense’. He understood that, just about – but there was more. ‘Pure in heart’ – easy enough to grasp. But Ozlam, the High Father of the Children of Gova, had called himself holy – and he certainly hadn’t been pure in heart.

Cyrus read on, eagerly eating the delicious words. ‘Associated with God or gods…’ Still more meanings to look up. And so it went on, word after word, line after line, each leading to another in a wondrous trail of discovery. With every step, he felt as if a door into the world of the Long Dead was being opened just a fraction wider. It was thrilling, mesmerising.

He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice he had visitors.

“Hello Cyrus!”

It was Yash, with Sakamir standing just behind him. The flickering torchlight threw uncanny shadows over their faces. “Guards said you were down here. What’re you doing?”

Cyrus did his best to explain. He showed them the shelves of books before turning to the table and picking up the letter he had found on first entering the vault. He’d been so lost in the dictionary, he’d forgotten about it.

“Remember me mentioning this?” he asked, carefully picking up the dry, crackling paper and motioning to his friends to sit on the couch. “It helps us understand a lot, though there are bits I don’t get. I’ll read it out loud once, then go over it again. We can look up the words we don’t know in this book.” He held out the volume he had been reading when they came in. “It’s called a ‘dictionary’ and it gives the meaning of every word, like –”

“Come on, Cyrus!” interrupted Sakamir. “Yash and I want to know what’s on that bit of paper.”

He glanced at her sharply but said nothing. Sitting in the chair, he spread the letter out over the desk and began to read.

Greetings –

I imagine you’re reading this, whoever you are, because you want to know what this place is all about. I’ll try and explain as briefly as I can – I haven’t got much time left.

Back in May 2017, an epidemic of what we called the Mini-flu struck the world. Everyone got it but, as the slight symptoms lasted only a few hours, no one took much notice. They should have. The disease was mutating the mechanism in our DNA that controls ageing. The delayed effect kicked in from August 2018.

Before this we had aged slowly, many of us living to 70, 80 or even 100. Not any more. Nowadays everyone suddenly grows old and dies during their 19th year. The speed of change is terrifying – 3-4 weeks at most. We call it the “Death Month”.

Adults over 19 went first, billions of them. Services collapsed, power failed, plagues swept the planet, rotting bodies piled in the streets. In a few short months, science, literature and knowledge – thousands of years of human civilisation – disintegrated. Fortunately or not, we were saved from full-scale warfare because governments ordered the destruction of all domestic and military weaponry immediately they saw what was going on.

Less than a year has passed since it all began – and it’s mayhem out there. Law and order have broken down and gangs of desperate teenagers terrorise the streets and countryside. I can understand how they feel. They know their 18th birthday is their last: at some point during the next 365 days they’ll wake up to find their skin a little tighter and flecks of grey in their hair. They’ll be in their Death Month, with just days to live. There are many suicides.

I’m one of the last old-style adults. As my Death Month started about three weeks ago, I reckon I’ve got only a few hours to go. By the end of July, there won’t be a single one of us left.

I guess you understand something of what I’m talking about. Your DNA – if you understand what that is – must be the same as ours. That means you and the people you live with are all 18 or younger. I can’t imagine your world, though it must somehow have evolved out of ours – the one you can probably see in ruins all about you.

So, what’s this strange depository you’ve managed to get into? Racing against time, a group of us have tried to secure a tolerable future for our kids. We’ve set up camps for them to manage on their own when we’re gone. Maybe you’re from one of these? I hope so.

We’ve also built this place, a secure vault containing all the human knowledge and wisdom we could gather. It’s for you, young stranger – as long as you’re able to access it. We’ve included the data of the Salvation Project, a medical programme aimed at reversing the DNA-altering symptoms of the Mini-flu. The scientists died before their work was finished. I don’t know how close they came to success.

I trust you’ll be able to use what you find here. It may allow you to pick up the pieces and carry on where we left off. Try and make a better fist of it than we did! With that wish in mind, I’ve named this vault after an ancient word for salvation: Soterion, the only place of hope in a world looking so desolate that it breaks my dying heart.

Dr Rebekkah Askar

10 July 2019

When he had finished, Cyrus interpreted the bits that made sense to him and looked up the words none of them knew. He told Yash and Sakamir about ‘years’ and how, when she arrived at Della Tallis, Roxanne said she reckoned they were in the year 2106. Judging by the state of everything remaining from the time of the Long Dead, he thought the date might be an underestimate. But if she was right, it was now 2107 and Askar had written her sad message 88 years ago. He had no idea what ‘Dr’ meant.

The letter confirmed the truth behind several Constant legends. The Long Dead had indeed lived differently from them, some of them enjoying very long lives. Cyrus was intrigued by the phrase ‘human civilisation’. The dictionary definitions were complicated, so he went back to ‘civilised’. ‘Advanced beyond the primitive savage state,’ he read.

“That makes sense, doesn’t it? We’re what they called civilised, and the Zeds are not.”

Yash was not listening. “Cyrus,” he said, leaning forward eagerly, “can you read that bit again about military and something that sounded like weapons?”

“This bit you mean? Governments ordered the destruction of all domestic and military weaponry immediately they saw what was going on.”

“Yes, that’s it. So what’s it mean exactly?”

Once Cyrus had explained the difficult words to him, Yash let out a low whistle. “You know what it’s saying, don’t you?” His eyes were bright with excitement. “They had much better weapons than our bows and swords. Wow! Just think what we could do if we had them!”

He rose and began pacing up and down the room. Watching him, Cyrus remembered Padmar’s warning about the Soterion’s dark power. Please, Yash, he thought. Not you as well!

With rising excitement, his friend continued, “I’d smash the Zeds and become the most important and powerful –”

“Come on, Yash!” said Sakamir, rising to her feet. She looked annoyed, Cyrus thought, as if her impetuous copemate had said too much. Had the two of them already started planning to use the Soterion’s power? No, that was ridiculous. Yash was a good man. He was just a bit carried away by what the future might bring, that was all.

“We can’t even read yet,” Sakamir went on. “Forget those daft ideas, Yash, and concentrate on the basics.” She smiled apologetically at Cyrus. “I’m right, aren’t I?” As she was speaking, she moved to stand behind his chair and rested her hand on his shoulder, high up near his collar.

“More or less,” he replied. “We can’t do much until several of us can read properly.” Sakamir’s finger was now rubbing the nape of his neck, slowly, almost – but not quite – imperceptibly.

This was ridiculous! Surely Yash could see … unless, of course, this was prearranged and he chose not to notice.

Cyrus stood up abruptly. “Right. I’ll start reading as many books as possible – and teaching others to read at the same time.”

Sakamir, calm and inscrutable, moved back to her copemate’s side. “Perfect, Cyrus. Yash and I will choose the people for you to teach. You can start tomorrow.”

So I’m not allowed to select my own pupils, thought Cyrus. Oh Padmar! You weren’t stupid, were you? It had once seemed so simple: all Roxanne and he had to do was reach Alba and open the vault… Open the vault? It was beginning to look as they had opened a nest of vipers. Yash was focused on power rather than learning, and his wily copemate seemed prepared to do anything to get what they wanted. He had to be careful, so very careful.

“Yes, Sakamir, I’d be happy to start tomorrow,” he answered cautiously. “The sooner we get other people reading, the better.” Irritated by the way she had given him orders, he added in as lighthearted a manner as he could manage, “By the way, don’t forget that if I died tomorrow this lot wouldn’t be much use to you.”

Sakamir arranged her thin face into another joyless smile. “Oh! Don’t worry about that, Cyrus! Yash and I’ll guard you with our lives, won’t we Yash?”

“Of course!” He waved a hand at the shelves of books. “And, er, I’ve been thinking… It’d be safer if all these were stored in Alba. We can use the Ghasar.”

Cyrus frowned. Yes, they had been planning. Once in Alba, the Soterion would be under the personal control of the Emir.

“Probably best to leave them here,” he countered. “After all, they’ve survived in this place pretty well for almost a hundred winters, er, years. It’s dry and it’s safe.” He pointed towards the massive steel door across the vault’s entrance. “And no one’s going to get through that thing in a hurry.”

“Sorry, Cyrus,” said Yash firmly, “but I can’t agree. Guarding the Soterion would mean taking archers off other duties. What’s more, the Zeds’ll get to hear of it – yes, I know they will – and then it’d be just about impossible to keep the path between Alba and here open. There’d be Zed ambushes every step of the way, wouldn’t there, Sakamir?”

“I’m afraid there would, Cyrus,” she replied with a theatrical sigh. “I know how much this place must mean to you, but I think Yash is right. To keep the books safe, we’d better move them into Alba.”

Cyrus looked at her, then back at Yash. They had clearly made up their minds and there was no point in arguing. Besides, as the books belonged to Alba, there was nothing he could do about it. Only much later, when it was too late, did he realise he should have resisted the change more fiercely.

“Alright,” he said, “but I’d like something in return.”

“As you know,” answered Sakamir in the same oily tone she had used when promising to protect him with her life, “we are in your debt, dear Cyrus. What can we do for you?”

“I’d like my young friend to be one of those I teach to read,” said Cyrus.

Yash nodded. “You mean Sammy?”

“Yes, Sammy. Sakamir?”

“If the Emir agrees,” she said, her face an expressionless mask, “I agree.”

Quite clearly she did not, though Cyrus was not sure why. It looked as if she wanted to keep him isolated from his close friends and companions. He’d be easier to manipulate like that.

The transfer of the Soterion library to Alba was completed by sundown, as Yash wished. Cyrus positioned himself in the Ghasar to receive the books as they came in and did his best to keep them in their original order. Sammy worked with him, helping to stack the dusty volumes on the floor.

“They going to be alright here, Mister Cyrus?” he asked as he kicked aside a startled cockroach nestling in a crack between the boards.

“I hope so. At least we’ll be able to read them without leaving Alba. Might be safer, too.”

“So long as this place don’t catch fire… ”

The conversation was interrupted by an archer carrying two low piles of books on a sort of shiny metal tray.

“What’s that?” asked Cyrus as he handed the contents of the tray to Sammy.

“Dunno, Cyrus. Thought you might. There’s five or six of them down there. I brought one up so you could take a look and see what you wanted to do with them.”

Cyrus took the object and examined it. It was rectangular, about an adult handspan on the short side and a little over a foot wide, with holes of different sizes along the edges. The whole thing was no more than a fingerjoint thick. He passed it over to his helper.

“What do you make of this, Sammy? Obviously some Long Dead gadget I’ve never seen before. Have you?”

The young man turned the tray over in his hands. “No, never seen one. But them holes has metal bits sticking up inside. You can see them, all gleaming. And where there’s metal, there’s that stuff what made the killer fence where I come from.”

“You mean electricity,” said Cyrus. That was another word he needed to look up. He made a mental note to do so as soon as he had finished arranging the books.

A cry from Sammy interrupted his thoughts. “Wow! Look! It opens up!”

The tray appeared to be in two parts joined by a hinge. On the inside of one half were rows of letters and numbers, and a name. The other was covered with a grey, glassy substance. Sammy poked it and grinned.

“Bet this was important,” he said. “What you goin’ to do with it, Mister Cyrus?”

“Well, it’s not much use to us until we know what it is. As you say, it probably needs electricity, which we haven’t got. Let’s concentrate on the books for the moment.”

He thanked the archer and asked him and his colleagues to move the books first. If there was time while it was still light, they could bring up any further trays they found.

Sammy looked disappointed. Towards the end of the evening, when the transfer of the library was nearly complete, he went down to the Soterion himself. He wanted to check no tray had been overlooked, he said. He returned with two more, bringing the total in the Ghasar to five. Finally, as night was closing in, Yash looked around the vault to check that it was empty and shut the steel door. After locking it, he kept the key himself. For safety’s sake, he declared, henceforward it should remain in the possession of the Emir of Alba.

The Grozny Zeds held women in contempt. They were, in the words of the late Malik Timur, “poisonous flabtoads” whose sole purposes were to provide recreation and maintain a supply of new Grozny warriors. So when Giv and Jumshid found themselves ambushed by a band of women, their first reaction was one of total scorn.

“Breeding slaves!” muttered Jamshid. “Smash them!” He raised his gut-ripper and advanced on the nearest of his would-be assailants. With a slight hiss, she nimbly jumped back a couple of steps. Jamshid followed, and again she retreated.

Before he could react, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his rump. With a roar, he spun round to confront his assailant. As he did so, a second spear pierced his left side. He squealed in hurt and frustration, and swivelled to face his elusive enemy. Another stab, cry of pain, furious turn – and another and another.

Jamshid was bleeding heavily from seven gashes to the fleshy parts of his body. Frenzied by the goading, he hurled his gut-ripper at the nearest attacker. As she sidestepped the flying weapon, he lumbered towards the gap. A spear shot between his calves, and he tripped and fell. Immediately a swarm of hissing women fell upon him, pinning him spread-eagled to the ground.

Not far off, the same fate had befallen Giv. A warrior stood astride each of the wounded Grozny, a razor-sharp spear poised above their throats.

“Kill?” asked the woman who stood over Giv. She glanced across at a colleague standing slightly apart. Well built, of medium height and carrying the same type of metal-tipped spear as the rest of the warband, she was distinguished by a Z tattoo on each cheek as well as on her forehead. The triple scar was the mark of a Zektiv, an officer in the all-female Kogon tribe.

“No kill! No kill! No kill!” screamed Giv, staring up wildly at his grinning conquerors. “Have head!”

It was true. In a feat of extraordinary devotion, he had managed to keep hold of his grim trophy by its long white hair. It now lay beside him, staring up with sightless eyes and a fixed smirk on the rotting lips that glistened like slug trails.

“Wait!” ordered the Zektiv. She walked with lithe strides to where the head lay. “What’s this?”

“Malik!” gasped Giv. “Master not dead! Giv have head!”

The woman frowned and swung the butt of her spear hard into Giv’s exposed groin. Hearing their captive’s howl, the women who held him hissed in satisfaction.

“Speak true!” demanded his inquisitor. “This is the head of a dead man – what man?”

“Malik,” croaked Giv, looking up at his tormentor with eyes in which defiance danced with pleading.

“Malik? What Malik?”

“Great Malik! You not know great Malik?”

The heavy butt swung down, once again evoking a cacophony of howls and hisses. The Zektiv walked round to inspect the head more carefully. When she had done so, she lifted her spear for a third strike. “This thing a Malik?” she enquired.

Giv, though his hair was held firmly by two pairs of hands, attempted to nod. “Malik,” he confirmed.

“Name of this Malik?”

“Timur!” croaked Giv, his voice harsh with sorrow, pain and fear. “Timur, Malik of Grozny!”

The hands that grasped him tightened and further shrill hissing escaped into the evening air. The Zektiv lowered her spear. “Malik Timur?” she smiled in disbelief. “Malik Timur is dead and a prisoner of the Kogon brings us his head? This is a good day, a very good day!”

She took a couple of steps back and issued crisp commands. “Tie the Zed dumbmans and bring them with me. Zilna?”

One of the women holding Jamshid raised her head. “Yes, Jinsha?”

“Carry the Malik head. Come!”

The strange procession was soon on its way. Scouts, senses alert to any danger, combed the woods on either side of the path. Jinsha, lithe and athletic, walked at the head of the column, followed by Zilna with the stinking head of Timur swinging beside her. Behind them hobbled Giv and Jamshid. Their arms were bound tight behind their backs and cords ran from their ankles to Kogon warriors walking behind them. To make sure they behaved, each man was flanked by two spear-carriers, weapons permanently at the ready.

To survive in a Zed world dominated by ruthless males, the Kogon had learned to take no chances. What they lacked in physical strength, they made up for with caution and cunning. Unlike male Zeds, they were not permanently on the move. They liked to settle for several months in a small Long Dead town, one that had been ransacked and abandoned. Careful scavenging of buildings and gardens provided food and useful materials. It was a dangerous and precarious existence, and the Kogon’s survival depended entirely on its supremely skilled and intelligent leadership.

The Long Dead town of Filna perched on a hilltop surrounded by dense woodland. The roads that had once linked it to adjoining communities had long since grown over, leaving it a small island of mossy brickwork amid a sea of trees. The ancient piazza remained relatively clear of vegetation and the buildings around it had the better part of their roofs intact. It was in one of these, a cavernous structure adorned with slashed and faded paintings and broken statues, that the Kogon leadership had its headquarters.

It was almost dark by the time Jinsha’s party arrived. They went straight to the piazza, forced Giv and Jamshid to their knees, and waited. All eyes focussed on a dark arched opening behind a stone balcony a few feet above the ground. After a while, a gibbous moon rose over the roofs opposite, casting a pale and ghostly light over the scene. The patrol waited. After a while, clouds again floated across the face of the moon and darkness palled the piazza. Still the patrol waited.

Finally, as moonlight once again flooded the piazza, a silhouette emerged out of the blackness behind the balcony. As it did so, the assembled Kogon hissed softly.

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.