8

King Yash

While Ogg and Jamshid were hatching their conspiracy, a Grozny party went out to look for food. The hunters returned dragging the bloody carcasses of three deer just as their leader’s discussion was ending and Ogg was preparing to leave. To celebrate their new-found friendship, Jamshid asked his visitor to stay, enjoy the feast and afterwards join him in guarding the Grozny breeding slaves for a while. The temptation was too great for Ogg to resist.

The meat, roasted whole over enormous fires, was ready by late afternoon. The two Maliks each cut off large chunks and sat down again on their fallen tree trunk to chat over their planned coup. Women warriors, they agreed, would be easily swept aside. The prisoners they’d take would be useful for games and for boosting their tribes’ numbers.

Ogg was boasting how many slave prisoners he would take, when he was interrupted by a commotion to their left. Jamshid got up to investigate and returned with Giv. Neither Malik knew quite how to treat him. In Jamshid’s eyes he was a worthy Captain of the tribe because he had saved the head of Timur. But as the men on the Gurkov embassy had noticed, Giv had changed. He spoke differently and had adopted some un-Grozny-like habits, such as cleaning his fingernails with a piece of wood rather than with his teeth. More worryingly, everyone knew he was a devoted servant of the Malika.

Ogg too was suspicious of Giv’s relationship with Xsani. So when the emissary announced that the Malika wanted them at her base to discuss the forthcoming attack on Alba, Ogg told him to stay where he was for a moment. He had something important to discuss with his fellow Malik.

Taking Jamshid by the elbow, Ogg led him aside and asked, “Do you think he knows?”

“Knows what?”

Not for the first time, Ogg wondered why he was in partnership with such an oakhead. “Know about our plan to kill this Malika?”

Jamshid scratched himself and shook his head. “No.”

“Right. We’ll change our plan. She has invited us to talk with her, so we’ll go – and kill her. Tonight.”

“Kill,” grinned Jamshid. “How?”

“Easy. Men against slaves is like killing deer, except slave killing is easier. They run slower.”

Jamshid scratched his head again. “They not all flabtoads. Guards of no-stones,” he said, reminding his ally of Xsani’s eunuch bodyguard.

“Ha-ha-ha!” roared Ogg. “Jamshid is afraid of slaves and no-stones!”

“Jamshid not afraid!” The Grand Malik of the Grozny Zeds frowned angrily and clenched his fists.

“Good. We’ll go there with one warrior each.” In case Jamshid had not understood, Ogg explained, “You and one Grozny, and me and one Gurkov. Four big Zeds to fight slaves and no-stones. Fun, eh?”

“Big fun,” agreed Jamshid. He called out to Giv, “Hey! Ogg and Jamshid come talk Malika, ok?”

“Good!” Giv called in reply.

Jamshid turned towards Ogg and slapped him on the back. “Jamshid say ‘talk’! Ha-ha-ha! Giv not know! Ha-ha-ha!”

Once again, Ogg was astonished that he could have allied himself with such an ass.

The idea of recruiting Zeds had come to Sakamir while she was still back in Alba. To begin with, she had rejected it as too dangerous. It would work only if she found a second Timur. Without the protection of such a man – and it surely would be a man – she’d be as good as dead the moment a Zed set eyes on her. Even if there were a barbarian of sufficient intellect and ambition to recognise the importance of the Soterion, trusting him would be a tremendous risk.

She began to change her mind when she learned of Cyrus’ anxiety about the missing head. Like him, she understood its power. She also reasoned that only a person of high intelligence would think of saving it and using it as a totem. In this she was only half right, of course: the humble Giv had saved the head – it took the astute Xsani to see its potential. Even when Sakamir left on patrol, she was not fully decided. It was the chanting of Jamshid’s small force that finally persuaded her: someone, somewhere was exploiting the head’s power. Whoever that person was, Sakamir told herself, they’d surely welcome her help.

She was right. She was also extremely fortunate to have fallen into the hands of the Kogon. Settled among them, she was surprised how at ease she felt. The cruelty, pain and brutality were strangely comforting. In the Zed world, life was stripped to its very barest, simplest essentials. The unwanted and even the awkward were eliminated without question. Abstract concepts like duty and loyalty were replaced by obedience enforced by punishment. To a greater extent even than among Constants, survival of the group was everything. With a few key exceptions, individuals did not exist. Sentiment was a laughable weakness.

Sakamir was attracted by another feature of Kogon life: the absence of men. She had always believed them crude and stupid, and had separated from her first copemate – an archer with more muscle than brain – shortly after the birth of Jalus and Poso. She had taken up with Yash because he seemed destined for leadership. Her hunch was right, though tolerating him had tested the limits of her patience. She longed to see the look on his face when, running a knife across his throat, she told him he was surplus to her requirements.

She looked forward to doing the same to Xsani as well. At that moment, in control of Alba and the Soterion, she would take that young Jinsha as her kumfort. It really was unfair of Xsani to keep such an attractive Zektiv all to herself.

But she was running ahead of herself. Jinsha could wait. For now she needed to watch the Malika and learn from her how to control Zeds. It was an art at which Xsani excelled – as she demonstrated in crushing Jamshid and Ogg’s ill-fated coup.

It was dark by the time Giv led the two swaggering Maliks and their warrior escorts into Filna’s central piazza. “There!” he announced, pointing to the balcony lit with flaming brands. “The Malika is waiting for you.”

Ogg dug his elbow into Jamshid’s ribs. “Malika!” he whispered. “Slave, more like!”

“Ha-ha!” chuckled Jamshid. “Big shock come!” He was right, though hardly in the manner he expected.

The four men, all clutching gut-rippers, followed Giv across the piazza and up the steps onto the balcony. As they reached the top, they heard the sound of light feet approaching behind them. They turned to see what it was – an elementary mistake in any combat. In this one, it was fatal.

As the Zeds raised their clumsy weapons to fend off the Kogon spears advancing up the steps, Xsani’s eunuch bodyguard attacked. The two escort warriors were slain immediately. After a brief struggle, Ogg and Jamshid were disarmed and pinned to the ground. Xsani, flanked by Jinsha, Yalisha, Tarangala and Sakamir, advanced until she was standing directly above them.

“Snivelling slave!” cried Ogg, wrestling unsuccessfully to free himself. “You have cheated the Over-Malik Timur. I will pound you to a mess of flesh!”

A smile played along Xsani’s lips and she raised a light-brown eyebrow. “Tho, I wath right. You and thith motht thupid dumbman have come here to kill me.”

“Oh tho clev –” began Ogg before the first lash of the Malika’s whip stopped his mouth and left a broad cut across his top lip. A further six blows fell. When she had finished, Xsani bent down and wiped the thongs of her whip clean on his loincloth before neatly tucking her weapon back into her sleeve.

“Thothe are from Timur, our mathter,” she announced, gazing at the lattice of lacerations that had been Ogg’s face. One lash had fallen directly over his left eye, slicing through the eyelid and the soft flesh of the cheekbone below. If he did see again, it would only ever be with one eye.

“He ith not pleathed, Ogg. You have betrayed him.”

The Malik of the Gurkov Zeds groaned and, with a supreme effort, moaned, “No, slave! You have betrayed him.”

From the direction of the steps came a low hiss and Ogg mentally braced himself for a fresh assault. He would die, he told himself, rather than submit to this slave. Xsani thought for a moment. She wanted Ogg as an obedient living ally, not a dead one. Without him the Gurkov would be impossible to control and the coalition would fall apart. A subtler approach was called for.

“Let uth thee all the dumbman,” she said, signalling to Tarangala. As the Zektiv reached for Ogg’s loincloth, he shivered uncontrollably.

“You have the knife, Jintha?”

Xsani’s kumfort held out a long blade. Ogg groaned as it glinted orange and blood red in the flames of the torches. The Malika looked at her people gathered on the steps. “Thall we thtart?” she asked. The women hissed their eager approval.

Ogg turned his head violently from side to side, flecking with drops of blood the bodies of the men who held him.

“Come forward, Jintha,” said Xsani, “and we thall begin.” Ogg groaned again, louder this time. Then, to his astonishment, nothing happened. Instead, there was a great deal of noise and scuffling to his left. Surely not? But yes, it was Jamshid! Jinsha had begun with the once-Grand Malik of the Grozny Zeds.

When it was over, Xsani came back to Ogg. “Dumbman Jamthid twithe betrayed Over-Malik Timur,” she explained. “He hath paid twithe. You betrayed him oneth. But you theduthed Jamthid into rebellion, tho you altho will pay twithe.”

Ogg was defeated. Shining with sweat and quivering like a reed, he begged for mercy. At first, the Malika pretended to be reluctant to listen, but eventually she relented and Ogg was led, half-blind, to the sty. Amid the smoke he was visited again by Timur. The ghostly Over-Malik confirmed that he had chosen Jamshid’s punisment and would not hesitate to order the same for Ogg if he ever dared step out of line again.

He never did.

Two days later, Giv took Jamshid back to the Grozny camp. There, the former Malik was stripped of his stinking furs and made to stand before the whole tribe. This, they were told as they paraded before him, was what happened to those who defied the Over-Malik. The first few Zeds stared at Jamshid’s injuries in astonished disbelief. Then one of them pointed and began to snigger. Those who followed chuckled out loud, and before long the entire tribe was hooting with laughter and yelling, “Jamshid flabtoad! Jamshid flabtoad!” at the top of their voices.

After the noise had subsided, Giv announced that Timur had made him the new Malik of the Grozny. He immediately appointed four Captains and cemented his authority by breaking the fingers of two men who wondered whether he had seen enough winters to qualify as a Malik. The submission of the Grozny was completed the next night when the entire tribe was brought to Filna’s piazza and, in a special ceremony, introduced to the Timur totem and Malika Xsani.

This time the blackened head was suspended from a window above the balcony. Giv, standing in the shadows behind it, spoke with total conviction: “I am Timur, the mighty Zed who lives for ever. Look on me and tremble, ratbrains!

“Grozny, Gurkov and Kogon – all Zeds are one under me. Malika Xsani knows my will. Follow her, antheads, and I will be with you.

“Now, tell me who I am!”

With one voice the Grozny howled, “Timur! Timur! Timur!” until Xsani quietened them down in order to lead a pledge of loyalty.

“Mighty Timur,” responded the mob, “who lives for ever, you and the Malika are one.”

When Jamshid died of blood poisoning two days later, his death was seen as a sign. It was obvious, wasn’t it? All those foolish enough to challenge Timur or Xsani were bound to perish in humiliating agony.

The loyalty pledge was repeated with the Gurkov the following night. Xsani’s triumph was complete. She controlled a coalition of three powerful Zed tribes and had an alliance with a former Alban who would open the settlement’s gates to the Zed coalition. Even if Sakamir betrayed her, Xsani reckoned she had sufficient force at her command to storm the walls. But of course the whole operation would be so much easier if her guest did not play false…

“We will attack at the netht full moon. You will not betray me, will you Thakamir?” she asked on the day her visitor left to return to Alba. She knew she could not expect an honest answer, but hoped the manner of the response might reveal something.

Sakamir’s unsmiling stare gave nothing away. She nodded and said in a flat, expressionless tone, “You can trust me, Xsani. You may not believe me, but when you reach Alba you will find all I have told you is true.”

In this she was correct. She had outlined the paths taken by Alban patrols so the Zeds could avoid them as they advanced. This might not be necessary, she had revealed, because her copemate Yash should have cut the number of patrols to a minimum. She also outlined Alban fighting techniques and gave Xsani a map of the settlement showing where the gates and important buildings were. She even marked the position of the Ghasar correctly. It could do no harm, she told herself, because the Malika would not last long after Alba had fallen.

The two women parted with scarcely a flicker of acknowledgement. They were too clever, too suspicious even to pretend there was anything like friendship between them. Quite rightly, each suspected the other of playing a double game for sole possession of the Soterion. For the time being, co-operation was mutually beneficial. The situation would not last, of course. In the final battle, only one would conquer.

The Albans accepted Cyrus’ relationship with Miouda more readily than he had expected. Back home in Della Tallis, couples usually stayed together until death. The Albans saw things differently. Intense personal relationships were discouraged as they got in the way of loyalty to the community and the Emir. This made the early death of a partner – a common occurrence, especially in childbirth – easier to handle. By the age of fifteen or sixteen, Alban women had normally had at least one child before returning to military and agricultural duties. They often changed copemate at the same time, as Sakamir had done.

Miouda and her copemate of three years were childless. Both accepted their relationship had burned out, so there were no objections when she took to remaining in the Ghasar overnight with Cyrus. Sammy said they suited one another like bow and arrow, and he was surprised they’d taken so long to get together. Even Bahm told Cyrus he found the new friendship “just as it ought to be, considering”. Cyrus didn’t ask him what ‘considering’ meant.

Unsurprisingly, the only adverse comment came from Yash. Was it right, he demanded, very loudly and very publicly, for an Alban to have a copemate from outside the settlement? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like it. He also told Miouda she was foolish to have a relationship with someone near the end of his life, and he asked Cyrus – only half in jest – whether he was enjoying Alba’s generous hospitality. Cyrus found this hostility, like so much of the Emir’s recent behaviour, hard to fathom. Since Miouda was considered one of the best-looking women in the community, he put it down partly to jealousy.

The only other stain on the couple’s happiness was an ominous feeling that it wouldn’t last. He couldn’t put a finger on it, Cyrus said one evening as they lay together in the thickening twilight, but he sensed something barbaric was gathering its dark strength to strike.

Miouda raised herself onto one elbow. “It’s to do with Yash’s strange behaviour, and Sakamir going missing, isn’t it? And probably the business of Timur’s head.”

Cyrus nodded. “I’m sure they’re linked.”

“Remember Padmar’s warning?”

“Yes. She was right, wasn’t she? I suppose, when you think about it, there’s something in what Bahm says.” He lay back and waved a hand at the piles of books. “These are the solution – and the problem. Before we found the Soterion, we believed it would be the answer to everything. It’d take us back to the time of the Long Dead and we’d live in peace and happiness.”

“And write poems,” said Miouda, “and make pictures and take those P-H things – what’re they called?”

“Photographs.” He pronounced the P and H at the beginning and end of the word separately, not as Fs. “But it’s not like that, is it? The Long Dead may have done amazing things – driving in cars, flying in the sky – but we now know they weren’t so different from us, were they?”

“Mmm, but they didn’t have Zeds,” said Miouda.

“No, but they had wars. The Odyssey characters are fighting all the time. There’s something else. We – Roxanne, you, me, Sammy – we thought book knowledge was simply a way to a better world. We didn’t see the power Padmar warned us about. The quest for domination is stronger than spears and arrows.

“Take the Salvation Project,” he continued. “It’s like a large and lovely flower, dripping with more honey than we can imagine. Bees from all around are desperate to find it. Some want to carry away the honey and distribute it far and wide; others plan to keep it for themselves. Timur, Padmar, maybe Sakamir, Yash and others we don’t know, they are these selfish bees.”

Miouda lay down again and snuggled close, resting her head on his shoulder. “So we’re the nice bees, are we?” she said quietly, her lips against his ear. “And when we get the honey, we’ll be the powerful ones.”

Cyrus laughed quietly. “For a while, maybe. But we’re vulnerable and the selfish bees are jealous. They won’t leave us in peace for long, I’m sure they won’t.” Running his hand over the smooth skin of her back, he pulled her even closer. “So we’d better enjoy the sweetness while we can.”

“Got it!” cried Sammy, jumping up and doing a little dance. “Look, Cyrus, I’ve found a picture of one. I understand what they are now.”

The other students looked up and smiled. Typical Sammy! He was always so full of energy and enthusiasm, continually coming up with some amazing discovery from the time of the Long Dead. What was it this time?

Cyrus got up and walked over to see what his friend was up to. “Yes, Sammy? Got what?”

“Those things you called ‘trays’ when we brought them up from the vault. You remember, those things over there.” He pointed to a pile of five metal slabs gathering dust in a corner of the hall. “They ain’t trays. They’re computers.”

All the other students except Yash had crowded round the book Sammy had open on the floor before him.

“There you are,” he said, pointing at an array of photographs and diagrams arranged on a double-page spread. “It tells you at the top what it’s all about: ‘The De-velop-ment of the Computer.’ They’re amazing!”

“It says here,” he went on, “that one of these things can have a million books in it! A million, all squashed into one box. And you can write new books with it. Fantastic!”

As he was talking, Miouda had gone over to the pile of computers and returned with one. She laid it on the floor next to the book Sammy had been looking at. He leaned across and opened the lid to reveal the keyboard and screen.

“Dah-dah!” he said triumphantly. “A computer! This kind is called a – hang on a moment…” He ran his finger over the open pages as he read. “Yeah, a … laptop or a notebook. Here’s the picture of one. There were loads of other kinds.”

“So where are the millions of books, Sam?” asked one of the twelve-year-olds.

“Inside, I suppose. I’ll research about it, but I think they show up on this shiny bit.” He pointed to the screen.

“Go on, Sam,” said another of the students. “See if you can make them show up.”

Sammy exhaled loudly and looked across at the Emir. “That’s where the problem comes. You need electricity to make these things go, and we ain’t got any. That’s why I said maybe a patrol could go and get one of them panels –”

“No!” shouted Yash from the other side of the hall. “You heard me last time, didn’t you Sammy? No patrols. I’m not wasting my archers on a daft plan to make a million books come out of a box.”

Sammy sighed heavily. “Ok, ok! Sorry, Yash.”

“Right. So drop it, Sammy. You’re a guest here – and don’t you forget it!”

The Emir’s unreasonable outburst ended the conversation, and the students began to drift back to what they had been doing before the interruption. The awkward silence was broken by Miouda, who had been examining the laptop’s keyboard.

“What do you think S P stands for?” she asked.

“Six People?” one of the twelve-year-olds suggested.

“Why’re you asking?” inquired Cyrus. He stooped down, slipping an arm affectionately round Miouda’s shoulders.

“Someone’s scratched them onto the computer,” she said, pointing to the two letters etched into the aluminium beside the keyboard. “Soterion Property?”

“Oh no!” said Cyrus, his voice suddenly hoarse with excitement. “I bet it’s not that, Miouda. I think it’s what we’ve been looking for: how about S and P standing for ‘Salvation Project’?”

He looked up to find everyone staring at him in astonishment. “That must be it,” he said slowly, thinking out loud. “The books contain everything the Long Dead knew. I imagine they took some time to make. But when they were dying out, the Long Dead didn’t have any time. No time to make new books, anyway. So maybe, as they were working on the Salvation Project, they wrote down what they were doing inside one of these computers.”

He paused to allow the others to take in the significance of his argument. “Yes, that makes sense,” said Miouda. “It must be why they left the computers in the Soterion, alongside the books.”

She stood up. “Here you are, Emir,” she said, picking up the computer and holding it out towards Yash. “It looks like we’ve found the Salvation Project.”

Sammy came to stand next to her. “But we can’t read it until we get electricity.”

“Which means we need a patrol to go and get one of those panel things,” said Cyrus, standing between his two friends.

For a moment, Yash said nothing. Then he rose and walked up to Miouda. “Clever,” he said slowly, taking the laptop from her. “Very clever. You may be right. On the other hand, how do we know Sammy didn’t scratch those letters?”

Moving over to where Miouda had found it, he carefully replaced the laptop on top of the pile. “Let’s leave it here, shall we? I think we need to see what happens before we do anything.”

Cyrus was seething. “‘See what happens’, Yash? What in the name of Alba do you mean?”

Yash strode angrily over to him. “Oh! Don’t you understand, Mister Clever Man?” he shouted, standing so close that his breath ruffled Cyrus’ hair. “I thought you understood everything? Well, let me explain. ‘See what happens’ means leave it alone – got it?”

“I get that, Yash,” said Cyrus steadily. “But it’s not right.”

“Oh really? I’m the Emir and I’ll say what we’ll do with that laptop thing, and when we do it. Understand? And if you challenge me, Cyrus, I’ll break you. You’re not as important as you were, are you? Lots of people can read now. If I were you, Outsider, I’d be very, very careful what you say.”

That evening Cyrus, Miouda and Sammy met together to decide what to do. For whatever reason, Yash had clearly taken against all three of them. In one thing he was right, too – a number of Albans were reading well. Cyrus no longer had a monopoly on learning. If Yash decided to do away with him – and Sammy and Miouda as well – Soterion study would be seriously hampered but it wouldn’t stop altogether. As Yash warned, they had to take great care.

They discussed the possibility of going behind Yash’s back and smuggling a solar panel into Alba without his knowing. Getting out would be easy, said Miouda. The problem would be getting back in. Their absence without permission would be noted, and bringing a large panel in through the gates or over the walls without the guards noticing would be almost impossible.

“But not totally impossible,” said Cyrus. “And we mightn’t need to sneak it in. Listen. How about this?”

He and Sammy could slip out easily enough. They would take the SP laptop with them, find a panel and get it to make electricity. Once the computer was full of electricity – however that worked – they would see what was inside it. The Salvation Project, probably. They would come back with the panel and show everyone how they had found the key to abolishing the Death Month. Not even Yash would dare punish them for that, would he?

Miouda was sceptical. She certainly didn’t want Cyrus and Sammy going off into Zed territory without her. And where would they find this panel? For reasons of security and infection, the Alba settlement had been deliberately set up a long way from Long Dead towns. None of the three knew the surrounding area well and they might search for several moons – months, corrected Sammy – before they found a panel. Even then, they wouldn’t know how to make it work…

Cyrus interrupted her. Yes, it was a dangerous mission. But he had done this sort of thing before, and the alternative was to leave the hope of salvation gathering dust in the corner of the Ghasar. And if Miouda wanted to come with them, that’d be wonderful. But it would be dangerous.

“Hardly more than staying here with Yash in the mood he’s in,” she replied.

In the end, they agreed to investigate further before reaching a firm decision. Sammy would chat to those who had been on patrol and find out where the nearest Long Dead town was; Miouda would learn how computers worked and how they could be filled with electricity; Cyrus would research solar panels. They’d meet up when they had done their research and decide whether to go ahead with the mission.

The meeting never took place. Long before they had finished gathering their information, Cyrus’ relationship with the Emir took a grave turn for the worse.

Two issues widened the gulf between the two men. The first was that Yash, against Cyrus’ advice, had been experimenting with wine-making. Having located vines growing on the other side of the mountain, he had baskets full of grapes carried to a hidden location on the terraces where they were crushed and left in a water tank to ferment. Bahm, who’d seen what was going on and told Cyrus, said Yash intended to keep the process secret so he could present the new drink to the community as a novelty, a gift from their Emir.

The second matter was more serious. For some time Yash had shown great interest in a book about the history of ancient Rome. “It shows how settlements change,” he said when asked why it was so interesting. “This Rome, you see, was like Alba.”

Cyrus, who knew little of Long Dead history, didn’t see the significance of the remark until too late. His suspicions were first aroused one evening when he overheard the Emir talking to a group of his archer friends after class.

“And what happened,” Yash was explaining, “is that instead of having to choose a new Emir every time one died, they had a different system. The leader was called a ‘king’ or an ‘emperor’. When they died, their son – nearly always was a son, not a daughter – took over their job. Simple, eh? It was called ‘monarchy’ – ‘herenary monarchy’, or something like that. A really good idea.”

A couple of days after that, Yash told Cyrus that Jalus and Poso needed extra classes in the morning because they were ‘special’. When Cyrus asked what ‘special’ meant, he was told he’d find out soon enough.

The answer came at the next monthly assembly of the Konnels. As he had done since Yash’s election, Cyrus attended as an honoured Outsider. At the start of the meeting, the Emir stood up and said he had a very important announcement to make. He reminded them – in case they didn’t know – that he had been studying hard and as a consequence of his labours he was well educated, very well educated. He had been reading how groups like the Albans were governed in Long Dead times. The best way was by ‘herenary monarchy’ – and he’d decided that was how Alba would be governed from now on.

“Meaning?” asked one of the older Konnels, a black-haired woman expected to enter her Death Month at any moment.

Yash looked around, grinning. “Well, the most obvious thing is that I’m not going to be an Emir much longer. I’ll be a king. Your king. King Yash!”

Murmurs of surprise and incomprehension ran through the hall. Eventually a single voice cut through the hubbub. “No, that’s completely wrong, Yash. I’m sorry, but you can’t do it. Constants everywhere govern themselves. Choosing our leaders is part of being a Constant. We do not have hereditary kings.”

It was Cyrus. As Yash looked at him, his eyes narrowed and his lip lifted in a sneer. “Don’t say I haven’t warned you, Cyrus,” he began. “And this time you’ve gone too far.”

At that moment, the door of the Ghasar flew open and a guard from the Soterion Gate ran into the hall. “Emir!” she gasped. “Emir, you must come to the gate now. It’s really urgent!”