Riding the Serpent's Back (38 page)

“Then how?”

“The only way to earn the support of the Morani is through their sense of honour and obligation, and that has already been tried. You will not win their support, because they already bear an obligation of honour to your enemy. I will represent your case to them in the most positive light, but the best you can hope for is to be allowed to leave with your life. Again, I will do what I can on your behalf.”

As they spoke, the women and children had started to move about the hall again, preparing for the evening meal. Now, Qobi stood and gestured for Monahl to do the same. “Let me show you my village,” he said. “In return I would be grateful if you would tell me about the world beyond: remind me of how awful it all is.”

~

She told him of the fighting, of poverty and disease, of streets filled with towering mounds of garbage and ordure. The more horrible the things she thought of to tell him, the happier Qobi became. “Oh bliss! Bliss!” he cried. “It is truly as horrible as I recall. Thank you, Kunuk: you make me very happy that I have my small mud hut and the trust of these fine people. Please, go on. Tell me more.”

As they walked, Qobi introduced her to some of the children and he explained to her the exaggerated shape of these people’s heads. “There is a special ceremonial headgear carved from the hollowed trunk of a rare and, in their beliefs, blessed tree, the jao-tat. When a baby is born, its first experience of the world is to have its head bound up in this contraption so that the skull is compressed into this shape while the bone is still soft and the fontanelle still open. Within a matter of days, the skull sets in this new shape. It doesn’t hurt the child at all.”

Later, just as the sun passed through its dramatic and succinct setting phase, Qobi said, “Come, Kunuk. It is time for us to eat.”

Two long tables had been set up in the hall, both little above ground level. At one end of the building, the women and children sat, talking and laughing, bells continually jangling. At the other, the men sat quietly.

The silence spread as all faces turned to watch Qobi and Monahl go to the men’s table and lower themselves to the floor. Monahl glanced around, as gradually the noise rose back to its previous level.

She sat quietly, as Qobi conversed with several of his neighbours. She looked again at the women with their heavy burden of jewellery. She looked at the men, either talking in low voices or staring at her in silence. The hall had been decorated with effigies of Huipo: life-size rag dolls with tufts of hair, bodies painted red to signify flensed skin.

Qobi had explained to her that it was a popular misconception that the Morani worshipped Huipo above all other gods because they were a race of warriors. They worshipped him because of his traditional portrayal as a man whose skin had been flayed from his body. “You walk across those soda-flats for too long,” he said, “and that’s exactly how you feel: Huipo embodies what for these people is an everyday fact of life.” The fact that the Morani were
also
a race of brutal warriors was merely coincidence, he insisted with a smile.

Most of the cooking seemed to be taking place somewhere behind the hall – the smell of roasting meat drifted in tantalisingly through the screened doorways. But the first course was cooked on a fire situated in the centre of the hall, between the two long tables.

Monahl watched as a large iron pot was suspended over the low flames. Two women came in, carrying a large bucket between them. Without spilling a drop, they filled the cooking pot with water. A short time later they returned with what Monahl assumed to be more water, but when they tipped it up, a silver torrent of live fish cascaded into the pot. At least the food would be fresh.

Monahl returned her attention to the men around her, but the only response she received was a few sullen stares. She had no idea what Qobi was discussing with the Morani, and he clearly felt no need to inform her.

After a time, a frenzied splashing sound came from the pot as the water approached boiling point. Soon, the fish were leaping into the air, twisting their bodies and flipping before splashing back down into the water. Eventually, they fell quiet again.

The fish were served in a hollowed wooden trough which was placed in the centre of the table. Monahl hesitated to see how the others ate then, copying them, leaned forward and picked one up in her fingers and bit its head off. She dipped its body into the thick broth they were served in, surprised at how good it tasted.

As she ate, Qobi spoke to her for the first time this evening. “The tal is an ancient dish of the Morani,” he said. “The fish live near hot springs, in water that you or I could not even bear to touch. When the water becomes even hotter they reach their breeding frenzy. That is why they are traditionally cooked alive: before they die their reproductive emissions create the most exquisite of sauces.”

Monahl didn’t even pause as she raised another fish to her mouth. She smiled at Qobi, and bit through the creature’s head. Controlling the reflex response to retch, she said, “Please tell my hosts that I find it delicious, if that would be the correct thing to say.” She dipped the rest of the small fish in the fecund sauce and made herself eat it.

When the tal was finished, it was replaced by a long platter loaded with some kind of roast meat – goat or venison, she thought – and a selection of warmed nuts and fruit. As they ate, Qobi said to Monahl, “I have explained your mission to my friends. I told them that Chichéne Pas is a great warrior-leader and that he would deem it an honour to be joined in his tributes to Huipo by men gathered from the plains of the Morani.”

“What was their response?”

“They asked why he sent only a priest, and not a unit of fighting men as before. I explained that you are his brother, and that he could honour them no more highly than to send his beloved brother into their trust. They asked me what value they should place on such a thing as ‘trust’.”

“You said before that they have pledged support for Lachlan,” said Monahl. “This unit of fighting men you mention – they were his?”

“Edri-ab-Halahm has asked me to explain to you the circumstances of their pledge. He has no respect for you because you have been here for several hours and have fought no-one. I explained that you had issued no challenge because you were already aware that their support had been pledged to another. He accepts that, and asks me to explain the situation more fully.”

“What did Lachlan do?”

“He sent an envoy,” said Qobi. “About three months ago. He came at the head of a unit of thirty fighting men, each of them on horseback and armed with muskets and atlats. He came because Lachlan had become aware that the Morani had paid no tribute to Tule and he thought it time that they found a way to pay him. I know all this because I translated for him, the first time I had used the True Tongue in over a year.”

~

“Every province must pay its tributary taxes,” said the man who had introduced himself as Envoy Sandos from Tule.

Qobi bowed before the man, wondering how he could rephrase such a demand so that Edri-ab-Halahm would not take offence. He would do anything to prevent Edri-ab-Halahm taking offence. “Envoy Sandos,” he said. “My people have certain ways of expressing these matters. They would take your words as an insult to Huipo and that would be the least productive way to begin negotiations.”

As soon as he finished speaking Qobi regretted his words. It was so long since he had dealt with outsiders.

“Have you forgotten why you are here, man?” said Sandos, leaning down from his saddle. “I know who you are, and I know your disgraceful reason for choosing to be what you are. And yet here you are, a missionary, pleading that my words offend these heathens’ blasphemous disregard for the True Faith! If these people don’t pay their tributes then you will be held personally responsible. Do you understand?”

Qobi nodded. What worried him more than this educated thug’s words was the fact that they had uncovered his secret shame of twenty years ago. They must be serious indeed, if they had taken the trouble to discover his illicit love for the boy, Demetr – the shame of his love for a fifteen year-old votary would have broken his family apart, if he had not done so himself by leaving to proselytise for the True Faith.

“Good,” said Sandos. “Then you must use your influence to bring these heathens into the fold. They have traded their soda for too long without paying tribute. Principal Lachlan wishes this oversight to be corrected. From the western tribes he will accept payment in minerals and precious metals from their mines in the highlands. From the plains Morani, he is rather taken with the idea of a unit of personal guards drawn from the most noble warriors of the region. Our position is not negotiable. If haggling is required then we will initially ask for, say, an additional fifty whores, a demand we will be prepared to drop as negotiations progress.”

At Qobi’s side, Edri-ab-Halahm was growing impatient. Qobi turned to him and said, “The newcomer is honoured that you have no wish to eat him, Edri-ab-Halahm. He wishes me to convey to you the good wishes of his king, a man who would aspire to be even as noble as yourself. He regrets that he has been so long in establishing contact with the noble Morani.”

Edri-ab-Halahm was not satisfied. He knew when Qobi was obfuscating and with a click of his teeth he made it clear that he was displeased with his servant and occasional lover.

When Lachlan’s envoy was shown into the hall, he seemed to take over the space as if it was his own.

Edri-ab-Halahm gestured to Qobi with a nod of the head that he wished to speak with him in private.

Behind the hall, a group of women scurried away with a jingling of bells as the two approached. “What do they want?” the Morani asked, dropping his formal battle-speech for his confidant. “Don’t lie to me.”

Qobi knew that Edri-ab-Halahm was at his most dangerous when pretending to be casual. At least when their talk was constrained by formality, there were rules by which to operate. Now, Qobi thought carefully before saying, “He is a warrior, a soldier. He represents a man who has, in effect, become king of the largest city in the Rift. This king believes our people should make some kind of gesture towards him: an acknowledgement that he is a greater leader.” He knew how fine a line he trod. He didn’t dare look at Edri-ab-Halahm, and was tremendously relieved when the village leader’s reply came.

“We Morani are far greater warriors than they are,” Edri-ab-Halahm said. “Huipo ensures that. But compared to the countless millions of men who live in the Rift, what are we? If every Morani killed a hundred in battle, they would still outnumber us greatly. We must tackle this problem in an honourable way. What if we were to kill this man and his servants?”

Qobi had already been tempted by that possibility, but he shook his head. “They would send more men, more heavily armed.”

Edri-ab-Halahm nodded. “Then we must find another way.”

That evening, as they ate in the long hall, Qobi translated Edri-ab-Halahm’s decision to Envoy Sandos. “Edri-ab-Halahm is prepared to negotiate,” he said. “But, as I have already explained, it is a delicate matter for these people. Defeat must be presented in such a way that it fits with their code of honour.”

Sandos seemed more amenable with food in his belly. “So how does he want it?” he asked.

“A fight between equals,” he said. “Edri-ab-Halahm proposes that the finest, most noble warrior of this settlement should stand in a formal single combat against a man of your choosing. If your man kills ours then it would be only proper that the Morani should make tributary payment to repair their damaged honour.”

“And if he should lose?”

“Edri-ab-Halahm will show mercy and spare your lives.”

For a moment it appeared that the envoy would explode, but he managed to contain his anger. “Our man will win,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Because that man will be me.”

The duel took place the next day, under the glaring heat of the noon sun. Sandos wore the traditional cotton padding on his shoulders and chest to deflect his opponent’s blows, and a tin helmet which fitted tightly about his skull.

Edri-ab-Halahm had chosen Yulou-ab-Te, a man approaching his fiftieth year. He had fought for the village on many occasions in the past and, despite his declining years and his expanded waistline, he was still an imposing sight. Dressed for battle, he wore only a thong and a twist of snakeskin in his waxed spikes of hair.

They stood facing each other in a clearing before the long hall. All around them, the villagers gathered. Sandos’ men stood in a tightly packed group with their horses. Qobi wondered what their instructions were: to intervene if it looked as if their commander was about to lose? To ransack the village if he should lose? Simply to save their own skins?

Yulou-ab-Te spat in the dust, ready to fight.

They circled warily, each armed with a hand-weapon of their own and one of their opponent’s choice. Yulou-ab-Te had chosen a heavy bone club, with a slender leather loop to secure it to the wrist. Sandos had chosen knives, although the Morani had tossed his disdainfully aside when offered it.

For long minutes, they circled, each swinging their club.

Then Sandos straightened, drew the knife from his belt and hurled it at the Morani warrior. He was a good shot, and he knew it.

The knife spun blade over handle through the air, heading straight for the Morani’s heart.

Sandos smiled: so easy.

Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Yulou-ab-Te swung his club and swatted the knife out of the air.

The smile vanished from Sandos’ face as he stared at his knife, a safe distance away in the dirt. Now, they were equally armed, but the club was a weapon the Morani had used for many years, and one that Sandos had probably never seen before today.

Yulou-ab-Te stepped towards Sandos. Now, it was the Morani’s turn to grin. His first serious swing glanced off one of the envoy’s shoulder pads. Sandos twisted and clubbed the Morani across the ribs, then backed rapidly away as his opponent straightened.

The Morani lunged again, and his club hit Sandos jarringly on the same shoulder, but there was something about the Morani’s movements that was laboured, allowing the envoy to club him again in the ribs. This time, instead of twisting away, Sandos stood his ground and struck again and it was the Morani’s turn to back off.