Slaves of the Mastery Read online

  ‘She doesn’t want to marry anyone.’

  ‘She will,’ said Mumpo gloomily. ‘They all do in the end.’

  It was quite dark now, so they held hands as they made their way back over the uneven piles of rubble. Pinto felt how his strong dry hand held hers, so light and yet so sure, and twice she pretended to stumble just to feel his fingers close tight round hers, and his muscular arm hold her from falling. In reality she was as nimble as a goat, and could find her way by starlight or by no light; but she was playing a secret game that they were betrothed, and in her head she was saying to him the familiar words of the betrothal, ‘I will pass my days within the sound of your voice, and my nights within the reach of your hand.’

  They passed the abandoned buildings of the old Grey District, now used only by gangs of unruly children for their secret games, and entered the lamp-lit streets of Maroon District. The old names were still used, though few of the houses retained their old colour. After the changes, the citizens of Aramanth had been seized with a rage for house painting, and all over the city a rainbow of bright colours had sprung up, on doors and window frames, walls and even roofs. But five years of sun and wind and rain had worn away the hastily applied paint, and the old municipal colours were beginning to show through once more.

  They found the main plaza full of people and noise. It turned out the meeting had ended almost as soon as it had begun, following a dispute about procedure. Everyone was streaming out of the city hall and making their way home, arguing eagerly. Mumpo never attended the city meetings. All that happened, it seemed to him, was that everyone talked at the same time as everyone else, and nobody listened, and so they all went out at the end with the same opinions they’d come in with.

  His searching eyes soon located Kestrel at the centre of a group of young people, all talking with passionate conviction. Mumpo came to a stop at the fringe of the group, and wouldn’t join them, even though Pinto pulled at his hand.

  ‘They’re just going on about nothing,’ Pinto said. ‘Like they always do.’

  Mumpo wasn’t listening. He was watching Kestrel. In common with many of the younger set, she cropped her hair short and ragged, and wore faded black robes in reaction against the multi-coloured look favoured by the older people. Her face was odd and bony and wide-mouthed, not beautiful in the usual way: but there was about her a restless intensity that drew and held the attention. To Mumpo, she was entirely beautiful. More than beautiful: she was so alive that sometimes he felt her to be life itself, or the source of life. When those eager black eyes met his, he felt the jolt of her vitality, and everything around him seemed brighter and more sharp-edged.

  ‘Why weren’t you at the meeting, Mumpo?’

  With a start, he realised she was talking to him.

  ‘Oh, that sort of thing’s not for me.’

  ‘Why not? You live here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Then don’t you care about the city that’s your home?’

  Mumpo said the first thing that came into his head, as he usually did.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like my home.’

  Kestrel stared at him, and said nothing for a long moment. Then she turned back to the others, made some abrupt goodnights, and walked away.

  Mumpo and Pinto followed more slowly. Mumpo’s rooms, where he lived with his father, were close by the Hath family’s quarters, in the heart of the city.

  ‘I always say the wrong thing,’ he told Pinto sadly. ‘And I never know why.’

  Bowman had not been at the meeting. He had walked the streets of the city, trying to locate the source of the danger he had felt at the betrothal. It was as elusive as a smell. Sometimes he thought he had it, then he lost it again. He turned his face to the wind and sniffed the air, hoping this would guide him. But it wasn’t a smell, or a sound: it was a feeling. Bowman could feel the presence of fear a mile off, and could sense the joy that bursts out as laughter before the smile was even begun. But feelings were hard to trace. They came as often from inside himself as from the outside world.

  Now it was gone again. Maybe he was making it all up. Maybe it was hunger. He decided to go home.

  When the rest of the family returned, they found him standing on their little balcony looking out at the night. The stove was almost out. Hanno Hath bent down to coax it back into life.

  ‘You’ve let the fire go out, Bo.’

  ‘Have I?’

  He sounded surprised, so Hanno Hath said no more about it. People said Bowman was a dreamer, or more unkindly, that he went about half-asleep, but his father understood him. Bowman was as awake as any of them; more so, perhaps. But he was attending to different things.

  ‘That was a waste of time as usual,’ said Kestrel, coming into the room. ‘The only person who said anything worth hearing was Mumpo, and he’s the biggest fool of all.’

  ‘He’s not a fool!’ protested Pinto, entering after her.

  ‘Oh yes, we all know Mumpo’s your pet.’

  Pinto flew at Kestrel, fists tight-clenched and flailing, hot tears springing up in her eyes. Kestrel struck back at once, hitting her on the nose. Pinto fell sobbing to the floor.

  ‘Kestrel!’ said her father sharply.

  ‘She started it!’

  Ira Hath picked Pinto up and soothed her. Pinto’s nose was bleeding. When Pinto discovered this, she was secretly elated, and stopped crying.

  ‘Blood!’ she said. ‘Kess made me bleed!’

  ‘It’s not much, darling,’ said her mother.

  ‘But she made me bleed!’ Pinto was triumphant. The one who draws blood is always in the wrong. ‘Tell her off!’

  ‘You made yourself bleed,’ said Kestrel. ‘You hit my hand with your nose.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Pinto. ‘Oh! You lying witch!’

  ‘All right, that’s enough.’ Hanno Hath’s mild voice had the effect of calming everyone down, as always. ‘So Mumpo said something interesting, did he, Kess?’

  ‘I was going to tell you, only Pinpin –’

  ‘Don’t call me Pinpin!’

  ‘Am I allowed to speak?’

  ‘I don’t care. Say what you like.’

  Actually Pinto was interested, because it was about Mumpo.

  ‘He said Aramanth doesn’t feel like his home.’

  ‘Oh, that poor boy.’

  ‘Yes, but it made me think. It doesn’t feel like my home, either.’

  Hanno Hath threw a glance towards his wife.

  ‘So where is your home, my Kess?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you may be right. All the old books say this was only ever meant to be a way station on the journey to the homeland.’

  ‘The homeland!’ His wife snorted crossly. ‘What is this homeland? Where is it? I’ll tell you where it is. It’s somewhere else. That’s where it is. Wherever you live in the real world you find troubles and discontents, so you make up a somewhere else that’s better. That’s all your precious homeland is. So we might as well make the most of where we are now.’

  ‘You may be right, my dear.’

  ‘But ma,’ said Kestrel, ‘don’t you feel it too? We don’t fit in here.’

  ‘Oh well, as to that, I’m just one of those odd-shaped people who doesn’t fit in anywhere.’

  ‘We’re an odd-shaped family,’ said Pinto. The notion pleased her.

  ‘There is a homeland,’ Kestrel persisted. ‘Don’t your books tell you where it is, pa?’

  ‘No, darling. If they did, I’d have gone there long ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, I’m an old dreamer.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to go.’

  ‘Wait until you’re married,’ said her mother. ‘You’ll find things will look different then.’

  ‘I don’t want to be married.’

  Ira Hath looked up and met her husband’s eyes. He gave a small shrug, and his eyes turned towards Bowman.

  ‘We’d never make you marry against your wi
ll,’ her mother began gently. ‘But darling –’

  ‘I know I’ll end up lonely when I’m old,’ said Kestrel, to show she didn’t have to be told. ‘But I don’t care.’

  ‘Kess’ll never be lonely,’ said Pinto enviously. ‘She’s got Bo.’

  Their mother shook her head and said no more. Hanno Hath went out on to the balcony to stand beside Bowman. He didn’t speak, because he was feeling for the right words with which to begin. But Bowman knew well enough what he was thinking.

  ‘I really am trying, pa.’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘It’s not easy.’

  Hanno Hath sighed. He hated asking this of his son. But Ira was right, now that the twins were growing up they must learn to be a little more apart.

  ‘Do you still share thoughts?’

  ‘Not as much as we used to. But yes.’

  ‘She has to make a life of her own, Bo. So do you.’

  ‘Yes, pa.’

  Bowman wanted to say to his father, we’re not like everyone else, we’re not to have a life like other people, we’re marked out for something quite different. But since he didn’t know what, or even why he felt it, he said nothing.

  ‘I’m not asking you to stop loving each other. Just to have other friends as well.’

  ‘Yes, pa.’

  Hanno put one arm lightly round his son’s shoulders. Bowman let it rest there for a moment. Then he said,

  ‘I think I’ll go out.’

  As he headed for the door, Kestrel looked up and met his eyes.

  Shall I come with you?

  Better not.

  Kestrel knew as well as he did that their parents wanted them to spend more time apart. But she also knew there was something else.

  Tell me what it is.

  I will. Later.

  Then he was gone: down the steep stairs, and out into the night street. He had no destination, he needed only to be away from other people, away from his family. He would have walked away from himself if he had known how. He was sure now that the sense of danger that hadn’t left him all day was coming from the fear buried deep inside himself. He needed a place of stillness to understand it better, and to know why it had awoken after all these years. So he headed south, towards the ocean.

  Once past the city boundary the streetlights gave out, and he made his way by starlight. It was a cool autumn night, and he shivered a little as he walked. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and soon he could make out the shoreline far ahead, and the line of low hills that formed the horizon to the east. When at last he stopped, it was not because he had reached anywhere in particular, but because he judged he was far enough from the bustle of the city. Here, alone in the night, he stood still and closed his eyes. He felt for the sensation of fear, and found it at once, shockingly close. It was powerful, and cruel. He spoke to the memory of power within him.

  I don’t want you. I never wanted you.

  But it wasn’t true. He had wanted the power once. All those years ago, in that time that ever since had felt like a dream, he had wanted it. He had let himself be filled by that intoxicating spirit. And now the Morah was in him, and he would never be free.

  He walked a little way eastward, up the rising land, feeling the fear all around him. He came to a stop, seeing only the black line of the hilltops, and the grey blur of the sea. He turned, and there lay Aramanth, twinkling softly in the night. There lay everyone he loved, everyone who loved him, in all the world. How could he tell them he was a source of danger to them? A traitor who carried the living spirit of the Morah into their safest home? How could he tell his sister, his half-self, that she must not come too close, lest the Morah possess her too?

  The evil is in me. I must carry it alone.

  It was so strong, so all-pervading: it filled the night air round him like a dark cloud. Suddenly he felt he could no longer breathe. He turned and walked fast back towards the city, unaware that had he continued for a few minutes more up the hill, he would have seen the army of the Mastery encamped on the farther side, burning no fires or lamps, their horses’ harness muffled, waiting soundlessly for dawn.

  2

  Terror at dawn

  That night, Ira Hath had a dream that was so intense it woke her before her usual time. She sat up in bed, and found that she was sobbing. She was unable to stop herself. She tried to smother the sobs with the hem of the blanket, but this produced a snuffling noise that was even worse, so she got out of bed to get herself a drink of water. Once up she found she couldn’t stand properly, and she had to sit down again rather suddenly on the bed. That woke Hanno. He saw the streaks of tears on her cheeks and became alarmed. So she told him her dream.

  She had been walking along a snow-covered road, together with all the rest of the family and many others besides, and the road led to a pass between steep hills. On either side of the road, the slopes rose high up, white and smooth, while the road itself climbed to a summit, and then fell away on the far side. They were going west, it seemed, because directly ahead, in the great V formed by the hills on either side, the sun was setting. Though all round her the winter air was cold, she felt a warmth on her face that seemed to come from the sunset ahead.

  She walked in the lead, in front of everyone else. So she was the first to reach the summit of the road, and stand within the V looking over the brow. As she reached this point, a flurry of flakes of new snow began to fall around her, and ahead the setting sun turned the western sky a deep red. Through the falling snow, by the light of the sunset sky, she found herself looking down on a broad plain, where two rivers flowed into an unknown sea.

  Then in her dream, as she gazed down at the land framed by the V of hills, with the snow falling and the warmth on her cheeks and the wide red horizon beyond, she felt a sudden rush of happiness that was so intense it brought tears to her eyes. Faint with joy, she turned to Hanno and her children, and saw from their faces, knew in an instant, that they could not follow where she was going. She had found the greatest happiness she had ever known, and in the same moment knew she must lose everyone she had ever loved. In her dream she had wept for her joy and her loss, and sobbing, she had awoken.

  Hanno dried her tears and held her in his arms, and told her it was only a dream. Slowly the shock of it passed, and Ira became her old self again, and said that it was all his fault for indulging in foolish talk about the homeland.

  ‘Why did you fall over?’ he asked her.

  ‘I didn’t fall over. I sat down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I felt wobbly.’

  He didn’t say anything more, but she knew what he was thinking. Her distant ancestor Ira Manth had been a seer, the first prophet of the Manth people. Every time I touch the future, he had written, I grow weaker. My gift is my disease. I shall die of prophecy.

  ‘It was only a dream, Hanno. Nothing more.’

  ‘I expect so, my dear.’

  ‘You’re not to go putting ideas into the children’s heads. They’re full of enough muddle as it is.’

  ‘I won’t say anything.’

  Ira stood up once more, stronger this time, and went to the window. She drew the curtains, and saw outside the first light of the new day spreading over the eastern horizon.

  ‘Nearly morning.’

  Hanno Hath joined her at the window, putting his arms around her.

  ‘I do love you so much,’ he said softly.

  She turned her head and kissed his cheek. They stood like this, very quiet, for a long moment.

  Then Hanno said, ‘Do you hear it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wind singer.’

  She listened.

  ‘No.’

  The wind singer had stopped singing.

  Marius Semeon Ortiz sat in the saddle on the brow of the hill, his chasseurs lined up behind him. A breeze from the ocean carried the hiss of waves and the tang of salt on the dawn air. Ortiz was watching the city below, where his raiding parties were already at work. Halfway
down the hill on his left flank crouched the attack squads, waiting on his command. He sensed the nervousness of the ranks of horses behind him, straining at the bit. His own mount shifted her weight, flared her nostrils, and let out a soft whinny.

  ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Easy.’

  A flaming arrow arched up from the city high into the silent sky: the signal that the warehouses were breached.

  ‘Provisioners!’ said Ortiz. ‘Firing squads!’ He had no need to speak loudly. His men were alert to his slightest word.

  The provision wagons rolled down the hill on padded wheels, accompanied by their bands of silent raiders. They moved fast, knowing they had very little time to do their vital work. Ahead of them, loping at speed, ran the firing squads, each man carrying on his back a bundle of oil-soaked kindling. Ortiz raised one hand, and the remainder of his force of foot-soldiers rose up and ran in a long curving path to the seaward side of the city. After them, more slowly, rolled the empty cages known as monkey wagons.

  There came a shout from the city. A watchman had encountered the provisioners. Now others began to wake, and lights were flickering on. But already a greater light was burning, in one of the abandoned apartment blocks of Grey District, and the breeze was fanning the flames. Another sprang up, and a third: a line of fires, along the northern and windward side of the city.

  Ortiz felt his horse shudder beneath him. She had smelt the sting of smoke, and knew her moment was near. There were shouts and screams coming from the city now, and the rattle of running feet. Ortiz could picture the scene, which he had witnessed so many times before: the people, waking to find their streets ablaze, pouring out of their houses, half-dressed, confused, frightened.

  Slowly, he drew his sword. Behind him, the lines of his chasseurs followed suit, and he heard the shivering hiss of three hundred blades leaving their scabbards. He released the bit, and his horse took a step forward. Behind him, the chasseurs swayed and moved. He spurred his horse to a trot, and then to a canter. Behind him, the drumbeat of following hooves. His eyes fixed on the burning city ahead, he held the chasseurs at a canter, covering the stony ground. This was the moment on which all depended. If the blow fell with speed, surprise, and terror, then a force of a thousand men could overwhelm a city, and take captive ten times their own number. It was the horror of that first attack that would turn free men into slaves.