The Gods and their Machines (2 page)

‘The others?’ he asked.

The medical officer shook his head. Chamus closed his eyes and wished the world away from him. He felt a needle prick his arm and then felt nothing more

Nineteen

R
iadni Mocranen’s older brother stopped laughing the instant her shinbone connected sharply with his testicles. Suddenly the sight of seeing her fall flat on her back while trying to mount her horse wasn’t so funny. He folded up and crumpled to the ground with tears in his eyes. Riadni patted the dust off the back of her tunic and trousers, straightened her headscarf and wig and walked back to Rumbler, the old piebald stallion, who waited patiently for her to finish her business. Barra, her brother, had loosened the girth, the strap holding the saddle to the horse’s body, so when she put her foot in the stirrup and swung her other leg up over the horse’s back, the saddle slid sideways, causing the stirrup to slip round under the horse’s belly. She had hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Barra would be on the ground for a while longer, though. She tightened the girth and leapt up on Rumbler’s back. The other boys, including her younger brother, Jarin, kept a respectful distance as she rode by. She knew her face-paint would be smeared and her wig dusty, but she kept her chin up and her back straight and looked at them with disdain as
she trotted past them, then gritted her teeth and tapped her heels against her horse’s sides for a gallop home.

Rumbler was old, easily the oldest horse in Kemsemet. He had been her father’s favourite mount, but when his age had started to show, her father had given him up for a younger dapple-grey. Sostas Mocranen had planned to make some money out of the old warhorse, using him to cover mares while his seed was still good, and then putting him down. But Riadni had begged him relentlessly to give her the old horse. Sostas would have found the idea of any other girl owning a horse ridiculous, but Riadni did not seem to be growing out of her tomboy ways and she had learned to ride right along with her brothers. And if he could not make her a good daughter, he could at least give her the chance to be a good son. So he had borne the laughter of his neighbours, and had given Riadni his old horse. She and Rumbler had taken to each other immediately, and Rumbler, now that he did not have to carry the weight of her father, showed he still had plenty of life in him.

Above the beat of the horse’s hooves, she heard a droning noise and lifted her head to see a group of aeroplanes flying high overhead. Altimans. She and her brothers had come out to the far side of town to where Brother Fazekiel, the local priest was leading a protest against an Altiman-owned factory that was pumping noxious clouds of gas out over the area. It had been fun to join in the shouting. She had never met an Altiman, but her father and his friends talked about them all the time. She often saw their aircraft, however, sometimes in groups like these, sometimes alone. They lived in the region of plateaux to the north-west and her father
said they did not like to travel down into Bartokhrin; they flew over it because they thought it dirty and primitive. From up there, the people of Altima could look down on their neighbours without having to consort with them. She slowed Rumbler to a walk, so that she could watch the
aircraft
. She thought that there was something godlike about them, the way they had conquered the skies, the way they did not need to walk on the ground anymore. There were eight of them, each with two engines, mounted on the wings. The lead plane turned into a dive and the others followed, flowing as one, like a flock of birds. They were closer now, nearly over the village of Yered on the other side of the hill and she could see details, their black tops and silver undersides, the sharp things on the front where the propellers would be if they weren’t going too fast to see, the glass windows where the pilots looked out, the hatches open in their bellies …

She pulled gently on the reins, bringing Rumbler to a halt. There were things falling out of the planes. Her breath caught in her throat. Yered was being bombed. It was less than a dozen miles from home. She had never seen a
bombing
before; somehow it did not look as dramatic as she had thought it would from all the stories she had heard. There was a mountain ridge between her and the village, but even so, she was surprised that there was no smoke or fire visible. She felt sorry for the people in Yered, but excited too. It was too far away to affect her family, but what a story to tell over dinner!

She considered riding out there to see the damage and perhaps even help if she could. But one look at the sun told
her she was already late and Rumbler was tired. Her wig was hot and heavy on her head and she pulled it off to let the faint breeze run its cool breath through her dark hair. It was
forbidden
for her to remove her wig in public, or even to leave home without her face made up, but she had little time for
tradition
and ‘forgot’ whenever she could get away with it. She flicked the reins and Rumbler started walking again towards town. She wanted to get home before Barra and Jarin. Just so they didn’t blab the story to anyone at home about her falling off the horse before she could tell it her way.

It was summer and the road was dusty, the green grass in the fields either side beginning to burn to an arid yellow. The air was dry and the rocky hills hazy in the evening heat. Riadni pulled a water canteen from her saddle and gulped some down. It was warm but still refreshing. She poured some into her cupped hand and sprinkled it on the back of Rumbler’s neck. There was a rattle of hooves on the road behind her and she turned, expecting to see her brothers giving chase. But it wasn’t her brothers; there were men racing towards her on powerful warhorses. With a start, she realised that she was not wearing her wig. She quickly pulled it on and straightened it as best she could, flicking the braids over her shoulders and patting the curls back into place.

The horses were being ridden hard. Their coats were
lathered
and froth dripped from their mouths, their hooves drumming the dust into a cloud that trailed behind them. There were eight men, all armed with rifles or muskets, swords and knives, all riding with a sense of urgency. In the middle of the group was a man she recognised, a friend of
her father’s, Lakrem Elbeth. The others rode in a circle around him so as to shelter him. Riadni steered Rumbler off the road to get out of their way and they rushed past, losing her in their dust cloud. She tasted grit, swilled some spit around her mouth and let it fly. It was a beauty. Her mother would have slapped her good and hard for that one. She let the dust settle and continued on her way. She was hungry now and eager to get home.

The eight horses were waiting for her, tied to the rail
outside
the two-storey, plastered adobe house. They were still panting and their heads hung with exhaustion. Kyumeth Mocranen was straining tea through a cloth when Riadni trotted into the yard. She saw her daughter through the kitchen window and waved her inside. There was a man she didn’t know sitting in the corner of the kitchen. He looked up when Riadni came in and took off her boots, then went back to reading the Kes, one of the three books of Shanna.

‘Were you riding the horse or carrying it?’ her mother snorted. ‘You look a mess. Clean yourself up quickly and help me serve supper. We have guests.’

Riadni filled a basin from the pitcher on the table and took it upstairs to her room. She stripped off her riding clothes and washed using the basin, then sprinkled some perfumed water from a jar onto her bare feet. There weren’t many dresses in her cupboard, and the ones she had were worn and uncared for. She slipped into a long, light, loosely fitting, raw-cotton dress that covered her from neck to ankles and sat cross-legged in front of the mirror on the floor to paint her
face with the stylised make-up, a white face with sharp, curving eyebrows, heavy eyeliner, high, rouged cheekbones and deep red lips. Apart from her father and her brothers, the next man to see her without this religious mask would be her husband (whoever that would be) on their wedding night. The Bartokhrians worshipped the she-god, Shanna, and Shanneyan women had always to be dressed, coiffed and painted in the image of Shanna, for her image would protect their virtue. Riadni had started wearing the wigs and make-up when she turned fourteen, almost a year ago, and she still hated them. Taking her dress wig from its stand, she arranged it carefully on her head and stared at herself in the mirror. Some day she would rid herself of this nonsense.

Lakrem Elbeth was with her father in the large gathering room at the back of the house. Sitting protectively around him were six more men with lean bodies and hard eyes. She noticed with disgust that they had not taken off their riding cloaks or boots. Even their wide-brimmed hats still hung down their backs. She was the one who would have to clean that floor this evening, after they had left and taken their bad manners with them.

‘Ah, young Riadni!’ Elbeth turned to her as she walked in with a tray of tea and honey pastries. ‘How enchanting you look in a dress! And here I thought it was a boy wearing a hairpiece that we passed on the road.’

There were some loyal chuckles from the other men and her father smiled uncomfortably. Riadni bowed, but remained silent. She laid the tray on the low table in front of Elbeth and left the room. But once out of sight, she hung back by the doorway to listen to what was being said. Her
mother saw her, but said nothing. Riadni was old enough now to start learning about the world of men – provided she was discreet about it.

‘So, you see, old friend,’ Elbeth was saying, ‘with the attack on Yered, the Altimans have shown us that they have no mercy for those who speak out against them. Our old camp has become too dangerous; we need a safe place to stay, to plan and to train our new recruits.’

‘I understand, Lakrem,’ she heard her father say, ‘but you said it yourself. They laid waste to Yered. You say they used the flail bombs, the ones that scar all those who survive, so that they are marked for life. In Jermanya, it was the killing sound; they had to desert the village and the wounded until it died away. These weapons they use against us don’t know the difference between men, women and children. And Brother Fazekiel tells me that every village that harbours rebels is targeted. If it was just my own life you were asking me to risk, you know I wouldn’t hesitate. But my family …’

‘I know, I know, Sostas,’ Elbeth said soothingly, ‘but it will only be for a while, until we find a more permanent base. Fazekiel is an alarmist, he means well, but he is weak-willed. He thinks that protest marches and negotiations can win the peace, as if the politicians would have anything to negotiate with, without our operations against the cities. We need somewhere with cover, where their aeroplanes can’t see us – somewhere we can keep horses and store weapons and supplies. It won’t be for long, I promise you. And you won’t even know we’re there.’

Riadni glanced up at her mother and thought about what she was hearing. So those planes that had bombed Yered
had been after Elbeth! The thought frightened and thrilled her. They had been after Elbeth and his men and now he wanted to set up camp on her father’s land. She knew that Elbeth had saved her father’s life once, long ago. The older man talked as if he did not expect any more argument from his host, and yet Riadni’s father was not a man to be pushed around. Lakrem was an important member of the Hadram Cassal, a group of rebels that fought against the Altimans’ control of Bartokhrin. Having them here would be exciting. Riadni might get to learn some riding techniques, or even how to shoot or use a sword. Many of the men in Hadram Cassal had travelled to other lands, some even to the cities in Altima and she ached to hear the stories of life there. But she was sure that her father would not allow Elbeth to do
anything
that would put his family in danger.

‘Alright,’ Sostas Mocranen sighed, ‘you can set up camp in the caves in Sleeping Hill. But only for a few weeks. Every day you stay here is a risk to us all.’

‘You have my word, Sostas,’ Elbeth’s voice smiled. ‘We’ll be gone before you know it.’