The Poison Throne, page 24
‘Something amusing you, General?’ The wiry sergeant was respectfully walking half a pace behind.
‘Another day, another march, Sergeant.’
‘Who knows where we’ll be at the end of it?’
‘One day closer to dying of the plague?’
The big man, following the pair of them, grunted, ‘Don’t have plans to die of anything right now.’
‘We’re better off than the guards – their helmets will heat up over the morning and fry their brains. Someone should have given the order for turbans,’ Qulan said.
‘You think some of them don’t respect you still, General?’ the sergeant replied. ‘Aye, and they know that the plague ain’t no respecter of persons, it’ll take them as soon as it does us.’
Qulan nodded, grimly.
‘Oy, you, scarface bastard . . .’ the sergeant called out.
A guard turned, uncurling the heavy oiled whip from his belt.
‘You were in the sappers, right, when we took Altimira?’ the sergeant said.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Blew them walls down like a summawind, bloody rocks raining down on the rest of us. That was good work.’
The guard nodded, his glance suspicious. ‘So?’
‘So why are you workin’ for these bastards?’
‘So why are you walkin’ in chains, then?’
The sergeant stared straight back. ‘So why is the general walkin’ in chains?’
After a long moment the guard said, ‘Not my doin’ . . . Not to my likin’ either.’
Before he could say more, a rider pulled up beside him, sand flying from hooves, horse snorting and forcing the guard to fall back. The rider leaned down, the tail of her turban flying back to reveal a woman’s face, lean and tanned, the eyes shrewd. ‘General Qulan, a word.’
Qulan stepped aside from the line and looked up at the woman.
‘Can’t approach the prisoners, lady,’ a guard called, reaching for his whip. On seeing Qulan he stopped.
‘Don’t worry, soldier, I’m not about to make a run for it,’ Qulan said.
After a moment the guard nodded. ‘All right, General, just don’t make it obvious.’ He rode away.
‘You would be the traveller I heard about,’ Qulan said.
‘You hear things, even in prison?’
‘Even in prison.’
‘I read about you, General, in Cathay, before I came to Tumanbay. The siege of Altimira. A great victory.’
‘There are a few who seem to remember it still, madam. And yet here I am. Perhaps a lesson for us all, how the world may change.’
‘Oh, everything changes.’ She leaned down from the saddle and looked closely at him, as he looked at her. ‘You came to the city when you were a child?’ she asked.
‘Many did in those days. Less so now. We crossed the mountains and the sea, hoping for something better.’
‘Slavery?’
‘Better than dying of starvation. Three boys in search of . . . they didn’t know what, something else, something better perhaps? But we got here, my brother Gregor and I, and made something of ourselves, or so we thought.’
‘Your brother I have met. What of the third boy?’
‘Not everyone survived the journey. It is God’s will.’
‘Is it, General?’
‘With a leavening of ambition and a salting of luck, the bread rises.’
‘Homespun wisdom doesn’t suit you.’ There was humour in her voice, though her lips did not smile.
‘And what are you doing here, madam? I might say it is no place for a woman.’
‘Nor for a general. As for me, I am doing what I am told.’
‘You don’t look to me like a woman who does what she’s told. They say you are a doctor. Is that true?’
‘Do you find it unnatural?’
‘I find it useful.’ He caught himself. ‘No, if I were indeed a general, I would find it useful, given where we are going.’
‘Well, who knows,’ she said, and this time her lips did smile, ‘how the world and the things in it may change.’
She kicked her heels and her mount reared up and raced away towards the head of the column in a cloud of dust.
44
The Body
It was early. The first call to prayer, echoing across the city from distant temples, could be heard even in the ancient slave quarters.
Once, this area of the palace had been luxurious, as if to remind the slaves who lived there that, in Tumanbay, ability and ambition could lead them to the heights of this world or, as the gibbet housed in a wooden shed in a shadowed and tiny inner courtyard warned, to the punishing fires of the next. Now, having been stripped like everything else in the city, slaves were merely functional. Grisha didn’t care either way. He was young, he was fed, he had a job and hadn’t been in any trouble with the Chief Eunuch for the last moon and that was enough for him.
He swept up a pocket bread and a handful of dates and olives from the loaded table as he passed through the kitchens and ate some of them as he made his way to the baths. These days they were, so he was told, used far less than under the old Sultan; these new people didn’t wash that much, maybe because they were all so holy already – not that it stopped them smelling like camels. The black-robed clerics were the worst of all, Grisha thought, which was probably why they walked around with that look on their faces and their noses high in the air. It was all one to him. It meant less work and that was a good thing.
Passing through the entry way, he picked up a net on a long pole by the door, grabbed a bucket and made his way into the great, gloomy, marble hall which housed the baths. Light seeped in through high windows and a few braziers burnt, their perfumed smoke drifting up into the roof space where pigeons flew and shat on the folk below. Scrubbing off their mess was one of Grisha’s jobs.
There was no one here this morning, maybe something had happened; he’d heard that some high official had been murdered by terrorists or something – Grisha wasn’t really interested. He whistled as he used the net on its pole to fish out leaves, feathers and any other bits that were floating on the surfaces and flicked them into his bucket. He could hear Old Haniff coughing as he stoked the fires that heated the water so the high officials never felt chilly. He walked over to the door that led down to the boilers and called out, ‘Oh Father Haniff, I’ve some dates for you and some bread.’
The old fellow came huffing and puffing up the steps, giving off a strong whiff of the dried dung which was the fuel used for heating the fires – it wasn’t a smell Grisha minded in the least, it brought back his childhood, before the terrible things that had delivered him to the city had happened. His people had been herdsmen and they had used dried dung for their fires too.
‘Good lad,’ Haniff growled, taking the dates and bread. ‘Makes a nice little start to the day.’ A small coin appeared on his thumb, he flicked it and it described a glittering silvery arc through the air and into Grisha’s palm. ‘Be running out, if we don’t get a bit more custom down here soon,’ Haniff said. Lost coins were a constant hazard for those who used the baths, and a useful bonus for the boilermen.
‘It’s all up the air,’ Grisha said, making his way to the clean water pool where the flow, direct from the great aqueduct, often brought bigger rubbish sailing through. ‘Black robes poking their noses everywhere looking for—’
Haniff poked his head up. ‘Looking for?’
‘Haniff, you better get up here now.’
‘What do you mean, lad?’
‘There’s something in the soaking pool.’
‘Aye, that’s your job, to get it out.’
‘Not this, it isn’t. Please, Haniff . . .’
Grisha stood transfixed by the bulk that floated face down in the pool, dirty robes spread around it, one fat white hand visible. Haniff took the pole from him, reversed it and poked the thing with the end. Slowly it began to swing and as it did, like one of the fabled monsters of the middle sea, it turned over, one stiff arm rising and then falling back as the turn was completed and the thing lay face upwards, except there was no face. The rats had got at it first. Grisha turned away and vomited on the floor.
‘Better clean that up, lad,’ Haniff said, ‘then clear off. I’ll tell ’em you were late this morning. You don’t want to get involved with this.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m too old to be of any concern to them.’
‘But shouldn’t I . . .’
‘It’s the old Vizier, Cadali. I know the robes, even if the rest of him does look like a cow’s carcass after the sand dogs have been at it. So clean your mess up and get out of here now.’
45
Manel
In the root cellar of Dorin’s house the two young women sleep. Both are restless. Heaven dreams of being in a small boat with Akiba. All around them the sea sparkles as sunlight catches the waves and he rows on towards an unknown future and, for a while at least, Heaven is at peace and sleeps easily.
Manel stirs in her sleep, her hands making fists, her forehead lined as . . .
Pasha, her brother, twelve years old and filled with the spirit of his father on this day of invasion, as Maya’s soldiers and the thousands of turncoats in Tumanbay’s army who have joined her cause, flood through the city like filthy water overflowing from a great midden, foaming down ditches and runnels, polluting everything it touches. Defeat has a taste but if it is honourable, it is bearable, whereas betrayal leaves a sourness that seeps deep into the soul. But twelve-year-old boys don’t think that way; wielding one of his father’s swords, too big for him, Pasha’s heart is full of courage, a war cry on his lips. He looks down at the spear which has pinned him to the wood of the compound gate and his expression slowly turns to shock. He goes white, not screaming yet, feeling nothing for the moment beyond . . . surprise. How has this happened – and to him! Manel rushes from the house, too late to hold him back. Their mother stands, open-mouthed, her face a mask of horror. She lifts an arm, hand clawed in entreaty as she cries out: ‘Daniel, please help us, he’s just a boy, my child, Pasha, Pasha . . .’
She runs to her son but what can she do . . . should she try and pull the spear free, should she cradle his head? He’s screaming now, the pain filling his world. He doesn’t see his mother or his sister. He sucks in a breath, his skinny chest rising, blood gushing from the wound, from his mouth, choking him and staining his mother’s robes scarlet.
Like a sleepwalker, Manel stumbles towards Daniel. Tall, beautiful, blue-eyed Daniel who told her he loved her, who held her hand, who kissed her . . .
‘You let him die,’ she screams, her voice like ashes in her mouth.
A soldier pulls the spear from Pasha’s chest, using one hand to keep him in place, shouldering aside his mother, who takes the body as it slumps into her arms. The spear point comes away with a sucking sound. Manel thinks she’s going to faint; she digs her nails into her palms until they bleed and stays on her feet. ‘You let him die!’
The soldier asks: ‘What shall we do with the women, Commander?’
Daniel looks at her. There’s no hostility in his expression, no hate, nothing at all. ‘Leave them be for now.’ Then he leans close to her and says quietly: ‘Bury your brother, Manel, then take your mother and leave by morning.’
The words still sounded in Manel’s ears as she woke. Beams of sunlight were shining through the air holes in the cellar and Heaven was sitting cross-legged, her back to the wall. She offered a jug to Manel. ‘Water,’ she said. ‘The lady brought it down but you were still sleeping.’
‘You should have woken me.’ Manel took the jug and drank directly from it. The water was cool and refreshing. She tipped some into the palms of her hand and splashed it on her face. ‘I was dreaming. How are you?’
‘Better, I think. The lady gave me some clothes. And I washed a bit.’ She looked down a moment, then up again: ‘Thank you. You saved my life. If you hadn’t found me, taken me along, I would have died or been killed – and I messed it all up for you. I’m sorry.’
‘Stick with the thanks,’ Manel said. ‘That swine deserved everything he got.’ Before she could say more, the trapdoor was raised with a clatter and squeak. Dorin looked down.
‘Both awake now? Good. Come with me.’
Upstairs, Amanthi showed Manel the washing area. When she was done, Dorin said: ‘Manel, we have business to attend to. Come.’
‘What about me?’ Heaven asked.
‘You stay here until we sort something out. Come, Manel, I’ve ordered a carriage. We can’t have you wandering the streets. It’s a privilege because of my position at the university. Teachers still have some respect.’
Dorin hurried her out of the house and into a waiting carriage. He pulled the curtains over the windows and called to the driver to go. As they rattled through the waking streets, Manel reflected it had been a long time since she had ridden in a carriage. It reminded her of the way things had been before Maya. Then, as the daughter of a great general, her life had been controlled from dawn to dusk. Now things were different and, despite the hardships and dangers, she felt a sense of purpose.
She leaned forward to look out and found herself staring at a cleric leading a patrol of guards.
‘Don’t do that!’ Dorin snapped, pulling the curtain back across the window. ‘We can’t afford to take any chances. There are too many eyes out there.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Don’t worry, all will be well. Somewhere safe. You’ll be fine.’
His manner was a good deal less angry than before. Maybe now she was out of the house he felt safer, though Manel wondered if she should have insisted that Heaven came with them. She didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone with the woman Amanthi. She had also been too nice that morning.
The carriage turned sharply. Dorin pulled back the curtain and peered out. ‘Nearly there.’
‘Nearly where?’
‘Best you don’t know.’
Best for who? she thought. ‘Can I ask you something?’
He nodded.
‘The man who came to the house last night. It was the Inquisitor Barakat?’
‘Ah . . .’
‘The girl Heaven – she said it was him who took her baby, killed her father . . .’
‘Perhaps she was mistaken. Better not to know.’
‘What are you doing together? He’s everything we’re fighting against. Why don’t you just kill him?’
‘You think it’s that easy?’
‘But why is he coming to your house?’
He was silent for a while then burst out angrily, ‘Don’t you understand anything? You’re so caught up in your own child’s world. There is more at stake here than you could possibly know. I am the head of the Medical Institute, that’s why he needs to see me.’
She knew he was lying but said nothing. He went on:
‘Do you have any idea of the strain of keeping all these . . .’ he searched for some idea, ‘. . . these glass balls in the air without dropping any one of them? That’s why it’s important you do what you are told. You can’t run a revolution with disobedience. Everyone has to play their part. And leave the damned curtain alone.’ This time he swatted her hand away. ‘Always asking questions. Always being where you shouldn’t be. You put me at risk last night. Me, my wife, our whole operation. Now be quiet.’ The coach came to a halt. ‘We’re there.’
They climbed down, the driver ignoring them. Without a word he flicked the reins and drove away, leaving them at the rear of the old and deserted Temple of Solitude. It was here that the once-great city necropolis lay spread out with its thousands of tombs and monuments to lives and religions past. To one side sprawled the old brothel district, to the other, the old temple. Such was Tumanbay.
Avenues stretched out through a wilderness of marble and stone but Dorin made his way towards what Manel took to be a gravekeeper’s lodge. He entered . . .
‘Come, follow me.’
Inside, the place was tiny: a single room with a bed frame, some stools and a table thick with dust bearing a single bowl in which insect husks lay. In the back wall was another door, opening on to the head of a spiral staircase in a space no bigger than a large cupboard. An iron railing led down and the fact that it bore no coat of dust made it clear to Manel where they were going. When Dorin started down, indicating her to follow, she wondered for a moment if she should turn and run. This whole business was making her nervous. Dorin’s friendliness, the sudden outburst of rage, set all her nerves on edge; however, the thought of Heaven waiting back at the doctor’s house, trusting herself to Manel’s word, pushed her on and she followed the doctor down into the darkness.
‘Keep hold of the rail. At the bottom, there’s a cord. Hold it, follow it.’
The darkness was absolute. She could hear his breathing and hers, feel her heart beating. The cord seemed to stretch on forever. Fortunately the floor seemed clear and she did not trip. She held one hand out in front of herself and occasionally felt something like web brushing past. They came to a door. Dorin knocked, a panel opened.
‘Tall trees.’
‘Still in leaf,’ the doctor muttered.
The door opened; a man, his face obscured by the hood of his burnouse, a sword with a naked, curved blade in his hand, stepped forward. He held up a lantern and examined Manel’s face.
‘First time?’
‘What?’
‘Down here?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘They must really trust you.’ He motioned her through and as she passed, added: ‘Or not.’
‘Come on, Manel.’
‘See you on your way out,’ the guard said, ‘or not.’
