A note to the discriminating reader– this part came out both a little short and a little too much “tell” rather than “show”. This is a drawback of posting what is essentially a first draft. Properly, now that I understand what information needs to be imparted, I should go back and rewrite some of the previous chapters to lay more revolvers on the mantel (so to speak). That may happen in the future; for the moment, please forgive my clumsiness.
Copyright 2017 Douglas Daniel
As it turned out, Mankin did not see Gonatani again for three days.
The first day, Mankin did hardly more than sleep and eat the food brought to him. He saw mostly servants and his guards. As far as communications went, the former were skittish, and the latter, Mankin thought at times, might not have even possessed the power of speech.
The second day he felt strong enough to think about going outside his room for a few minutes. It was mid-morning, as near as he could figure. It had to be a sign of returning strength that he felt some guilt about lying about when the sun was well up.
He pulled his chamber door open, and was instantly met by the glares of both of the hulking guards. Their uniforms told him they were house guards, personally pledged to the lord of the manor. In this case that was doubtless Gonatani. Mankin had had a little experience with Okharian house-guards, mostly those who were pledged to Okharians who had come over and sworn allegiance to the Electorate. Soldiers such as these tended to be humorless, fanatically loyal to their patron, rather direct in thought and action, and generally selected for size and strength rather than wits.
The two glowered at Mankin; he tried to smile back. “Good morning,” he said in his best Okharian.
“What are you doing?” the left-hand guard growled.
“Thought I might take a walk,” Mankin said, trying to sound as inoffensive as possible.
“It’s not allowed,” Left-hand said.
“Yes, it is,” Right-hand said.
“No, it ain’t,” Left-hand said, “the master said he shouldn’t be allowed to escape.”
“But master said he could walk about the gardens and go to the library,” Right-hand said.
At the word ‘library’ Mankin’s ears pricked up like a cat’s. He had an impulse to interject, but the guards were still arguing.
“I didn’t hear him say that,” Left-hand said.
“Well, your ears are full of wax, you know.”
“Well, your mouth is full of shit, you know.”
“Gentlemen….” Mankin said.
“You always say that and it’s always stupid….”
“You’re the stupid one!”
“Seriously, gentlemen, I’ll go back to my room,” Mankin said. He would have done so on his own, except that the door was closed behind him and the two guards were now leaning in toward each other and threatening to crush him between them.
“I ought to pound you…..
“Just try it!”
The word was like a cannon-shot. Both guards stood up straight at once; Mankin sagged against the door, relieved.
The command came from Seneschal Muri. He came down a short flight of steps into the anteroom before Mankin’s door. His expression was like a wind off a glacier. “What’s the meaning of this noise?”
“Garana says the prisoner can walk about,” Left-hand said. “But master says he’s not to be allowed to escape.”
“Tikomuni has problems with his hearing,” Right-hand said….
“Enough!” the seneschal said. “Captain Mankin is our guest, and while’s he’s not allowed to leave the palace, he may walk in the garden at his pleasure as long as he is escorted.”
“Told you,” Garana said.
“Oh,” Tikomuni said, abashed.
“So, you two lard-headed louts can stop your squabbling and escort the captain to the garden,” Muri said. “If I hear you two arguing like that again, breaking the harmony of the house, I’ll have the master assign you duties more suited to your limited talents, like shoveling out the pig-sties. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Seneschal Muri,” Garana said.
“Yes, Seneschal Muri,” Tikomuni said.
“Very well,” Muri said.
“I thank the honorable seneschal,” Mankin said, sketching out a bow.
The look Muri turned on him was beyond freezing; it was like a breath out of a bleak winter’s night sky. “I serve the master, Khetuna,” Muri said. He turned on his heel and left.
So it was that Mankin took his first walk around Gonatani’s garden. It was not a long walk—perhaps ten minutes of slow progress, broken by frequent stops to catch his breath. Mankin definitely felt stronger than he had when he arrived, but he still far from any thought of escape, even if he had not given Gonatani his parole.
The compensation for his weakness was being able to see open sky, to smell fresh air, and to, for a few minutes, walk among growing things that rustled in the wind and smelled of life. Mankin had not realized how much he need to these simple things to clear his mind.
He was not so weak that he could not appreciate the gardens themselves. Well-paved paths wound, in what appeared to be random patterns, between pools of water fringed with ferns and tall stands of flowering shrubs. Flower-beds of roses and lupines lined the paths in other places, which led to little circular plots in which stood orange and lemon trees. Mankin could hear bees buzzing among the plants that were in flower—a great number, it seemed to him, considering how late in the season it was. Of course, in Okhar’s climate far more plants flowered year-round than in Khetun. In any event, it was pleasant to see and smell something other than wet stone or the rancid bodies of other prisoners. It seemed strange that a place as peaceful as this could exist in the same world as the Pits.
After a while Mankin had to sit down. He picked a bench beneath an orange tree. This one was filled with fruit. Mankin stared up at its branches as he caught his breath, and wondered how long it had been since he tasted an orange.
“Are you done, Khetuna?” Garana asked, sounding gruff and put out.
“I suppose,” Mankin said, puffing. “Give me a minute and we’ll start back.”
“Hm,” Tikomuni said, with obvious impatience.
Mankin examined the two of them, comparing. “Are you two brothers?”
They looked at each other; Tikomuni jerked a thumb at Garana and said, “He’s the older one.”
“Ah,” Mankin said, nodding. “That explains it.”
To Mankin’s left a flight of steps led up to a door; at that moment a man in the robes of a scholar came out of the door and down the steps. He was small, middle-aged and wore the look of someone thinking hard about something and not really paying attention to where he was going. He wore that look right up the moment he walked right into Garana. The guard turned as the scholar stumbled back, surprised.
“By the Truth!” the man said. “When did they move this mountain here?”
“Very funny, magister,” Garana said. “You really gotta watch where you’re going.”
“Such is my keen observation of the universe, I always know where I’m going,” the scholar said. That statement elicited a derisive snort from Tikomuni. The man did not seem to notice, for just then he caught sight of Mankin. “Oh, ho!” the man said, his eyes brightening. “So this is our northern guest!”
Mankin managed to get to his feet, to bow to the fellow properly. “Captain Mankin Tannersson, of Brema, at your service, sir,” he said. He struggled to process what he had just heard—‘magister’ indicated that Tipal was a scholar of the highest rank, charged with not merely scholarship, but explorations and experiment. Mankin had never met a magister in the flesh, since in the Electorate they were licensed and had their own college separate from the Lyceum. “You have the advantage of me, I’m afraid.”
“Oh! Tipal Kash, magister, researcher into the known and unknown, humble advisor to the Consul, my lord Gonatani,” the man said. He inclined his head in a polite—although definitely social superior to inferior—response.
“Magister,” Tikomuni said, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to talk to this Khetuna….”
“Tush,” Tipal said, waving a hand. “I know no military secrets, so there is no danger of me betraying anything. Come, captain, may I sit by you?”
“Certainly,” Mankin said, hiding his surprise.
The two of them sat down on the bench. Tipal did so with an audible sigh of relief. “I must tell you, captain,” he said, “it is a pleasure to be able to sit in the sun for a moment. I’ve already had a day, and the day is only half-over. The packing—oh, by the gods, the packing….”
“Do you, um, have a lot to pack?” Mankin prompted. He did not know what Tipal was talking about. Years in the Army, though, had taught Mankin that, even if he had no clue what a superior officer was going on about, listening with an attentive expression would often supply important clues.
“Oh, indeed- I did not bring my entire laboratory, you understand, just enough to continue my essential studies. Still, that’s enough to fill seven or eight crates some mules are going to have to carry, and the packing itself—well, my retorts simply cannot be flung into boxes. I had to supervise everything.”
“It sounds as if you had to take special care…,” Mankin said.
“Absolutely,” Tipal said. “If any of the retorts are broken, it will set back my research many days. Do you know that I have to heat some of the Kunai materials as hot as a blast furnace just to be able to detect their component elements? Without a working retort that sort of thing is impossible.”
Mankin hoped no one noticed he was holding on the edge of the stone bench, in an effort to keep from falling over in shock. “Indeed?”
“Yes,” Tipal said. “But when I succeed- ha! The mysteries I discover!” The man paused, turning thoughtful. “One must be careful, of course– if I were to heat a device that still possesses an energetic charge, the results– well, ‘catastrophe’ hardly covers it, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” Mankin said, desperately trying to keep up.
“But,” Tipal said, smiling again, “once we’re back in Desumanu, and I am returned to my own laboratory, I should be able to wrap up my studies and be ready for the great journey. I am glad you will be helping us, captain! We are not natural enemies, the Khetuni and the Okharians, and it is proper that we all work together on this venture.” Tipal stood, rather more spry than seem proper for a man his age. Mankin rose more slowly.
“I have to be about,” Tipal said, “still much to be done. It was a pleasure speaking with you, captain. We shall see each other soon.”
“I look forward to it,” Mankin said, lying through his teeth.
Tipal nodded, smiled, and was off. The three men were left standing in his wake; Mankin, for his part, definitely felt like a chip of wood in a whirlpool.
“So why does the master keep that daft fool around?” Tikomuni asked.
“He knows things,” Garana said.
“Does he know how make a girl lift her skirts for you?” Tikomuni said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then what use is he?” Tikomuni looked at Mankin. “You done with your tour of the gardens, outlander?”
“More than done,” Mankin whispered, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.
Mankin spent the rest of that day and most of the next mulling over what Tipal told him. The magister, in apparent innocence of what Gonatani had told Mankin about why he was here, had said a great deal, but not nearly enough. Mankin, puzzled after his first interview with the consul, was now worried.
‘…heat some of the Kunai materials…’. Who in their right mind meddled with any of the artifacts of the Kunai? The Ancients had left their ruins and debris scattered across the face of the world; occasionally, a discovered device revealed itself to be still energized. Every nation on Ohon shared the stories of what happened then, tales of horror and mystery. As far as Mankin was concerned, Tipal was either far braver than he was, or an incredible fool. Based on their so-far brief acquaintance, Mankin leaned strongly toward the latter.
But Tipal was Gonatani’s magister, so in some way or another he labored at the consul’s command. Gonatani’s interrogation of Mankin suddenly obtained a context. What was Gonatani’s interest in the Kunai? Mankin doubted it was simple intellectual curiosity.
Power. People had tried to resurrect the technology of the Kunai before; the legends of the Ancients’ power and glory tempted many. All such attempts had failed, horribly. How did Gonatani think he would be able to succeed where others had not only failed, but been obliterated, or left raving, or transformed? Mankin had no idea, but he was sure of one thing; Magister Tipal might be a fool, but Gonatani Samar was not. He knows something….
A consul of the Okharian Empire looking to appropriate the power of the Kunai– Mankin shivered. There could only be one reason– to win the war. Perhaps win it in a manner that would leave Okhar master of the world.
And what are you going to do about it? Mankin wasn’t even sure he could make it a day’s march in any direction. He surely couldn ‘t assassinate Gonatani; besides, that left Masanata, and Kunatara , and Tipal, and who knew who else. But his duty was clearly to frustrate the consul’s designs.
Play the fool yourself— or, at least, the innocent. That seemed to be the only way ahead. Play along, find out what was afoot, find his opportunity.
Mankin just hoped the Unchanging would let him know when opportunity came knocking.
To be continued…..