Slaves of the Mastery (18 page)

That morning, the Johdila chose to attend the sign reading. With each passing day, she was becoming more interested in predictions of the future. Kestrel accompanied her,
remaining discreetly in the background.

Ozoh the Wise arrived, with his escort of guards. He carried his sign mat, and he was followed by his servant. But Kestrel, along with the rest of the assembled court, saw that his servant did
not carry his caged bird.

The royal augur proceeded to unroll the sign mat on the ground, and squat down before it, and study it, all in profound silence, as if nothing was amiss. The Johanna looked from side to side,
and at last said to his wife in a loud whisper,

‘I can’t see the chicken.’

‘Silence!’ hissed the royal augur.

‘Be quiet, Foofy,’ said the Johdi.

Ozoh began to groan. He swayed back and forth, his eyes closed, crooning.

‘He’s never done that before,’ said the Johanna.

The Johdi looked on in alarm. Something terrible was going to happen, she was sure. Kestrel looked at the Grand Vizier, who was watching with furrowed brows, trying to work out what the augur
was up to. She then looked at Zohon. He had no expression of any kind on his smooth handsome face. Kestrel knew at once that this change was somehow his doing.

‘Haroo! Haroo!’ crooned Ozoh. Suddenly he bounded into the air, fell back down prostrate onto the sign mat, and bounced back into his squatting position.

There on the mat, spinning round and round, was an egg.

The entire court gasped. Even Zohon was surprised.

‘To see the future,’ Ozoh intoned, ‘I must reach into the past! The sacred chicken has returned to the egg!’

‘Oh, Foofy!’ cried the Johdi in terror. ‘We shall all have to grow backwards!’

‘The egg,’ said the royal augur, ‘is the sign of new life, the sign of joyful beginnings.’

‘Joyful? Are you sure? That poor chicken.’

‘See how it comes to rest, Little Mother.’

The Johdi calmed down. She liked being called Little Mother. The egg had now stopped spinning.

‘The narrow end favours Haroo. This is the dawn of a new age of love. A blessed sign for the coming marriage!’

He bowed towards the Johdila.

‘So everything’s all right, is it?’ said the Johanna.

‘Better than all right, mightiness. The sacred egg shows the way. Your magnificence has only to look for himself.’

‘Well, I do see it, that’s true.’

‘You see love. You see peace. You see soldiers returning home to their rejoicing families, and putting away their swords, and turning with glad hearts to honest toil.’

Kestrel saw Zohon frown and look away.

‘I see breakfast,’ said the Johanna; and laughing heartily at his own joke, got up out of his folding chair and waddled off to his carriage.

Kestrel was following the Johdila back to their own carriage when Barzan approached, and asked the Johdila for permission to speak to her servant. The Johdila was
surprised.

‘You want to speak to Kess? What about?’

‘A personal matter, radiance.’

Sisi took Kestrel aside.

‘You don’t want to talk to him, do you, darling? He’ll probably put out your eyes with red-hot skewers. He’s been wanting to do it ever since I found you.’

‘I’m sure he only wants to ask me about you.’

‘What about me? What will you tell him?’

‘What would you like me to tell him?’

This was a new way of seeing the matter. Sisi reflected.

‘You could tell him I don’t like this whoever I’m to marry, and I won’t marry him.’

‘He’ll say you can’t not like him if you don’t know who he is.’

‘Oh. Do you think I can’t?’

‘Maybe I should try to find out who he is.’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea. How clever you are. Find out who he is, and then say I don’t like him.’

The Johdila returned to her carriage, and the Grand Vizier spoke with Kestrel.

‘No doubt you heard the augury,’ he said, smiling in what he meant to be a fatherly way. ‘The dawn of a new age of love.’

‘Yes,’ said Kestrel.

‘Love is in the air. The sacred egg has pointed the way.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps the egg also points towards you.’

‘Me?’

‘I believe you have an admirer.’

‘Who?’ Kestrel was genuinely surprised.

‘The handsome and eligible Commander of the Johjan Guards, no less! The man for whom the hearts of the maidens of Gang go pitter-pat!’

Kestrel began to understand.

‘You’re very kind,’ she said, ‘but the Commander has given me no reason to suppose that he favours me.’

‘He’s spoken to you, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there you are! Why would a man like that speak to a girl like you if he didn’t mean to marry you? No, no, depend upon it, he’s courting you.’

‘I see,’ said Kestrel.

‘I admit I can’t imagine why – that’s to say, you’re a bright-eyed little thing, and if he likes you, why not? He has rank, he has wealth, he has – some would
call him handsome, and so he is, in an obvious sort of way. Personally I believe looks of that sort age rapidly, and I’m sure he’ll run to fat – however –’ recovering
himself, ‘you’ll not find a man to match him in all Gang. A fine figure of a man. A noble fellow. One of the best.’

Looking round, he saw that Zohon himself was watching them from a distance.

‘You see! He can’t take his eyes off you. A sweet smile, a soft touch, and he’s yours.’

He nodded twice, satisfied that he had planted the necessary seeds of love, and went on his way.

Zohon waited until the Grand Vizier was out of sight, and then approached Kestrel himself. He did not want to be seen talking to her, so he passed close by without seeming to pay her any
attention. But as he passed he said loudly enough for her to hear,

‘Meet me in my carriage.’

Kestrel waited a few minutes, and then did as she was told. In Zohon’s carriage, she was surprised to find the royal augur, Ozoh the Wise, but no sign of Zohon himself.

They looked at each other with mutual suspicion.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Ozoh.

‘I was told to come,’ said Kestrel.

‘So was I.’

They said nothing more for a few moments. Ozoh was looking at the silver voice hanging round Kestrel’s neck.

‘That pendant. It’s unusual. Where did you get it?’

‘From home,’ said Kestrel.

‘I’d like to buy it from you. I’d pay you well.’

‘It’s not for sale.’

Before Ozoh could speak again, there came a chuckling cooing sound, from somewhere very near at hand. Ozoh jumped up.

‘My chicken!’

He spun round, his baggy pantaloons billowing.

‘Where are you, my silky one?’

The sound was coming from the bedroom half of the carriage, which was reached through an open door in the dividing partition. As Kestrel watched, Ozoh passed through the door, and approached the
curtained bed beyond. The cooing had now become an alarmed cackling.

‘I’m coming, my dove! I’m coming!’

Ozoh pulled back the curtains, and froze, staring. On the bed lay Zohon, fully dressed, holding the chicken by its legs, upside down.

He smiled at the augur, and swung himself into a sitting position. Reaching out his free hand, he took his silver hammer from the table by the bed.

‘Did your signs foretell this?’ he said.

With one rapid sweep of the bladed hammer, he sliced off the chicken’s head. Ozoh gave a terrible croaking sob. Zohon held out the headless corpse, blood streaming, and Ozoh took it, and
pressed it to his bare painted chest.

Zohon rose to his full height.

‘From now on,’ he said, ‘you work for me.’

He looked through the open doorway at Kestrel, and smiled for her in the way he had smiled for the augur. He scuffed the toe of one boot sharply over the floor. The chicken’s head came
skittering over the planks to rest at Kestrel’s feet.

Kestrel heard Ozoh sobbing quietly, as he stroked the little bundle of white feathers he held in his arms.

‘Oh, my dove,’ he was saying. ‘Oh, my silky one.’

Zohon turned to stare at the augur.

‘I expect to hear signs favouring my ambitions from now on,’ he said. ‘You will speak of the need for a strong leader. You will speak of the treachery of strangers. You will
say that the purest love is found at home. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes,’ said Ozoh, bowing his head.

‘You may go.’

Ozoh shuffled out of the carriage, with the remains of his chicken still clutched in his arms, its blood smeared over his turquoise-painted stomach.

Zohon turned his merciless gaze on Kestrel.

‘I make a good friend,’ he said, ‘but a dangerous enemy.’

Kestrel knew he had meant her to see him kill Ozoh’s chicken, to frighten her. He had succeeded. She had always thought him stupid, but now she thought him cruel as well as stupid. The
combination frightened her very much.

‘Why were you talking to Barzan?’ he demanded.

‘He was talking to me. I never went to him.’

‘Why was Barzan talking to you?’

He swung his silver hammer back and forth, never taking his eyes off her.

‘Because of you. He thinks you’re showing an interest in me. He wants me to encourage you.’

‘He thinks –!’

Suddenly he burst out into a peal of rich full laughter.

‘He thinks I’m interested in you! Wonderful! What a fool the man is! Well, why not? Let him think it. Tell him I’m courting you. Tell him the great Zohon is lovesick for the
Johdila’s servant girl.’

He rocked with laughter at the thought.

‘Well, well, well! I wasn’t expecting that.’ He calmed down, and became serious once more. ‘What of the Johdila? Do you have a message for me?’

‘Not quite a message,’ said Kestrel.

She felt her cheeks begin to flush. She had prepared for this moment, but that was before she had seen Zohon’s cruelty. She was glad to deceive him, but she feared for Sisi. Zohon
interpreted her awkwardness differently.

‘You mustn’t be shy,’ he said. ‘Just tell me what she says.’

‘The Johdila is afraid to speak,’ said Kestrel. ‘But to let you know her heart, she will give you . . .’

Again she hesitated. Then, with her eyes lowered, she went on,

‘She will give you a secret sign.’

Zohon’s eyes widened.

‘A sign of her love! What is the sign?’

Kestrel slowly pressed the palms of her hands together, and slowly interclasped the fingers.

‘The sign of eternal love.’

Zohon looked on Kestrel’s clasped hands as if mesmerised. He drew a long sigh.

‘The sign of eternal love,’ he murmured. ‘When will she show me this sign?’

‘When she can. You must be patient. She is very frightened.’

‘I understand. Tell the Johdila – tell Sisi – no harm will ever come to her. Tell her she is under the protection of the Hammer of Gang.’

He raised his silver hammer as he spoke. On its blade Kestrel saw the lingering stain of the chicken’s blood.

M
arius Semeon Ortiz climbed the wide stairs to the upper levels of the High Domain, forcing himself to maintain a dignified pace, though his heart
was racing. From above he heard the sound of an orchestra playing, led by a virtuoso violin. A good sign: the Master only played when he was in a contented mood. Surely, thought Ortiz, the moment
has come. The Master can’t delay much longer. The wedding party was said to be only days away, and the Master had yet to name his son and heir.

Here in the great light-filled spaces beneath the jewelled domes, where no objects, no items of furniture, no curtains, no lamps, were permitted to interrupt the glowing emptiness, the huge
figure of the Master was striding up and down, violin to his shoulder, bow sawing on the strings, leading his private orchestra and chorus. The musicians stood, their eyes on the Master,
accompanying him from memory. The chorus waited in silence, their eyes also following the Master, all swivelling at once as he swept past them and back again. Over to one side stood two patient
figures, one with a large book in his hands, the other with a bucket and mop. The man with the book was Meeron Graff, Keeper of the Master’s Household. The other was Spalian, the
Master’s personal servant.

The sweet chords of the strings gave way to sonorous brass, as the Master, lifting his bow, turned to greet his visitor. Striding down the cavernous space, eyes half-closed, bearded face
uplifted, his bow now striking the air, the Master commanded great climbing flourishes of trumpets, and piled on mountain ranges of drumbeats, before returning to his own instrument, and with a
breathtaking display of vaulting notes, drew the composition to a close in a mighty final chord.

Ortiz stood still and marvelled. The Master was bareheaded, his shaggy mane of white hair falling about his shoulders, his great grey eyes alight with the passion of the music. How often Ortiz
had gazed on that noble face! In that generous brow he saw wisdom, in that great jutting nose he saw power of will, in those broad and ruddy cheeks he saw kindness. How old was the Master? No one
knew. Perhaps sixty, perhaps more. He was as vigorous as ever, as strong in his appetites, and as loving. It was said that the Master had only to look into your eyes to know the secrets of your
heart. But Ortiz had no secrets from him. He had been brought to the Mastery as a tiny child, after the death of his father. The Master was the only father he had ever known. Everything he did was
done to win his approval and his love.

Now the last vibrations of the music died away, and the musicians lowered their instruments. The Master let his violin fall from his shoulder, and beckoned. Ortiz stepped forward, and prostrated
himself on the floor before him.

‘Up, boy! Up!’

Ortiz rose.

‘You’ve done well.’

‘To please you, Master.’

The Master nodded. ‘Walk with me.’

He turned and strode over the echoing floor. This was how the Master was always to be found, pacing the upper levels, violin in hand, his eyes on the far mountains or the lake or the boundless
sky. He hated crowds and silence, walls and stillness: so he was always in motion, always surrounded by great space. It was as if his outsize figure could not be contained in any ordinary room.