Jango (22 page)

"We have done as you asked," he said. "Now you must choose."

Echo did not answer.

"I have two wives," he said. "But they are far away. I ask you to be the third, and the best."

She looked up then, and her gaze was unflinching.

"You're too old," she said.

There was no pity in her voice. Only then did he begin to guess at the depths of her anger.

"You think you can have whatever you want," she said. "But you can't have me."

She rose to her feet.

"I warn you—!"

"What?" Her eyes flashed at him. "You'll burn my home? Do it! Burn all the world, old man! Kill everyone! Then rule over a world of blood and ashes!"

She turned and stalked away.

The Jahan stood still as a statue, watching her go. No one else dared to move. Then, when she had disappeared into the darkness, he came back to life with a great laugh.

"Where's this feast of yours?" he said to Radiant Leader. "I could eat a bullock!"

Caressa had watched the entire jagga without saying a word. Now she turned to the Wildman, her eyes shining.

"I knew he'd win," she said. "I knew the ugly one would win. The rest of them are nothing."

The leaders and their entourage returned to the city, and one by one the torches were extinguished. The crowd dispersed, either to the feasting in the temple square or to their homes. Night had now fallen, and the great Orlan camp was bright with the glow of countless fires.

The bandits slipped away down the riverbank, to the meadowland where the herds of Caspians were grazing. As they went, Caressa talked on about the Great Jahan.

"Why do you think that great horde obeys him? He's not big. He's hideously ugly. Why don't they just laugh in his face?"

"Would you laugh in his face?" said Shab.

"I'd smack his face," said Caressa, "and then I'd laugh."

"Sure you would," said Shab.

Her hand shot out in a stinging slap. Shab squealed.

"You want to run with me, you show respect."

"Yes, Chief."

The grazing horses looked up as the bandits approached, but seemed unafraid. Caressa went to one of them, a mare, and stroked her neck and examined her in the faint light of the distant campfires.

"This shouldn't be too hard."

She uncoiled the rope she carried, then slipped it round the Caspian's neck. The others, following her lead, each picked out a Caspian in the darkness and did the same—all but the Wildman, who kept himself apart and watched.

Shab, still smarting from Caressa's rebuke, was the first to attempt to mount. He did exactly what he had seen the Orlans do. It had looked the simplest thing in the world.
He stood by the horse's side and sprang upwards, while swinging his leg wide and round.

The horse moved. Not far and not fast, but enough. Shab fell flat on his face on the wet grass.

The others laughed.

"Try holding on to your rope," said Caressa.

She herself then grasped her rope tight and swung herself up onto her Caspian's back.

"See!" she said. "Not too hard."

"Heya, Chief!"

The bandits were impressed. However, when Caressa urged her mount to move forward, nothing happened.

"Come on, come on." She tried rocking herself forward and kicking with her heels, but the mare just stood there. "Someone make it move."

Shab gave the mare a smart smack on the rump. This had a dramatic effect. The mare put down her head and kicked up her rear legs, and Caressa was thrown unceremoniously to the ground, taking the rope with her.

"Idiot!" she said to Shab as she got up.

"It's the rope," said the Wildman, who had been watching the Caspians carefully. "They don't like the rope."

"See if you can do better, then."

The Wildman went up to the mare, who was now watching the bandits with wary eyes, and stood before her. Hardly aware that he was doing so, he followed the training he had received in the Nom. He let himself go still, steadied his breathing, and felt the flow of lir within him. Then he brought the lir to a focused point and let it run
down his right arm to his right hand. Then he raised his right hand and touched the Caspian lightly on the brow.

The mare looked at him in mild surprise but did not move away. The Wildman kept his hand in place and felt his own potent stillness streaming into the horse. Then he removed his hand, went to the mare's side, and vaulted onto her back.

"Now make her move," said Caressa.

Shab drew his spike.

"Let me help," he said.

He stabbed the sharp spike into the mare's leg. The mare kicked and bucked, the Wildman clung on tight, and in the same moment, with a hammer of flying hooves, a horse and rider hurtled out of the darkness. The Wildman's Caspian broke into a gallop, and the Wildman found himself being carried away down the river path, into the night.

"Wildman!" shouted Caressa after him. "Come back!"

But the mare was following the other horse and was entirely beyond his control. It was all he could do to stay on her back. He was lying forward, with his arms round the mare's neck, more like a sack of corn than a rider.

Ahead he could just make out the other horse and rider. Whoever it was seemed to have no intention of stopping soon. All down the river road they went, and with every hoofbeat, the Wildman was sure he would fall. But his arms were strong, and he gripped tight. Then at last, as the young moon rose in the night sky, the rider ahead slowed to a trot and so came to a stop. The Wildman's mare, still doing as she pleased without any reference to him, trotted up alongside, and the two Caspians touched noses.

The rider was the beautiful girl who had defied the Great Jahan. She was staring at the Wildman with fear-filled eyes.

"You're not an Orlan," she said. "Who are you?"

"Nobody," said the Wildman, panting, his heart hammering from the wild ride. "Just a spiker."

"Then how can you ride?"

"I can't."

"Why were you following me?"

"I wasn't. The horse was."

The girl now looked at his mare and saw how the two Caspians were nuzzling each other's faces.

"They were trace horses together," she said. Then her suspicious eyes returned to the Wildman. "You weren't sent to bring me back?"

"No."

"So where are you going?"

The Wildman nodded down the road.

"Spikertown."

"Is that on the road to the Glimmen?"

"Part of the way."

"I come from the Glimmen. The Great Jahan has sworn to burn the great forest to the ground."

"Why?"

"Because I won't be his wife."

The Wildman was shocked but also impressed.

"Can he do it?"

"He has enough men. No one can stand up to him. Except the Noble Warriors."

She gave the Wildman a searching look.

"Do you know anything about the Noble Warriors?"

The Wildman was silent for a moment, and then he looked away.

"No," he said. "Nothing."

They rode on side by side. The Wildman told his name and learned hers.

"Wouldn't it be better to be his wife than to have him burn the Glimmen?" said the Wildman.

Echo gave a shake of her body, as if to rid herself of a covering of dirt.

"I can bear almost anything," she said, "but not that."

"He's ugly," said the Wildman, "but he's magnificent."

He was thinking of the way Caressa's eyes had shone as she had watched him.

"I don't want to be anyone's wife," said Echo. "I want to be me."

In time they came to a roadside rest hut, built for the benefit of travellers, to offer protection from wind and rain.

"We should sleep a little," said the Wildman.

"The Orlans will follow me," said Echo.

"You sleep. I'll watch."

She dismounted.

"We'll take it in turns," she said.

The interior of the little low-roofed hut was windowless and blind dark. Echo lay down on the bare earth floor
and was soon deeply asleep. The Wildman stayed outside and watched, and the Caspians grazed, and the moon travelled across the sky.

He thought about the Jahan and the Orlans who followed him. He pictured them in their camp outside Radiance. He saw again the crowds that gathered to watch the jagga. There were many Orlans, but there were many more spikers. The difference was that the Orlans were united in a disciplined army, while the spikers were a disorganized rabble. The spikers all belonged to different tribes, and within the tribes, they were divided into bands, and the bands were forever squabbling among themselves. In Spikertown alone, three chiefs disputed control of the streets, and their followers fought one another for territory, in frequent bloody brawls. But if one were to rise above them all and win the allegiance of every spiker in the land, he could build an army to rival the Orlans. Such a chief could truly call himself a warlord.

But how was it to be done?

When the light of dawn streamed in through the rest hut's doorway, Echo Kittle woke. Only then did she discover that she was not alone. A second figure lay huddled in sleep on the hut's floor. Echo stared in surprise. Then she crept quietly out into the open and whispered to the Wildman.

"There's someone in the hut."

"Who?"

"I don't know," said Echo. "But I think I recognize the clothing. I think it's a Noble Warrior."

The Wildman went into the hut to check for himself. As soon as he saw the sleeper, he let out an exclamation, and the sleeper awoke. Her eyes opened and looked up at him in confusion, still half in dreams. Then she smiled.

It was Morning Star.

A
GRAND FEAST HAD BEEN PREPARED TO FOLLOW THE
jagga, and since it was all there to be eaten, the Great Jahan and his sons and his entourage proceeded to eat it. No one spoke of the fact that the reason for the feast, the wedding of one of the Jahan's own sons to Echo Kittle, had now been abandoned. The Great Jahan sat in the place of honor at the top table and drank steadily, and ate almost as much as he drank, and repeatedly thanked his host, Radiant Leader, for the generosity of his welcome.

"This is the way to live!" he cried. "Why fight wars when friendship tastes this good?"

"Why indeed?" said Radiant Leader, raising his glass but not drinking.

"We only have the one life," said the Jahan. "Might as well enjoy it. Do you enjoy it?"

He leaned close to Radiant Leader, his face contorted by a bitter smile.

"Of course," said Radiant Leader.

"And how much longer do you expect to go on enjoying it? This enjoyable life of yours."

"I hope to enjoy this life," said Radiant Leader, "for many years to come." Noticing that many of his own people were listening with interest, though with lowered eyes, the priest-king added, "And I hope to enjoy the next life for all eternity."

"Eternal life, eh? And how about"—he leaned closer still—"eternal youth?"

"Ah. That's something very different."

"Very different. But very desirable."

Radiant Leader was all too aware that his guest was drunk and that not far beneath the smiling surface was a burning fury. He noticed that the Jahan's sons were watching their father with concealed agitation.

"I'm sure we all have many years ahead of us," he said.

"Are you? Are you sure?" The Jahan wouldn't let it go. "What makes you sure? How many years? How old are you? You're not pretty but you're not old. Are you thirty yet?"

Radiant Leader closed his eyes. This was not a good situation. The Jahan was treating him with a familiarity that bordered on disrespect. The priest-king's prestige depended crucially on the way those round him conducted themselves in his presence. As Soren Similin, he could pretend to be humble. As Radiant Leader, he must inspire awe.

He rose from the table. His priests at once rose with him.

"We are the sons of the Great Power above," he said. "We are all young in the light of eternity."

"Sit down!" roared the Jahan. "You know how old I am? Go on! Guess!"

He pointed a calloused finger at one of the priests.

"You! Red fellow! Make a guess!"

The priest looked at Radiant Leader, who shook his head very slightly.

"I'm forty!" bellowed the Jahan. "Forty years old! Is that old? Is my life over? Look at them!" His finger jerked towards his sons. "I'm a better man than every one of them! Who says I'm old?"

No one uttered a sound. The Jahan's face had turned a dark ugly red, and spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. The rage that had been gathering in him like a storm now burst into the open.

"What I want," he yelled, "I get! What I say I'll do, I do! I said I'd rule the world, and so I shall! Who's going to stop me? You? You?"

He glared round at them. No one moved.

"Insects!" he cried. "Worms! Maggots! I tread on you all!"

He became aware that Radiant Leader was still standing, and clearly preparing to leave.

"You!" he screamed. "I want you on your knees! I want your homage! Now!"

Radiant Leader was forced to play his trump card
before he had intended to show it. Anything to distract the drunken Jahan's attention from himself and his homage.

"You know who stands in your way," he said in a high, clear voice. "The Noble Warriors."

"Noble Warriors! I'll smash their skulls like eggs!"

He pounded the table before him.

"Noble Warriors! They'll kneel to me before they die!"

He lunged forward, as if to seize hold of his enemies there and then, and stumbled against the heavily laden table. As he thrashed about to right himself, he caught one of the legs, and the whole table came crashing down. Enraged by this, seeming to think it had been done by others to impede him, the Jahan turned and blundered in a new direction. Meeting another table, he picked it up and tipped it over.

"You can't hold me in!" he cried. "I don't want your feasts! You think you can stuff me like a cockerel? I'll show you how I crow!"

He crashed back and forth about the great pavilion, overturning the tables, shouting as he went. Radiant Leader, seeing that he had been safely forgotten, withdrew at a dignified pace, and his priests followed. The Jahan never even saw them go.