The Awakening (26 page)

Shanek awoke to the sounds and smells of a world at peace. Birds, the first he had heard for several days, twittered and whistled in the canopy above him, and the campsite was filling with the delicious aroma of cooking. He lay staring at the luxuriant greenery above him, watching as it drifted from black to grey as the sun’s light penetrated the dense mat of foliage. Even the normally strident voices of the soldiers were hushed as they went about their business. It was one of those days that made him glad to be alive.

The First Son of the Empire felt a gentle peace suffuse him as he eased himself into wakefulness. It was an experience he had never known before, and for a brief, fleeting moment he forgot how far away he was from Ajyne. The simple pleasure of the forest, the company of his soldiers, the feeling of the ground beneath him were all as new joys to him. Faded from his mind were the sophisticated and increasingly jaded pleasures of the city.

All thoughts of the Army of the World, the Empire of the Asan and the treachery his father warned him of in his message were far from his thoughts as he lay
on the ground. Beneath him even the slightly uneven earth digging into his back felt good. He revelled in the sensation.

A thought occurred to him.
Why Matrin?
There were several other languages he knew, some of which were even more arcane. And it would not be hard to hide messages in any of them. He rolled over and pulled the document out of his pack. Unrolling it, he noticed a mark he had not seen before.

He squinted at it. It was not a smudge, nor was it a random, incidental mark. It was a complex drawing. In the diffuse light of the morning, his eyes seemed to be playing tricks on him. The convoluted marks within the drawing whirled, shifting before his eyes.

Even as it writhed across the page, Shanek began to recognise the handiwork of Bedi.

‘You old trickster,’ gasped Shanek. ‘How did you manage to get to a secret document sent from the Thane and the First Counsellor to the First Son?’ He shook his head. No matter how impossible it seemed, he would not put it past Bedi. Not after all he’d seen.

Shanek lay back, staring once more up into the canopy, remembering the first time he had met old Bedi. It was during the month he’d spent in the Poor Quarter. Bedi was a soothsayer who plied his charlatanry on the side of a road near one of Hashan’s stalls. Shanek was instructed to move the old beggar along. At first Bedi nodded and smiled. He started to gather his paltry belongings, then stopped.

‘Shanek?’ he asked, looking up at the First Son.

Shanek nodded.

‘You are more than just another of Hashan’s thugs, aren’t you?’ When Shanek shook his head, Bedi sat down again and unpacked.

‘Hey!’ said Shanek. ‘I told you to move on!’

‘I know,’ said Bedi. Shanek went to kick the old man but hesitated. Bedi fixed him with a gaze that seemed to hold more than just an old man’s fear. ‘A coin, Sir? A single coin for an old man?’ Bedi said.

‘What? You want me to pay you for moving?’

‘No, Sir. It is just a small recompense for a day’s lost trade.’

Shanek snorted. ‘Trade? You’re nothing more than a charlatan, a trickster. You deserve to starve. Now be off.’ He aimed a well-timed kick at Bedi. It caught him just below the ribs and sent him sprawling on the ground, amid his scant belongings.

The old man lay gasping in the wreckage of his livelihood. He looked up at Shanek. ‘Just a coin, Sir. One coin.’

The First Son sneered and stalked away. As he did so, he fingered the coin in his pocket. It was his last. It was a shiny new coin, untarnished, unused to the rigours of human trade. Rolling it through his fingers, he caressed its surface. It reminded him of the skin of a girl he had taken. Her name escaped him. His throat went dry as he remembered. He missed the Palace, the clean clothes, the servants, the riches. He missed people taking note whenever he spoke, he missed being important. But now he was reduced to thinking about a coin.

He snorted derisively at his own thoughts. It was a coin, to be spent, used, traded. He put it back into
his pouch, comforted by its solid weight against his leg. As he walked, he thought about what the coin would buy him. Maybe some food, maybe a night’s lodging, maybe an hour with one of the local ladies. The women waiting for him at the hovel he currently referred to as home seemed far away. Only a few weeks here in the Poor Quarter and his view of the world had changed. These people he was being trained to lead, they were thugs, beneath his contempt. They scuttled about their meaningless lives, begging for a coin.

Pathetic!
he thought, fingering the coin again.

He knew that Hashan was expecting him but he couldn’t face any more of his empty posturings, so he went to a tavern. He took out his coin and spun it on the table before him.

He caught the eye of the ample serving woman. ‘Wine,’ he said curtly. She hesitated until he gestured at the coin, still spinning, shining, glinting on the table. The sooty orange light from the flickering torches reflected off its surface, staining it, defiling its purity. The woman nodded and scurried away. She left the coin rattling as it spun to a stop.

When she came back, she left his drink on the table, ignoring the coin with a wink. Perhaps she would want different payment later, Shanek mused. He raised the battered metal flask to his lips and drank deeply.

‘Faugh!’ He spat the wine onto the table. ‘What is this?’ he roared. The wine was foul. His stomach heaved. He lurched to his feet, snatching up his coin as he went. ‘Barman! You will die for this! Poisoning me!’ He staggered across the room towards the
startled barman. His eyes became blurred and unfocused as he tried to reach the bar. Around him the room swum and spun, tilting until the floor leaped upwards and smashed into his face.

Stunned, he lay motionless for a moment, stomach heaving and head spinning. His breath came in short, rattling gasps and sweat poured off his body. He was burning. With a grunting effort he pushed himself to his feet, leaning on his sword, which he could not remember drawing. The room had not slowed in its sickening motion.

He stood with his own vomit staining his dirty tunic. He couldn’t remember vomiting. The room slowly stopped its crazy spinning. A few moments later he felt able to stand without support. Then his ability to walk returned. He took a few staggering steps towards the staring barman.

‘Poison.’ He croaked. ‘You tried to poison me. You die for this.’

‘No. No. Sir. Not poison. Only our finest do we serve for you. Only our finest.’ He was babbling, almost incoherent in fear. Normally such naked fear would have brought Shanek some satisfaction, but all he could do was concentrate on staying upright. Somehow the barman managed to move out from behind the bar and dart to the table where Shanek’s unfinished tankard rested. With his heart in his eyes, the barman raised it to his lips and drained it to the last drop.

‘You see, Sir? No poison. Surely you are unwell, Sir. Allow me to fetch a healer to you.’ Around the tavern a few chuckles were quietly beginning. As the still First Son lurched around to face his mockers, he
once more lost balance and crashed to the floor. The chuckles built to a storm of laughter. The room swam again as the laughter rose to a crescendo that threatened to swamp his battered senses. Somehow Shanek clambered back to his feet and weaved his way outside.

The First Son of the Empire slept with the rats in an alley. It rained during the night and he awoke in mud, with cockroaches on his face and refuse as a pillow. His waking thought was for clean water and good food. The water trickling by his pounding head looked clean enough so he lapped at it like a dog. Immediately he spat it from his mouth and tried to leap to his feet. The leap was more like a lurch and startled the ragged man near him. The man looked at Shanek pityingly, re-fastened his breeches and limped away.

Food. The thought was loud in Shanek’s fuddled brain. So he left his alley, his evening’s resting place, and went in search of what his body needed. Around him the normal routine of life continued. Women and children walked the streets, men laughed and bargained, dogs whined, and above him the sun glowed brightly. Too brightly. He shaded his eyes from the stabbing glare and staggered on.

Food. He walked through the baking morning sun. Already the heat was drying the overnight rain, turning the mud to dust. Food. He must have food. Following his nose to a baker, he lurched against the door. He was a big man, and the door was old and poorly made. He crashed through it and found himself once again sprawled on the floor. He fumbled in his pocket for his last coin. With a
shaking hand he offered it as he lay on the ground to the big woman with flour on her face.

‘Bread,’ he asked, his voice no more than a whispering scrape of sound. He proffered the coin again.

‘Well, now. If it’s bread ye’ll be after, it’ll cost ye more than that poor coin there. Here take this old crust and be off with ye.’ She tossed him an old hard loaf-end and took up a broom. Beating him soundly, the large, heavy woman drove Shanek out into the street. The coin he had offered her slipped through his fingers. Glinting in the sunlight, it fell and rolled until it slowed and spun on its axis as it lost energy. With a metallic rattle it rocked crazily until it lay next to him on the cobbles. He grunted and picked it up.

‘Well, little coin, it seems no one wants you.’ He shoved the shiny coin back into his pocket.

Shanek staggered off down the dusty street, gnawing on the old crust. So intent was he on his hunger that he had nearly finished it before he even looked at it. One look and he hurled it to the ground in disgust and his stomach heaved. He retched dryly from his empty stomach as he watched the cockroach-infested loaf squirming in the dirt. He shuddered as he tried not to think of how many of the insects he had already eaten. Falling to his knees, dry retching, he could almost feel the ‘roaches scuttling about in his gut. How long he stayed there, retching, coughing, gasping in the gutter, the sun beating on his neck, he couldn’t say. At some stage he passed out. He drifted in and out of consciousness for most of the day, his mind tortured by images of
cockroaches and fat women with brooms. When the cool of the evening brushed over him, he stirred and roused himself. The pains had gone, his stomach no longer rebelled, but the memories persisted. How could some bad wine and bread have made him so unwell? At the time he gave no thought to Bedi or the possibility that there was more to his illness than simple stomach problems. That thought came later.

Bedi was back in the market next morning. Shanek had slept badly, again in the street, as he could not face going home. As he passed the old man, he tossed the coin into the begging bowl.

The beggar grinned a crooked grin and pocketed it. ‘I knew there was hope for you, Servant of the World. Sit down here in the dirt with a charlatan.’ Despite his irritation, Shanek sat before the old man and began to listen. It was almost an hour before he realised he was speaking in Matrin. Thus commenced a daily ritual that lasted until the time came for Shanek to leave the poor streets. Every morning he would sit with Bedi and discuss the history of the Asan Empire, or the Empire of the World, as Bedi insisted on calling it.

The First Son had received an exquisite education. All the finest minds from across the Empire instructed him in all that was known. He studied under great philosophers, mathematicians, scientists and generals. There was no matter too small or too arcane that he was not expected to master in his quest to fulfil his duty to the Empire.

The history he learned from his teachers was a rich and bloody tale of massive conquest as the Army of the World carved their way across the continent.
They were irresistible, led by the uncanny brilliance of the hereditary First Counsellors. Many times Shanek cried out in surprise as he read about a seemingly impossible manoeuvre that extricated the Empire’s forces from destruction. No one ever mentioned it, and most flatly denied it, but Shanek often wondered if the First Counsellors had access to some knowledge that gave them understanding beyond the normal human ken.

He even asked his father, once. Sandor gazed at his only child in bewilderment. ‘How can you ask such a thing, Shanek?’ he said. ‘If I had any supernatural advantage, don’t you think I would have shared it with you? No, my son, we First Counsellors are trained and skilled, not magical.’

The history that Bedi spoke of, however, was more than this. He told tales of mighty magics and mystical forces. In this history, the First Counsellors had a different title. Bedi called them Servants of the World, and he insisted on using this title when addressing Shanek.

‘You have a heritage, Servant of the World,’ he would say. ‘It is a heritage, not a role. You are the guardian of the world. You can hear him, you can know him and he will need you.’

‘He?’ asked Shanek. ‘Who is this?’

Bedi smiled his irritating, smug grin and would not answer. He only ever said, ‘One day, Servant, one day. You will know.’

Years later, Shanek, First Son of the Empire, Servant of the World, lay on the ground under a canopy of leaves that softened the sun’s glare to a subtle green
glow, looking at a mystical sigil that swirled and shifted. ‘Bedi,’ he whispered. ‘What have you left for me to discover?’

Even after a whole day pondering the strange sigil, Shanek was no closer to discerning what Bedi had left for him. He was not even sure any more whether it was the soothsayer’s work. The bizarre swirling stopped after a few minutes, leaving a highly stylised picture of a set of balance scales. It was a design that looked vaguely familiar to Shanek, but try as he might he could not remember where he had seen it before.

After the evening meal, Shanek sat staring into the fire with a cup of water in his hands. Diplomat Cherise came and sat beside him.

‘First Son,’ he said. ‘You have been very distracted today. Is anything troubling you?’

Shanek looked at the Diplomat. In his fascination with the mystical symbol left on the document, he had almost forgotten the message his father had hidden in the script. If there was treachery in Ajyne, so much that Sandor and Kasimar had felt it necessary to send him away on a spurious mission, then surely Cherise was above suspicion. He regarded the aged face, ravaged by the last stages of Danan fever, and made a decision.