Slaves of the Mastery (31 page)

Ortiz held Kestrel close, and felt her shiver as she panted to regain her breath, and saw that her face veil was fluttering away from her lips with each breath. He leaned his head close over her
shoulder and whispered,

‘May I dance with you till the day I die.’

It was no more than the conventional compliment of the bridegroom to the bride at the end of the tantaraza, but he meant every word. He was also watching her veil. She did not give the customary
response, but her breath moved the light silk, and for a moment he glimpsed her mouth and chin. It was enough. He had been studying that face all morning. Somehow, impossibly, his partner in the
dance was not the princess he was to marry, it was the unknown lady he loved. Bursting with joy at the discovery, thinking nothing of the consequences, made bold by her presence in his arms
disguised as his bride, he moved to kiss her.

Zohon’s eyes flashed towards his waiting captains, and his hand began to rise in the signal for attack. But before he could complete the movement, Kestrel turned away, slipped out of
Ortiz’s embrace, and ran off the platform.

A ripple of surprise rose up from the arena. Ortiz bowed to the Johanna, and to the Master, and returned to his place. Here he beckoned Bowman to his side.

‘It was her!’ he whispered. ‘Did you see the dance?’

‘I saw,’ said Bowman.

‘She’s the true princess! Only a princess could dance like that!’

Kestrel re-entered the side room, her feelings in a turmoil.

‘Kess!’ cried Sisi, jumping up. ‘I met him! I talked to him!’

Kestrel hardly heard. Her fingers shaking violently, she began unhooking the bridal dress as fast as she could. She was burning with shame inside. How could she have danced with her enemy? No,
far worse, how could she have allowed herself to love the dance?

‘Bowman! Your brother!’

‘What?’

‘He was here. We talked. Oh, Kess, he’s so sweet. So grave and kind. He thinks I’m one of my servants. He says I’m beautiful. He’s going to love me.’

Kestrel stopped thinking about the dance, suddenly aware that the critical moment was now upon them. She pulled off the tight white dress and helped the Johdila to put it on.

‘But Sisi, you’re about to be married.’

‘No, I’m not. I’ll never marry him. Never ever ever.’

‘What will your father say?’

‘I don’t care.’

She pressed her pretty lips together and made her most stubborn face. Kestrel finished dressing herself, and then took the Johdila’s hands in hers and spoke to her gravely.

‘Listen to me, Sisi. I’m your friend. You must realise what you’re doing.’

‘Oh, I do, darling. I’m going to my own wedding and not getting married.’

‘There’ll be trouble.’

‘Of course there will. Everyone will be frightfully cross.’

‘Trouble, and fighting, and danger.’

‘Yes, I expect so.’ A flicker of anxiety clouded her amber eyes. ‘What should I do?’

‘Stay close to your father and mother. The guards will protect you.’

‘And you, Kess. You’re my friend.’

‘No. I must go with my brother.’

‘I want to go with him too.’

‘It’s impossible, Sisi. You know it as well as I do.’

‘I don’t know it! How do you know what I know? You’re not me.’

‘I know you’re a princess, who’s always been looked after by servants. You won’t like it where we’re going. It’ll be too hard for you.’

‘No, it won’t! Why are you being horrid to me?’

‘You’d have to walk all day, with the wind and rain on your face, and sleep on the hard ground. You wouldn’t be beautiful any more.’

‘Oh.’ That gave Sisi pause for thought. She frowned as she struggled to understand her own feelings.

‘I wouldn’t like not to be beautiful. But I wouldn’t like to lose you and Bowman, either.’

‘Who knows what will happen to us all?’

She gave Sisi a quick hug, and a kiss on her cheek.

‘Just in case we don’t meet again. I’ve liked being your friend.’

She lowered the veil over the Johdila’s sweet and troubled face, and let the gossamer cloud of the body veil drop around her, and opened the door.

T
he Master looked down on all he had created, and was pleased. This great domed hall was his own design; as was the palace-city of which it was a
part, and the lake from which it rose, and the nation all round it. He had given his life to the making of this nearly perfect world, in all its details. Year after year he had drawn the best from
his people, and caused them to work together without conflict. Year after year he had weeded out the shoots of rivalry and discord, he had given discipline to the idle and purpose to the lost. By
his will alone he had forged out of the mess and muddle of humanity this work of art: and now, with this wedding, which effectively made him the ruler of the civilised world, he was weaving all the
threads of his creation together into a single great performance. His people were his instrument. From them he was drawing his sweetest melody, his most stirring music. He was playing the
world.

The climax of this long-planned masterwork was to be the exchange of vows. All the musical motifs, from the moment the bride had entered the High Domain, had been designed to culminate in the
mighty chords that were about to rise up from every player and every singer in the Mastery. United in sound, all would rejoice as one.

As the Master waited for the bride to return, he let his gaze travel over the packed hall below. At first it had irritated him to see the great mass of Johjan Guards occupying the space he had
set aside for his own people. But then he had reflected that these soldiers too were now in effect his people. Let them see, and hear, and marvel. Their ruler and his fat wife looked up as if the
whole proceedings overawed them, which was as it should be. Young Marius had danced to perfection, which made the Master smile down upon him. And there behind him –

A young man was looking up at him. Their eyes met. The young man at once dropped his eyes. The Master frowned. It was Ortiz’s truth-teller. There was something about him that wasn’t
right. The Master felt irritated. This was not the time for petty distractions. What was wrong with the boy? Ah, yes, that was it. The boy wasn’t afraid of him.

Curious, that. But there would be time enough to investigate later. The last movement of his great symphony was about to begin, as soon as the bride returned.

Zohon too waited with mounting impatience for the Johdila. His men were all in place, his plan was now heading towards its trigger moment. Ever since he had seen the Johdila
sign to him through the trees, he had been sure of her love. Knowing she loved him, he was sure she would not give herself in marriage to the heir to the Mastery. And now, here in this very hall,
he had seen her repeat her pledge to him, and sign to him to wait before ordering his men to strike. There was only one possible explanation for this. She meant to declare her true will to all the
world. She herself would call on him, and he would be ready for the call, with his invincible army at his side. That way when battle commenced, there could be no doubt as to his intentions. He
would be acting in defence of the Johdila. Even the Johanna would see that. The result of the battle would be the defeat of the Mastery. The Johdila would be free to marry the man she loved. The
Johanna would pass on his crown to his new son-in-law. The Sovereignty of Gang would be supreme again. And he, Zohon, would at last look on the face of his beloved Sisi.

When would she call on him? And how would she show her rejection of the bridegroom? She had only the one word to utter, to consent to the marriage. Zohon, believing her to be a gentle and timid
creature, thought it most likely she would choose to remain silent. When she did not speak, he would allow a pause for all the onlookers to hear her silence, and then he would strike.

Mumpo lay on a bench in the manacs’ robing room, while Lars Janus Hackel himself massaged his tired muscles.

‘Boy! Boy!’ said Hackel, sighing. ‘You’re myself reborn! You have the gift, as I had it once.’

Mumpo said nothing. His bandaged wounds throbbed with pain, but he paid the pain no attention. He was elated and appalled, both at the same time, and the two feelings seemed to be mixed up with
each other. Kestrel had returned. And he had killed a man. Where had Kestrel come from? Did she need his help? Why had he killed his opponent? For what? The big man had not been his enemy.

At the time, within the ritualised world of the manaxa, it had seemed necessary, even inevitable. But now as he lay on the bench and felt the blood singing through his veins, he was aware that
another man lay on another bench nearby, and that he would never rise again. Kestrel had returned, and he had ended a life. Why?

‘How did you know?’ marvelled Hackel. ‘There was only the one move would beat the big man, and you chose it. I never taught you that.’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him so badly.’

‘Badly enough. He’s fought his last fight.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘He entered the arena ready to die, just as you did. That’s the manaxa for you.’

Mumpo lifted himself up into a sitting position.

‘I have to go back.’

‘Want to see the wedding, eh? So you shall.’

A group of slaves were scrubbing down the dead man’s body, preparing it for the funeral rites. A woman, presumably his wife, was kneeling by his head, stroking his dead face.

‘I won’t fight again,’ said Mumpo.

‘Every manac says that after his first kill,’ responded the trainer, unperturbed. ‘But they all come back. Once you’ve felt it, you can’t do without it.’

Mumpo reached for a training robe and pulled it on, grimacing at the pain as he moved.

‘I have to go back,’ he said again.

Something was wrong, he knew it. Kestrel would need him.

The Johdila re-entered the arena at last, followed by her servant, and was led to her position on the bride’s side of the sandy stage. Marius Semeon Ortiz stood in his
position, on the other side, and waited as he had been instructed for the music to begin. He noticed that the Johdila was trembling. Let her tremble, he thought. She’s not my responsibility.
His eyes were on Kestrel.

Now that the exchange of vows was imminent, the Johdi began to cry. She snuffled noisily behind her veil, and Lunki, hearing her, also began to weep. ‘Oh my pet,’ she crooned to
herself. ‘Oh my poor baby.’

Mumpo entered quietly, and took up a position by the tunnel entrance, where he could see Kestrel. Kestrel, braced for the critical moment, was watching Sisi. Sisi was looking across the arena
towards Bowman. Bowman was looking up, at the Master.

The Master raised his violin to his shoulder, settled himself down, and drew the bow softly over the strings. The first low sweet note sounded over the arena. The other players responded, and
the movement was begun. On the eighth bar, all perfectly together, the choir began to sing. From now on, the tempo of the music dictated every move in the ceremony.

Ortiz took one pace forward, and was still. The Johdila, quietly guided by Meeron Graff, took a pace forward in her turn, and was still. The Master’s violin led the next phrase, and the
other musicians followed. Outside the domed hall, linked by chains of assistant conductors who signalled to each other, every choir and every ensemble in the High Domain was playing the same theme,
at the same time.

Ortiz followed the steps he had rehearsed as if he were in a dream from which he would shortly awake. His slow paces would carry him towards the Johdila, five steps in all: but his eyes were on
Kestrel. He heard the Master’s violin, and he took the second step, and even within his dream-like state he knew that he faced an unbearable choice. It was his beloved Master’s wish
that he marry this princess. How could he not obey? But as he looked on the young woman with the dark eyes, the one who had danced the tantaraza with him, the one who had become for him all that
was life itself, he thought, how can I love anyone but her?

He took the third step.

The Johdila felt the gentle tug of Graff’s hand, and she took her third step, coming ever closer to her husband-to-be. She looked up now, as her mother had taught her. She saw her
white-clothed groom before her, and beyond him she saw Bowman, looking pale and grave. He told me there would be trouble, she thought. He thinks I’m weak and foolish, and have to be
protected. But I’m the one who’s going to cause the trouble. He’ll see, and then he’ll know. I’m not as useless as they all think.

Then the solo violin was playing once more, and the Keeper of the Master’s Household was pulling on her body veil, and so she took her fourth step.

Zohon watched in fascination, as bride and groom glided over the blood-stained sand, in slow motion, towards each other. With each arrested step, the music grew a little louder, a little more
urgent, as it drove the betrothed pair towards their vows. The players outside the hall could be clearly heard now, so that those in the arena were doubly cocooned in music. Zohon checked his
captains, to be sure that all were alert for his signal. It would come soon now.

Up in the gallery above, intoxicated by his own music, the Master drew from his violin the opening notes of the fifth passage, and saw Ortiz below take the fifth and final step. Then, as the
other players followed him, here in the hall and all over the city, he caught a sudden note of danger. Turning sharply, focusing all his powers of attention, he tracked its source. It was Ortiz.
The boy was going to disobey him! Without ceasing playing, he came close to the gallery’s railing, and stared down at the bridegroom.

Ortiz felt the Master seize his mind from above. He looked up, and was at once flooded with the Master’s own pure will. He felt himself go icy cold. At the same time, his skin prickled and
burned, as if he was on fire. Then the coldness and the burning left him, and he found he was filled with calm: more than calm, a limpid and invulnerable tranquillity, the calm of unclimbable
mountains, of unreachable stars. Now all was simple again. He had only to love his Master, and obey.