His voice tailed off as the girl stood, proud and defiant. She was eleven years old; still a girl. In two or three years’ time he would normally have been looking for a husband for her but now, while there was no longer any hope of that, she had blossomed in captivity; grown adult too early. There was something about her that reminded him so much of her mother; and the thing that he knew clearest, without a shadow of a doubt, was that he could no more stop her now than he could stop the sun setting. Biting his lip, worried, he nodded.
Tenderly, she reached down to where he sat on the floor and placed her hand on his shoulder, leaving it there for a moment before she straightened, held her head high, and strode from the room. In a mix of pride and fear, he watched her go.
Asima strode from the room and round the corner into the corridor before she stopped and allowed the violent shaking to take hold. She could force herself to appear confident in front of her father; had to, in fact, or he would stop her. But now that she was alone, she could allow the fear she felt rooted in her belly to manifest, just for a minute.
She leaned against the wall and rubbed her temples before folding her arms around her chest and fighting the rising gorge of fear. She couldn’t allow herself this kind of weakness.
Straightening, she shuffled along the wall to the large mirror, where she examined herself carefully. Despite her complexion, she looked decidedly pale, she thought. Pinching her cheeks, she carefully re-pinned her hair and, re-appraising herself, nodded in satisfaction.
Bracing herself and clenching her teeth, she strode to the stairway and began to descend. On the ground floor half a dozen white-clad soldiers eyed her with surprise as she approached. The one nearest the door, bearing a black and white striped crest on his helmet, stepped in front of the doors.
“You need to stay in house. Dangerous out.”
Asima found herself blinking in surprise. In her time here, she’d not heard any of the northern guardsmen speaking her language though, now she thought about it, some of them must do in order to communicate orders. She smiled at the guard officer.
“Thank you for your warning, kind sir, but I must insist on being allowed out.”
The guard shook his head and smiled a condescending smile in return to her own.
“Run along, girl. Go to father.”
Bridling, Asima felt the heat rise in her cheeks. How dare this man talk to her like that? She made to step forward, but the guard reached down and gently held her back. She stopped struggling and stepped back. This was both ridiculous and undignified. The guard would clearly not accede to the demands of an eleven year old. She could hardly face her father and ask him to speak to the guards. Biting her cheek and then chiding herself irritably for it, she glared at the guard officer and then turned and stalked away, back up the stairs.
Months of being trapped in this luxurious prison had given her endless time to explore. With the exception of the governor’s own rooms on the top floor and the temporary guard quarters on the ground, she had examined every nook and cranny of the building and, with her customary cunning, had long since discovered three private routes out of the building.
Frowning as she reached the top of the stairs, Asima glanced this way and that. The easiest exit, from the first floor balcony onto the roof of the stables, was blocked as a couple of other prisoners occupied the terrace looking out across the compound. Clicking her tongue in irritation, she made her way up the next flight of stairs. The third route would be dangerous and should be avoided if at all possible.
Hurrying now, she turned along one of the corridors on the second floor and rushed along to the end. From here, she could edge along the roof of the balcony below where the couple stood and reach the exterior wall. From there she could walk safely around the perimeter, high above the stable block, and descend next to the council buildings where the satrap now held court.
Asima was so busy planning her route from the window that, as she rounded the corner, she walked straight into the elderly nobleman and his wife.
“I am dreadfully sorry, master… ma’am.”
The man barely glanced at her, passing her by and hurrying along the corridor toward the stairs. The woman, however, grasped her by the shoulders.
“Whatever are you doing alone, child?”
Asima floundered.
“I… ah…”
“Come with me. We must find your father.”
Shaking her head, Asima tried to find words, an excuse to deny this lady.
“I have something to do, ma’am. My father knows…”
The lady turned her forcefully and began to propel her along the corridor in the direction from which she had come. Asima blinked in surprise and made protesting sounds. The lady stopped, turning her by the shoulders and glaring at her.
“This is not the time to throw a tantrum, young lady.”
Asima was so surprised at the force in the older lady’s voice, that she stopped struggling as she was turned once more and directed along the corridor behind the old man.
“You are the daughter of the merchant that resides in the room of glittering peacocks, yes?”
Again, Asima was taken aback. Had she been that noticeable?
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman nodded and gestured to her husband.
“Pass the word on. I will return this wayward stray and then join you.”
The man nodded and made his way toward the higher level and the governor’s rooms, while Asima and her escort made for the descending staircase.
“Ma’am…” Asima began in a questioning voice. Something about the lady’s manner was beginning to alarm her. The noblewoman cut her off with a waved finger.
“It is not becoming of young ladies to question their elders. Come along.”
Asima hurried on with the lady as they turned corners and marched along corridors until once more she entered the room where her father sat staring into nothing. As the two approached, the man looked up in surprise.
“Lady Shere’en?”
He struggled respectfully to his feet and bowed his head. Even in their current circumstances there were matters of etiquette when dealing with someone of the lady’s stature.
“I have come to return your precocious little jewel. She is, I fear, up to no good, given the desperate attempts she made to lie about her reasons for sneaking around the corridors.”
Asima’s father nodded meekly.
“I apologise for her, lady.”
The woman shook her head.
“That is not necessary, master merchant. She is headstrong and clever, this one, and in our dire circumstances, she can be forgiven many things.”
She sighed.
“Now, however, is a bad time to be wandering alone. Something is happening in the great square. We have seen from the roof. There is fire and the noise of combat. Pelasian soldiers are mobilising in the courtyard. We may all be in danger.”
Asima blinked again and craned her head to stare at the lady behind her. Now that she concentrated, she could hear many things. Distantly, across the roofs of M’Dahz, there were sounds of fighting and screams. Closer by, on the balconies above, she could hear worried conversation and groans. Warning bells chimed around the Pelasian barracks of the city and soldiers gathered in the complex outside, shouting orders. Something was happening and, from the sound, it was something dreadful.
In which unrest occurs
Samir and Ghassan crouched in the shadow of the vine-covered pergola on the roof of a low building fronting on to the great square of M’Dahz. From their earliest days out and about in the town, they remembered the square as a place of life, colour, noise and commerce. The grand bazaar was located here on an almost permanent basis, only closing up when the public space was required for festivals or parades.
In these oppressed times, however, the bazaar was strictly controlled and only licensed on two week days. Flags of Pelasia and the satrap Ma’ahd festooned the walls and poles; a constant reminder to the people of their new master.
But not today.
It had begun only a few minutes ago, although the boys had been aware of the plan for some time. The resistance, which had begun on the night of the invasion under the mercenary captain Cronus, had been slow and careful in developing. As Pelasian soldiers had burned, raped and murdered their way through the town that night, Cronus, already disenchanted with the manner in which the government had yielded and capitulated to the invaders, had gathered the militia near the docks. A decision had been made and the resistance movement that resulted had steadily grown in strength and number over the succeeding months.
After just two days hiding out in a secluded cover two miles from the walls, the boys and their mother had, slowly and cautiously, taken their boat and returned to the town under cover of darkness. As soon as Ghassan discovered what the militia were doing, he and Samir had approached Cronus and volunteered. The grizzled mercenary had accepted them as scouts and since that day the boys had quietly gone about their business in M’Dahz, attracting no unwanted attention and yet gathering information through watchful eyes and attentive ears.
The resistance was now twice the size of the militia who had initially stood on the walls and watched Ma’ahd and his men arrive, whereas three quarters of the satrap’s force had returned to the family holdings in Pelasia. The odds, while still steep, were considerably better now than they had previously been.
Many of the members of the resistance, spurred on by Pelasian atrocities, were twitching with the need to make a move, but Cronus had expressly forbidden any such activity. It was all about subtlety and timing. The force had picked up more and more members over the months and had received illicit caches of arms from both seaborne and desert sources and had kept them in hidden locations around M’Dahz, preparing for one great event.
And this morning had been a flurry of hidden activity as resistance cells across the town gathered their arms and moved silently through the streets. The plan was simple. Some had complained about it, of course, but Cronus had been adamant. It had to be simple, well-timed and above all, it would require sacrifice.
Volunteers had been called for for the demonstration. In all likelihood, many would not survive this, but the demonstration was necessary; a diversion for the main event.
Grinning at Samir, Ghassan opened his shuttered lantern, the light from the candle burning within hardly visible in the brilliant sunshine. Samir tipped a small amount of his precious oil flask onto the Pelasian flag that hung from the spar that jutted out just below the roof line. Glancing across the square to other rooftops, he smiled.
“Now.”
Ghassan nodded and withdrew the candle, touching the burning wick to the flag. The great, heavy banner leapt ablaze, fire rippling across the surface and roaring in the silence. With perfect timing, all around the square Pelasian flags burst into flame as scout groups of men too young for Cronus to accept them as soldiers carried out their own acts of defiance.
With a roar, the main group of protesters rushed into the square from three side streets, converging among the burning banners, and made for the Pelasian guard barracks that occupied the once proud civic hall. The two black-clad guards on duty beside the door took one look at the advancing mob and disappeared inside, closing and bolting the door. Samir could not see their faces, but smiled grimly as he imagined their panicked expressions.
The force of over a hundred protesters rushed up to the building and began to hammer at the doors and windows, others rushing to the buildings on either side to gain access to upper floors.
Ghassan nodded with a deep sense of satisfaction. Finally they would get to do something. They just had to hope now that Cronus had been right and that the Pelasians would react in the predicted manner.
Ghassan and Samir dropped below the low parapet and watched, tensely, as events unfolded. The barrack was a three storey building, standing proud into the square, but abutted on either side by houses and shops of two storeys. The Pelasians had taken some pains to bolster the defensive capabilities of the building, reinforcing the doors, placing bars on the windows and heavy wooden shutters. It would take an hour for the rebels to gain entrance, but the Pelasians would now begin to panic. There was no rear exit from the building, as they had walled it up as part of their defensive adjustments and they were outnumbered two to one by their attackers, so issuing forth from the building would be extremely unwise. They may be able to hold it for a long time, but the building had no well and would burn easily.
The mob could quite simply torch the building. Samir and Ghassan knew that wouldn’t happen. It could turn into a blaze that destroyed half the city, but the Pelasians didn’t know that. They would have to do something and Cronus had predicted what that something would be.
Samir, counting under his breath, grinned as he saw the door on roof of the building fly open. He turned to his brother.
“The captain underestimated them. They panicked quicker than he said they would.”
Ghassan laughed and focused his exceptional gaze on the three figures that issued from that door. Just as Cronus had said they would, two of them hauled up to the parapet one of the great horns that were once used to warn ships away from port during sandstorms. Shaped like a narrow cone six feet long and supported at the flared end on a hinged iron pivot, the great horn took a great deal of effort to get a powerful sound from. Indeed, as the boys watched with quiet mirth, the three men took turns breathing deeply and blowing into the horn. There were a number of low honking noises; loud, certainly, but not loud enough to reach the reinforcements they needed at the palace complex.