Slaves of the Mastery (32 page)

Bowman, standing not far behind, felt the jolt of the Master’s power, and understood exactly what had been done. In that same moment, he understood that it was this supreme will alone that
sustained the entire Mastery. If the Mastery was to be destroyed, the Master’s will must first be broken.

The music surged on towards its climax. The Johdila took her fifth step. Ortiz now stood before his bride, close enough to reach out and touch her, with no thoughts and no desires left.
Remotely, as if recalled from some far-off place in space and time, he felt a sense of loss: but it had no face, no name. His Master made the music that directed his steps. He had only to love and
to obey.

Suddenly the music paused, in mid-phrase, almost in mid-chord. This was the Master’s desire, that the few but necessary words be spoken in a space formed by the music itself, a space
dynamic with tension, straining for release into the grand climax.

Ortiz knew his part. Now he was to speak.

‘With these five steps, I stand before you as your husband. Do you receive me as my wife?’

The Johdila was silent. The silence, the not-music, stretched out in long agonised seconds. Zohon braced himself for action.

‘Say the word, radiance,’ murmured Graff.

No one could see the Johdila’s face through the two veils, but tears were welling up in her eyes, and now were spilling over to trickle down her perfect cheeks.

Ortiz realised that his bride was not going to speak. Kestrel met Bowman’s gaze across the arena.

Any moment now –

The silence became unbearable. The Master, waiting in mounting rage, suddenly realised that this was not a matter of nerves or shyness, but an act of defiance. At once he focused his powers on
the bride, to hammer her spirit into line with his will, and so sweep on to the glorious climactic chords of his masterwork –

‘No!’

The Johdila cried out the one electric word. There was a moment of stunned silence.

‘Go!’ cried Kestrel. ‘Run, Sisi, run!’

The Johdila turned and ran from the stage.

Consternation filled the hall.

Zohon’s hand struck the air. All his men drew their swords.

‘In the name of the Sovereignty of Gang,’ he cried, ‘surrender or die!’

Barzan saw the Johjan Guards moving in to control the exits, and shouted in despair,

‘Idiots! What do you think you’re doing?’

The Master lowered his violin, and closing his eyes, poured out his will all over the High Domain. The message was wordless, but all heard it, and all obeyed. Every able-bodied man in the hall,
from the trumpet players in the orchestra to the young lords in Ortiz’s entourage, was transformed into a fighter. The question that had so puzzled Zohon – where is the army of the
Mastery? – was now answered. The Master’s people were his army. From beneath robes and tunics came weapons. Within minutes, the great domed hall was a scene of bloody battle.

Zohon saw this with shock. But his guards were surely better trained than any citizen rabble. It was only a matter of holding his nerve.

‘Cut them down! Kang! Kang! Kang! The Hammer of Gang!’ he cried, fighting his way through to the terrified Johanna and his wife.

‘You fool!’ wept Barzan, stamping his feet. ‘You great stuffed booby!’

‘Where’s the Johdila?’ demanded Zohon.

Bowman and Kestrel had both moved towards the doors at the same time. All they wanted now was to escape the battle-filled hall and find their parents. Mumpo leaped up and followed them, careless
of the danger. Finding one of the Johjan Guards barring his way brandishing a sword, Mumpo struck out with his bare fist, broke the guard’s neck, and ran on.

Ortiz, filled with his Master’s will, took charge of the mass of fighting men.

‘Close ranks! Strike hard! For the Master! Fight and die!’

Bowman and Kestrel pushed their way through the open doors to the street. Outside, to their astonishment, they saw columns of armed people advancing, summoned by the will of the Master. They
came from all directions, in seemingly limitless numbers. The Johjan Guards would never be able to resist such an onslaught. Bowman gazed on the swarm of people, saw the single-minded gaze in every
eye, and understood what it was he must do.

‘I have to go back.’

‘No!’ cried Kestrel. ‘This is our only chance!’

‘Get out of the city! I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

‘No! I’m coming with you!’

‘Please, Kess!’ He turned on her fiercely, knowing he had very little time. ‘You’ll weaken me. Get out of the city. All this is about to be destroyed!’

Kestrel stared at her brother, shocked. Never before had he chosen to face a danger without her.

‘How will I weaken you?’

Mumpo came running up to join them.

‘Kess!’

‘Mumpo! You’re all right! Bo –’

But he was gone.

‘Don’t be afraid, Kess. I’m a good fighter. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’

‘I know, Mumpo. I saw.’

She turned and looked down the street at the advancing streams of armed men, and decided she must do as her brother wanted.

‘Let’s go and find ma and pa.’

Bowman went back into the domed hall, where the fighting was now intense and chaotic. A Johjan Guard, striking wildly at anyone and anything, made a swing at him. At once, in instinctive
self-defence, Bowman turned his burning eyes on him, and without raising his hand, struck him a single concentrated blow. The guard fell like a stone.

Bowman looked up to the high gallery, where the Master still stood, eyes closed, pouring out his limitless will. Bowman saw how the Master’s people fought, sustained by this power, without
regard to their own safety. They would never be defeated until this one man’s power was broken.

This is what I’ve been sent to do.

He focused his attention on the figure of the Master, and sent a shock-beam from his mind towards him. At this distance it lacked power, but it still struck the Master with such force that he
jumped, and let go of his violin. The violin fell from the high gallery, and smashed on the stone floor below. In fury, the Master sought out his attacker, and found Bowman. At once he sent out a
wave of power, but Bowman was waiting for it, and well-defended. To the Master’s astonishment, he stood his ground, blocking the assault, redirecting the stream of energy to drain harmlessly
into the ground.

As suddenly as he had attacked, the Master pulled back. It was now Bowman’s turn to be caught by surprise. Surely it couldn’t be over so easily? But the Master had turned, and with a
flurry of his crimson robes, he was striding away.

Bowman searched for the way to reach the high gallery, and quickly saw the narrow open staircase climbing the wall on the far side. He crossed the stone floor towards it in a straight line,
using his growing power to hurl the fighting men out of his way as he went. Some Johjan Guards were already on the staircase. Bowman plucked them off as if they were insects, and dropped them to
the floor below. He ran up the stone stairs to the gallery. It was empty. A long passage led away, to a further flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs he found the Master’s violin bow,
lying discarded on the floor. He climbed the stairs three at a time to a small landing at the top. Here lay the Master’s golden helmet, and his crimson cloak. Before him was a small door with
an iron handle.

As Bowman put his hand to the iron handle, he knew that he would find the Master inside. He could feel him. The door would not be locked. He would enter. And the real battle would begin.

T
he space beyond the door was dazzlingly bright. Bowman realised that he must be in the topmost part of the highest dome. Above him, through a
great enclosing cup of clear glass, clouds were marching across a grey sky. Before him stretched a plain timber floor, on which stood a narrow iron bed, a table, and a chair. The bald simplicity of
the furniture gave the room, if room it could be called when it seemed to have neither walls nor roof, the look of a prison cell. On the single chair sat a stooped old man, with his back to him. He
wore a robe of coarse undyed wool. His feet were bare.

Bowman stood and stared in confusion. The door swung shut of its own accord behind him. As the latch clicked, the old man turned his head.

The same mane of white hair, the same strong mouth and ruddy cheeks: but the eyes were different, withdrawn, no longer powerful. The Master looked at Bowman with a curious kind of detachment, as
if interested to see what he would do, but not personally involved.

‘You’re a Singer?’

‘Of course,’ said the Master. His voice was low, almost a whisper. ‘Or I was once.’

‘Then why –?’

‘Why rule? Somebody must, boy. We can’t all sing songs.’

Bowman had come to fight, if need be, to kill: but here before him was no resistance, no power. He no longer knew what to do.

‘They don’t understand this in Sirene.’ The Master gestured with one hand at the city beyond the glass. ‘Sirene has sent you, of course.’

‘Yes.’

‘I knew it would come one day.’ He studied Bowman carefully. ‘Are you strong enough?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If necessary,’ said the Master, ‘you can call for help. One of many, part of all.’

Bowman felt a shiver of fear. This was what the one-eyed hermit had said to him. How could the Master know so much?

The Master was smiling at him.

‘What exactly did they say you were to do?’

‘To destroy and to rule.’

‘Ah, yes. First you destroy. Then you rule. How little changes! So you’re just like me after all.’

Bowman struggled to hold on to his sense of what was right and true.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll set the people free.’

‘Free?’ The Master chuckled at the thought. ‘What makes you think they want to be free? You think I compel their obedience?’

‘You’re the Master. They obey you.’

‘I am what they have made me.’

The smile faded. Like a curtain being drawn aside, the old man allowed Bowman to reach deeper into him. There he felt again the power of a being with no fears and no desires.

‘Do you see it now?’ said the Master quietly. ‘You’ve come not to free them, but to free me.’

Bowman said nothing. He could feel the Master gathering his strength. He wanted to be ready when the blow fell.

‘Then, after I am gone, you will become me.’

‘Never!’

‘Poor Marius. He thought it would be him. But he’s not like me.’

‘I’m not like you. I don’t want what you want.’

Why pretend? Do you think I don’t know
?

The thought cut into Bowman’s mind like a knife. Just in time, he braced himself. The Master’s eyes were on him, his mind rearing up over him –

Destroy me if you can! If you can’t, I will destroy you.

Bowman staggered under the impact of the Master’s will. Out of that great body streamed a jet of power that scrambled his mind and sucked away his thoughts.

Let’s see how strong you are.

Desperately, Bowman struggled to retain control of his own will, and realised with mounting panic that he could not. He felt as if he was growing heavier, and his muscles were growing weaker. He
felt his knees buckle.

Come, let’s have more of a fight than this.

Bowman sank to his knees. His lips started to form words, words of submission and obedience. In his heart he felt a desire to serve, to please, to be loved. But even as he bowed his head, he
knew what it was he must do. He must not resist. There was nothing that could resist so overwhelming a will. Not resist: let go. He must meet this great emptiness with his own emptiness. He must
fight nothing with nothing.

With a last desperate throw, he flung open the doors of his mind; emptied it in the way he did when listening for his sister. At once, as his own confusion dropped away, he felt the
Master’s will lose its grip. He had become slippery.

He raised his head and met the Master’s eyes.

Better
, said the Master.
Now we shall see.

He held the Master’s eyes, and let himself enter his mind, with no intent to harm or to control, only to know. He found there silence; and behind silence, power; and behind power, anger;
and behind anger, hurt. The longer he remained in possession, the further he reached, the weaker the Master became.

Forget me
, said the Master,
but don’t forget what I have made.

He saw the old man shiver.

‘You’re cold.’

‘Of course. I grow colder as you grow warmer.’

Bowman felt a twinge of pity. At once the Master struck, rocking his mind with an explosion of naked power. Bowman reeled, closing his eyes, clutching at his temples.

Not so easy after all, boy. Take care, or I shall crush you.

Once again, drawing a deep breath, Bowman cleared his mind, and raising his eyes, returned to the silent duel. Back beyond silence and power, beyond anger and hurt, to a long-buried dream of
glory –

Do you feel it, boy? It’s your future. First you destroy, then you rule. But you can’t do it alone.

Out in the city, the fighting between the people of the Mastery and the Johjan Guards was reaching its climax. Zohon now realised his mistake in bringing all his force inside
the great hall. As more and more armed men arrived outside, he found he and his guards were surrounded, and facing greatly superior numbers. He had no choice but to form his men into a defensive
square, and fight for survival itself.

Ortiz saw that the battle was all but won. The Master was no longer at his position in the gallery above. He must have withdrawn to his private quarters. As he looked over the scene of struggle,
he saw a slight figure slip into the hall, and weave her way round fighting men to the far side. It was the young woman with the dark eyes. At once, all his love for her came bursting back. But
where was she going?

Kestrel had reached the very gates of the High Domain when she had felt Bowman’s pain. At once she had turned back, saying to Mumpo, ‘You go on, find the others. I can’t leave
him.’ She had raced back up the street, filled with a terrible foreboding. Bowman was in trouble, and she must find him.