The Soterion Mission (3 page)

Taja paused. Looking round the room at each person in turn, she concluded slowly, “Think about it, fellow Mudirs. For all our sakes, think about it.”

“We will. Thank you, Taja,” said Leiss with a frown. The decision did not now seem as straightforward as it had moments before.

The Emir walked slowly to the fireplace and once again raised a hand for silence. “Right. We have heard enough. It’s time for the handshow.”

2: Into the Unknown

Navid closed the door of the Prison Hut and leaned heavily against it. “Well, Cy?”

His friend was drawing idly in the dust with the point of his spear. “Well, what?”

“Come on!” Born on the same day sixteen winters ago and close friends all their lives, the two young men read each other’s thoughts as easily as they read the weather. “You know what I mean, Cy. How d’you think the handshow will go?”

“Most of them are sharp enough to see she’s telling the truth.”

“Taja’s the sharpest of the lot, and she didn’t believe a word Roxanne said.”

Cyrus angrily crossed out the pattern he had drawn. “Maybe.”

Navid’s brain did not match the speed of his powerful warrior’s body. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, Nav. It’s general knowledge how Taja and I have been since Pari died. And once she’s set her mind on something, someone…So, it’s not as simple as whether she believes Roxanne or not. There we were, getting along OK, and then this stranger turns up. Taja sensed a threat almost immediately.” He hesitated, as if trying to make sense of his own thoughts. “You must admit, Nav,” he continued, speaking more slowly, “Roxanne’s quite, well, unusual, isn’t she?”

Navid grinned. “Really?” Typical Cyrus! Too much heart for his own good. At one time or another he had fancied just about every woman in Della Tallis. A merry dance he’d led them till he settled down with Pari, his wedun; and now it looked as if it might start all over again. Except this time, if the refugee was involved, it would be a lot more serious – and a lot more dangerous.

Cyrus smiled back at his friend but said nothing. Since Pari’s death in childbirth, Taja had made it clear that she wanted Cyrus for herself. She was certainly an attractive woman. He liked and respected her, and the two had spent several nights together. Even so, he had nagging doubts about the relationship. He was no good at pretending and her intensity made the affair lopsided and sometimes awkward. He also worried that she might be more interested in what he was – a handsome man destined for high authority – than who he was. Having seen her final winter, she was no longer able to bear a child and likely to enter her Death Month at any moment. Custom and common sense told Cyrus he should find a wedun younger than himself, one capable of producing the children desperately needed to keep the community going.

And now there was Roxanne, complicating things still further.

The sound of the farmhouse door opening interrupted Cyrus’ thoughts. Mudir Vashti came blinking into the sunlight. The two men searched her face for a clue as to how the handshow had gone. Strangely, for Vashti was one of the most open women in all Della Tallis, their unspoken question received no answer. She neither frowned nor smiled. Her taut face conveyed nothing but a vague sense of uncertainty.

“Well, Vashti, what’s been decided?”

“I can’t tell you, Cyrus. Emir Leiss wants the prisoner back in the Majlis so she can hear the verdict for herself.”

Navid opened the door of the Hut and peered inside. “Roxanne?” he called quietly. “You’re wanted back in the Majlis.”

There was no reply. Exhausted by the events of the night, the plaintiff had curled up in a corner of the hut and fallen asleep. Navid entered and shook her by the shoulder.

The sleeping woman flinched. “No, Timur! No! Please!” The voice was one the onlookers had not heard before. Half begging, half screaming, it chilled the very air that carried it, sweeping away any lingering doubt the two Defenders might have had about her honesty. Her dream – her nightmare – was thick with horrors. They woke her gently and led her back to face the Majlis.

The atmosphere in the room was uneasy, as if the handshow had not yet taken place. Cyrus glanced around. As he had done with Vashti, he scanned the faces of the Mudirs for a hint of the decision. Nothing. All of them had their eyes fixed on the Emir, as if only he knew the result.

“Roxanne,” Leiss began, his dark face furrowed with seriousness, “we agreed that if nine of us trust you, you may remain in Della Tallis. If fewer than nine believe your story, you will be executed.”

As the Emir paused, Cyrus glanced towards the prisoner. She stood absolutely still, eyes fixed on the speaker. Only a slight twitching of her fingers revealed her nervousness. On the other side of the table, Taja swept a strand of hair from her face. The movement caught Cyrus’ attention and, as she intended, his eyes flicked in her direction. Slowly, with the suggestion of a pout, she mouthed the word “execute”.

Cyrus looked away, wishing he had not understood.

“Roxanne, the Majlis has held its handshow,” Leiss continued. “The majority of the Mudirs believe you are to be trusted. However, four of them – Rustam, Azat, Ebi and Taja – were not convinced by your story. That makes the count eight to four.”

Cyrus felt anger swelling within him. He wanted to shout, to tell those who had not supported the refugee how blind and stupid they were. How could they have let themselves be persuaded by Taja when her motives were patently mixed? He took a deep breath and glared across at her. She met his gaze without blinking.

Turning away in frustration, Cyrus saw that Roxanne had begun to weep. She didn’t heave or shake. Rather, she stood quite still as if unaware of the tears running silently down her face and splashing heavily onto her chest. Cyrus bit his lip in an effort to control his emotions. Navid, also aware of the mounting tension, gripped the handle of his axe more tightly. At his feet, Corby let out a low growl. Even the dog, it seemed, sensed that the Constant traditions of loyalty and obedience were being stretched to breaking point.

Dangerous thoughts flashed through Cyrus’ mind, thoughts he had never known he was capable of. One did not reject the result of a handshow. To do so would be to undermine every principle of the Constants’ fragile society, feeding dangerous division, perhaps rebellion…Yet how dumb would it be to kill someone bearing a message of almost unbelievable hope? Maybe, at moments like this, they needed something more than constancy and blind obedience.

Through the mist of his confusion, Cyrus became aware that Leiss was still speaking. Something about one more handshow. Of course! The Emir himself had not yet given his opinion. Cyrus’s attention switched back to what was being said.

“Roxanne, you see what a difficult position you have put me in? Your fate is in my hands.” Leiss looked down at the floor then stared for a few seconds at the refugee’s tear-stained face. “I share many of Taja’s fears. Indeed, before you came back in I was going to recommend your execution. Your reaction to what you have heard has saved you. Tears do not move me, but dignity does. You are too dignified for a Zed. Therefore, I add my choice to the eight cast in your favour, making nine.”

In the bustle of conversation that greeted the Emir’s verdict, Cyrus and Navid nodded to each other in relief. Ignoring them, Taja stared hawk-eyed at the woman she had sought to condemn.

Leiss called for quiet. “Nevertheless,” he went on, “because of the worries expressed by Taja and others, it would be wrong to provide Roxanne with an escort for her journey. In fact, she must remain here for a whole moon so we can keep an eye on her. Just in case. After that, Roxanne, if you wish to continue your mission, you’ll have to go alone. On those conditions, therefore, Roxanne the Yonner, welcome to Della Tallis!”

A shadow had passed over Roxanne’s face as she listened to Leiss’ judgement. Cyrus saw it and understood immediately. So also, he feared, had Taja. The Emir may have saved the striking Yonner’s life, but he had also put a stop to her mission. Cyrus realised that his constancy was again going to be put to the test, and he was unsure how he would react.

When the noise had subsided, Leiss asked Cyrus and Navid to leave. He wanted to say something to Roxanne and the Majlis in confidence. Cyrus learned later that the Emir was understandably worried about the Mudirs’ disagreements leaving deeper, long-lasting divisions within the community. Whatever their individual opinions, he reminded everyone, they had to accept the result of the handshow and put their differences behind them. Duty demanded unity at all times.

Roxanne thanked the Majlis and the Emir in particular. She quite understood the fears of those who had not believed her, she added, and would do her best to work for Della Tallis and Constants everywhere. Of those present, only Taja noticed how carefully the words were chosen. Leiss then invited all the Mudirs to come forward and shake the visitor’s hand as a gesture of goodwill. When this small ceremony was over, Vashti and Zuleyka accompanied Roxanne to their dormitory so she could clean herself up and rest.

Cyrus did not see Roxanne for the rest of the day. Nor did he see Taja. As soon as Navid and he were dismissed from the meeting, they joined a party strengthening the central watchtower and the barricades on either side of it. The manual work served to calm the turmoil in Cyrus’ brain.

For as long as he could remember, he had tried to do what was right, to behave as expected from someone with his obvious talents. Although no angel, he had done his best to serve the community and treat everyone with respect. But now, with the arrival of Roxanne, the focus had shifted. His personal life and his role in the community were suddenly, painfully less straightforward. Instinct drew him towards Roxanne and the news of the Soterion; his upbringing told him that only fools or traitors threw away the present in the vague hope of a better future.

“Know why we’re called Constants, Nav?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible as he hauled another pole to the top of the watchtower.

“Eh?”

“Constant – why are we ‘Constants’ rather than, say, ‘Valiants’ or ‘Fighters’?”

“How should I know, Cy? You’re the one with the brains.” Navid leaned against the rail that ran around the top of the tower. “It’s because we are, I suppose.”

“Are what, Nav?”

“You know, constant. Not changing, reliable, like the sun coming up every morning.”

“And going down every evening,” muttered Cyrus.

Sensitive to his friend’s anxiety, Navid decided not to take the conversation any further. This Roxanne business was Cyrus’ affair, something only he could sort out. If, when he did so, he needed help, Navid would stand beside him. Until then, he would say nothing. The first move had to come from Cy.

Beyond the defences on which Cyrus and Navid were working, a party of young men and women was harvesting apples in open ground. It was dangerous work. Every two or three moons, an “outside picker”, as they were known, would be carried off in a lightning Zed raid. To guard against this, lookouts scanned the steep walls of the valley, ready to recall the pickers at the first sign of enemy movement.

On this occasion they need not have worried. There were indeed Zeds within the distant trees, but at that moment they were more concerned with punishment than the recapture of a prisoner.

The scene was an ugly one. A naked Zed of some fifteen winters was tied to a tree with a length of frayed rope. Around him, some standing transfixed, some clutching themselves in delight, were forty or so unshaven, barbaric-looking men. These were common Zeds, barely articulate, barely human. They obeyed only their animal instincts and the commands of their leader. The spectacle of punishment fascinated them.

The victim was one of their own number. His body was a mass of fresh and bloody wounds, many where the flesh was most tender and most sensitive. The bleeding was heaviest from his mouth in which only half a dozen broken teeth remained. The others lay scattered across the ground in front of him like a miniature graveyard from the time of the Long Dead.

The image was appropriate. Soon this man would be dead, too. Before then he was going to suffer. He would suffer for not guarding his prisoner closely enough and for failing to recapture her. He would also suffer simply to give pleasure to his tormentors.

“Teeth!” hissed a high voice. “The vermin still has teeth! It might bite me!”

A young Zed clad in a short kilt of hide stepped forward and brandished a thin iron spike in front of the prisoner’s face.

“No!” came the voice again. “Lever them out slowly, Sheza. Don’t simply smash them! Enjoy!”

Sheza was being educated. Today’s lesson, in the art of torture, was being given by the teacher who sat on the ground a few paces behind him, calling out instructions.

A scream tore through the trees as another two teeth dropped to the forest floor.

“That’s better. But what a noise it makes! I think it’s time for the tongue, don’t you?”

From his haughty bearing, his sneering expression of cold command and his multicoloured cloak, it was clear that the instructor was no ordinary Zed. He was none other than Timur the Terrible, leader – or “Malik” – of the self-styled Grozny, the most formidable of all the Zed tribes. Timur’s cruelty was renowned, even among his own kind. So was his intelligence. From the age of twelve, when he was appointed Malik by his predecessor, he had been accustomed to having his way with every man, woman and child he came across.

Until he met Roxanne.

Timur had made her suffer, of course. At the same time, he had been intrigued by her striking looks and dignified personality. He decided, therefore, not to kill her but to tattoo her as a Zed and keep her as his personal plaything. She flattered him and grew close to where his heart would have been, had he possessed one. He also kept her alive for a more practical reason. When tortured to tell the purpose of her mission, she had talked of the Soterion. Timur had heard of reading and books, and realised they could be a source of knowledge. And knowledge was power, power to crush the Constants and extend his rule to the very sea itself.

The Zeds under his command would not understand this. So what? He had no time for them. They were mere brutes while he, Malik Timur, was different. He was like one of those things he had heard an Alban Constant call upon under torture. What was it? Ah, yes! A god. That was it. He was like a god.

But he was not yet a god. If he were, he would never have let Roxanne wheedle her way out of his grip before she had revealed where the Soterion was. Now he would never know…Or would he? Maybe, just maybe, all was not lost after all…