Powder Burn (Burn with Sam Blackett #1) (18 page)

Lens shifted on his bench. Even the slight movement sounded loud to her. She took another deep breath.
“There’s one thing I have learned since then, though,” she said. “It was wrong, that war. We didn’t need to be there. An all-out war was not the answer to that problem. And I think Lens is right, I don’t think Jortse has got the right answer to this one.”

“
Thank you,” said Lens, softly.

Pete squeezed her hand.
“So what do we do?” he asked. “If the Council decides against him, he’ll try to fight his way out of here and across the border.”

“
Maybe Gache and his men will stop him,” said Lens.

“
If they don’t, then we must be the second line of defense, we should go with him. And if he gets away, then we have to get the sword off him somehow. It’s the sword that gives him a belief in his authority,” she said.

“
And how the hell are we going to do that?” said Lens. “You think he’s just going to hand it over while Gache’s men shoot at us?”

“
Sam,” said Pete, “Jortse told us he didn’t like heights, right?”

She thought for a moment.
“Yeah, I think so, just after the ambush on the border.”

“
Right, then I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Do you guys remember that old movie
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
?”

It was an hour later when Jortse returned, now dressed in a long, sweeping maroon robe, tied at the waist with a golden rope. Sam, Pete and Lens had all taken a bench each and were dozing.
Sam opened one eye but said nothing as he entered the cell, and he took the fourth bench and sat without a word. It was about twenty silent minutes later when Dromo Gache came for them all. “They’re ready,” he said, as the door clanked and creaked open on the rusty hinges.

Swirling, guttering torches lit the way, and she was able to see how the corridors were constructed from a mixture of natural fissures and other parts that had been carved out of the rock. Everything dripped with condensation. Sam assumed that they had not been blindfolded this time because they were already so deep inside the chambers. A mistake. The route that Dromo led them backtracked through several of the turns that she had
memorized, before taking another fork deeper into the mountain. It was easy to revise her mental map so she could find her way back to the entrance. The long folds of maroon cloth swished around Jortse’s feet as they approached a door guarded by a silent sentry in another of the heavy black cloaks, hands crossed over his belly.

They passed through the door
, and the walls of the corridor fell away from them and she stopped, stilled by the grandeur that opened up around them. They were entering a cavern, stretching away into darkness beyond a circle of flaming torches – light, heat and smoke swirling upwards. There was a huge gold Buddha, and great tapestries and frescoes lined the parts of the walls that she could see in the shadows. There were more Buddhas – fierce, benign and meditative – and rows of prayer wheels, their gold surfaces blackened with the yak-butter grease from uncountable hands. Thousands of yak-butter lamps seeped out their yellow, smoky light. The smell was overwhelming. She thought she might gag, and started to breathe through her mouth. 

Jortse and the others had followed Gache without hesitating, and she had to hurry to catch up
to them. Before them was a vast semicircle of a wooden table. The sword lay in its scabbard, at the center. Around it, on the circumference, sat what must be the Council – twelve men, in matching maroon robes, a single empty seat at the left-hand end. Gache halted in front of the table and, with his hands in a sign of prayer, made a shallow bow. Jortse, standing beside him, made no such gesture. 

“
I present Jortse Choedron to the Council. And these are his American friends, the people I told you about,” said Gache, with a quick stab of the hand towards Sam. He walked to his seat at the table. It occurred to her that he had never even bothered to ask their names – but then, this was not about them. Nevertheless, their fate would be tied to the outcome.
At least they are going to conduct the whole thing in English,
she thought.

“
I am Trisong Detsen, president of the Council. Who will speak for you?” asked the man at the center of the circle as he stood. He was tall and rail-thin like Gache, with the same lined face, but finished with a silver-grey goatee beard.

“
I will speak,” replied Jortse, his expression as dead as the pale, blank eyes.

“
You may sit,” instructed Detsen, waving Sam, Pete and Lens to three high-backed chairs set a little to one side.

Sam sat, shuffled for a few moments and then gave up. The chair was not designed to allow its user
– the interrogated, the petitioner – to feel comfortable or settled.

“
Where is the king?” demanded Jortse.

“
The king is safe, he will hear of this meeting,” replied Detsen.

“
He didn’t feel it was worth his time to attend himself?”

“
It is too risky to have the king together in the same place as the Council, unless the circumstances are exceptional.”

“
I can assure you that the circumstances are exceptional,” said Jortse, folding his arms.

Detsen watched him impassively for several heartbeats.
“You should know that all of Shibde was sorry to hear of the death of your father. I would be grateful if you would communicate both the country’s and the Council’s sympathy to your mother.”

Jortse acknowledged the sentiment with the merest nod.

Detsen’s eyes flicked down to the paper in front of him. “You have called the Council together – your blood, your family, gives you that right. What have you to say to us?”

“
Before you lies the sword of the warrior Emperor Dali Shakabpu of Shibde. The legend says that it will be wielded again by the Seeker, who will free Shibde from its slavery, and I – Jortse Choedron, son of Jortense Choedron, exiled prince of Shibde – I am the Seeker.”

“
And you can, of course, prove this,” stated Detsen.

“
The sword is its own proof.”

“
I’m sure you feel that way, but you must understand that, after twelve hundred years, the Council will need a little more than your word for it.”

“
The sword is the proof,” repeated Jortse.

Detsen eyed him across the table.
“And I repeat, the sword on its own is not adequate. Is there not some evidence of its authenticity – where did you find it, what led you there ...?”

“
The sword is its own proof,” replied Jortse. “Strike me,” he added.

A cold silence seeped into the huge cavern. Even the burning, sputtering torches seemed to be holding their breath. Detsen managed a smile, with all the wariness of a rat in a snake pit.
“Violence is not our way,” he said, evenly. “You know that.”

“
It is at my own bidding. I’m sure the Buddha would make an exception in these circumstances,” replied Jortse.

Trisong Detsen stood.
“You say the Buddha would forgive me, but what will your mother say?”

Jortse didn’t reply. He stepped forward, picked up the sword, drew it from the scabbard and offered it, flat on his open palms. Detsen leaned forward and gripped the hilt. Sam briefly, heart-stoppingly thought that she saw him tense, as if to simply thrust it into Jortse’s chest. Then Detsen picked the weapon up, and walked around the table, feeling the balance of the sword in his hands.

“It is a terrible thing, violence,” said Detsen. “Have you ever seen it, Jortse Choedron? Close up, in the flesh, I mean. Not on your American cinema screens.”

Jortse watched him approach, moving into the open.
“Strike me,” he said again.

The two men were facing each other across the rough rock floor. But Detsen’s eyes were locked on the weapon in his hand; the knurled grip and intricate silver decorative work on the pommel and crossguard. He ran his eyes down the straight blade,
over its immaculate polish and edge, rolling it in the light, the fire flickering off the steel.

“
I saw them cut down my people,” said Detsen. “Demagistani soldiers, with their terrible modern weapons, firing into unarmed crowds. Crowds that had formed to keep them from the Hall of the Mountains long enough for the king to escape. A crowd whose only weapon was its size and bulk, its sheer physical presence, whose only means of resistance was to give up life.” He looked up at Jortse. “I watched their blood pool in the gutters.”

“
Strike me,” ground out Jortse.

Sam had no idea what Jortse’s plan was, just a sudden intuition that it was a terrible mistake. He was going to be cut down where he stood. She could imagine what was running through Detsen’s mind
...
this one act of violence, to save many – the death of the usurper, the carrier of violence ...
Then there was a clatter as the sword hit the floor and the president of the Council stepped back, shaking his open palms and stifling a cry.

“
It’s hot, it burned me ...”

Jortse stepped forward and picked up the sword in his right hand. He laid the blade on his left palm and looked down the three feet of bright steel, the point
leveled at Detsen. “The sword gives up its power only to the Seeker, just as the legend foretold.”

Detsen stood his ground, and no one else moved or spoke. Eventually, Jortse rolled the sword tip downwards onto the floor, and rested a hand on each side of the crossguard. The silence held until Detsen returned to his seat at the head of the Council.

“And what, precisely, do you want to do with this power, Jortse Choedron?” he said, finally.

“
I want the freedom of my people. And I want the throne stolen from my father.”

“
The throne was not stolen from your father. It was shown that Ugyen was the firstborn of the twins, the rightful heir.”

“
‘No, you decided that, Trisong Detsen, you alone. The Council took powers that it didn’t have and decided the succession. My grandfather had never spoken of the firstborn –”

“
Others were there at the birth, their evidence was heard. The matter was decided.”

“
My grandfather forbad anyone else to speak of it – his wishes were in his will, and it was never read. You took the matter into your own hands, and my father was forced to flee to India. Only Yigme Dorge stood by him, and his son Tashi died on the dangerous path taken to stand before you today.” Jortse hesitated for a moment to give his next words more effect. “And even if what you say were true, on Ugyen’s death I am the next in line for the throne. He has no heir. Give me the power that will one day be mine regardless, but give it to me now, before it is too late, before all that is Shibde is swept away.”

There were murmurs all along the table. Sam could sense movement in the shadows. There were guards, and they were getting edgy. Jortse still had the sword
–but Detsen just leaned back, clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “You have done very well from your exile, Jortse Choedron. Private American education, Ivy League university, a Wall Street job ... what I don’t understand is why you left all that to come back here, to a place where you are a stranger, that you have not the slightest understanding of ...”

“
You joke with me, Trisong Detsen. I know more about Shibde than anyone here – who found the sword?”

“
Then what is the price of a yak liver in the Tsaparang market?”

“
That is not relevant –”

“
It is to the people that have to buy this offal to survive. Our people.”

“
Then I can tell you that it will be a great deal cheaper when I am king, when Demagistan has been run out of this land and peace and self-determination are returned to the people of Shibde. I’ve come back here because I’m sick and tired of watching a sick and tired old man refuse to stand up to the invader.”

“
And how will you force Demagistan from Shibde – with that sword? Whatever trick you have come up with to make it burn my hand, it won’t work against a division of Demagistan’s soldiers with automatic weapons, artillery and air support. They will slaughter you and anyone that stands with you – and then they will slaughter many more innocents as a warning to others.”

“
There will be a cost in freeing my land.” Jortse’s reply was clipped and taut, and not remotely defensive.

“
Your land?” The scorn poured into Detsen’s voice. He leaned forward. “You know nothing of
our
land, or you wouldn’t be here now stirring up trouble for a people who already have plenty enough to go around.”

“
No, for too long we have crouched and sniveled.” Jortse banged the tip of the sword against the floor. “It is time to fight back. We have fought before.” Now he shook the sword. “This comes from a time when Demagistan knelt at Shibde’s feet. I will use it until that time comes again.”

“
That was twelve hundred years ago,” replied Detsen. “Now, they are hundreds of millions strong and we are so few, so powerless. Listen to your own words, they are filled with your ego. It is only glory you seek, not the best for Shibde.”

“
How can you say that? They imprison and torture
our
people just for singing the wrong songs, for having photos of the king, for flying our flag – it has to stop.”

“
It is not our dharma to kill and make war,” replied Detsen. “Better that the wheels of time turn, and then Demagistan will be ground beneath them, like every other empire. It is just a matter of time.”

“
How much time?” Jortse shook his head in disbelief. “Would you have my people live a thousand years as Demagistan’s slaves, rather than fight? This is the kind of leadership I have come to expect from you and Ugyen. For so many years I have watched as you have done nothing. If you had modernized the army, the country, the government – this ridiculous Council – when you had the chance, before Demagistan invaded, then this would never have happened. And even then, if you’d fought them when their grip was weak, you might have stopped this disaster. But no – and so in another ten or twenty years everything will be gone. There will only be Demagistani people, Demagistani buildings, Demagistani language and Demagistani thoughts in
our
land.”