The Wind Singer (17 page)

Salimba became so agitated that his hand slipped, and the braiding went wrong. Cursing, he undid the braid and started again.

Kestrel asked the same question, but in a more politic way.

‘So Baraka will win in the end?’

‘Of course,’ said Salimba. Every Baraka male over the age of sixteen, he explained, was drafted into the army, and underwent daily military training. He gave a nod towards the yard outside, where the troop had just ended their round of exercises. They all had other jobs, he said, as sailmen or carpenters or fodder-gatherers, but their first duty was always the defence of Ombaraka. When the battle-horns sounded, every man would drop his work, gird on his sword, and report to his assigned station. They came eagerly, because more than anything else in the world, a true Baraka lived for the day when Omchaka would be destroyed. And that day would surely come, he said, as the Morah wills.

The braiding of Mumpo’s hair took over an hour, but when it was done it was a thing of glory. He still looked filthy, but from the eyebrows up, he was dazzling. His hair had been so matted with mud that when braided, it stuck out in stiff spikes. Salimba said that wasn’t customary, but it did have a certain panache, and it was clear from the way he looked at Mumpo that he was rather proud of the result.

There was no mirror in the prison cell, and Mumpo was impatient to see his new look.

‘What’s it like? Do you like it, Kess? Do you?’

Kestrel truly didn’t know what to say. It was mesmerising. He looked like a rainbow porcupine.

‘You look completely different,’ she said.

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s just – different.’

Then Salimba remembered that the tray had a shiny underside. He held it up for Mumpo to get a blurry reflection of his new hair. Mumpo gazed at himself and sighed with pleasure.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I knew you’d be good at it.’

The tramp of many footsteps in the passage outside brought guard and prisoners down to earth. There came a loud hammering on the door. Salimba hastily assumed a stern expression, and unlocked the door.

‘Prisoners, stand!’ he yelled.

The children stood.

In came an elderly Baraka man with a long grey braided beard and long grey braided hair. Behind him, stiffly at attention, arms folded across their chests, stood a troop of a dozen soldiers. The grey-haired man looked in surprise at Mumpo, but chose not to comment on his colourful hair.

‘I am Kemba, counsellor to Raka the Ninth, Warlord of the Barakas, Suzerain of Ombaraka, Commander-in-chief of the Wind Warriors, and Ruler of the Plains,’ he announced. ‘Guard, leave us!’

‘Yes, Counsellor.’

Salimba retreated, drawing the door closed behind him. Kemba went to the window and looked out, fingering his belt of coloured beads. Then he sighed, and turned round to face the children.

‘Your presence here is profoundly inconvenient,’ he said. ‘But I suppose you must be hanged.’

‘We’re not Chakas,’ said Kestrel.

‘Of course you’re Chakas. If you’re not Barakas, you’re Chakas. And we are at war with all Chakas, to the death.’

‘We’re from Aramanth.’

‘Nonsense! Don’t be absurd. You’re Chakas, and you must hang.’

‘You can’t hang us!’ exclaimed Kestrel hotly.

‘As it happens, you’re quite right,’ said the counsellor, more to himself than to her. ‘We can’t hang you, because of the treaty. But on the other hand, we can’t possibly let you live. Oh, dear!’ He sighed a long exasperated sigh. ‘This really is most profoundly inconvenient. Still, I shall think of something. I always do.’

He clapped his hands to summon the troop outside.

‘Door!’

And to the children, almost as an afterthought,

‘I have to take you before Raka. It’s purely a formality. But all sentences of death have to be passed by Raka himself.’

The door opened.

‘Form escort!’ commanded Kemba. ‘The prisoners will proceed at once to the Court.’

Closely guarded all the way, the children were marched across the base deck of the huge rolling edifice that was Ombaraka, to a central lift shaft. Here the lift cage was far bigger than the one in which they had been taken down, and easily held the entire troop escorting them. Up it creaked, carrying them past ladders and walkways, to the court deck. From the lift, their route took them across a handsome avenue and into one of the broad pillared halls. As they went, passers-by stopped and stared, and hissed with hatred; but when they saw Mumpo, they just gaped. Kestrel could hear their escort discussing Mumpo’s braids in low voices.

‘Far too loud,’ one was saying.

‘All that orange! So vulgar.’

‘I wonder how he makes it stick out straight like that,’ said another. ‘Not that I’d want that for myself.’

They marched right down the echoing open hall to the doors at the far end. The doors opened as they approached. Inside was a long room, dominated by a central table, the entire surface of which was a giant map. Round this table stood several important-looking men, scowling; among them the commander who had witnessed the children emerge from the crashed land-sailer, and Tanaka, chief of the armed forces, a man with a red face etched all over with deep angry lines. When he saw Mumpo’s new braids, he too gaped with surprise.

‘What did I tell you?’ he cried. ‘Now one of them’s in Baraka disguise!’

The smallest of the men round the table came strutting forward, staring at the children with extreme hostility. Raka the Ninth, Warlord of the Barakas, Suzerain of Ombaraka, Commander-in-chief of the Wind Warriors, and Ruler of the Plains, had the misfortune to be short. He made up for his lack of stature by cultivating the most ferocious manner imaginable. His braids were the only ones in all Ombaraka to be threaded with tiny steel blades, which flashed in the light every time he moved his head. His robe was criss-crossed with belts and bandoleers, into which were stuck knives and swords of every size. He moved with a stocky aggression, as if bristling at the world; and his voice positively barked.

‘Chaka spies!’

‘No, sir – ’

‘You dare to contradict me? I am Raka!’

His rage was so violent that Kestrel didn’t say another word.

‘Commander!’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Tanaka stepped forward.

‘They destroyed a battle corvette?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘The Chakas will pay for this!’ He ground his teeth and stamped the deck. ‘Is Omchaka within range?’

‘No, my lord.’ This came from one of the others, by the map table. He made a rapid calculation. ‘A day at the most, my lord.’

‘Set course for interception!’ cried Raka. ‘They have provoked me. They have only themselves to blame.’

‘You mean to give battle, my lord?’ asked Kemba quietly.

‘Yes, Counsellor! They must learn that if they strike at me, I strike back tenfold!’

‘Quite so, my lord.’

Already the new orders were ringing out, and even the children could feel from the grinding and shuddering of the timbers round them that Ombaraka was changing course.

‘Commander! Prepare the attack fleet for dawn!’

‘Yes, my lord!’

‘And the Chaka spies, my lord?’

‘Hang them, of course.’

‘I wonder if that is wise.’

This was Kemba’s pensive voice.

‘Wise? Wise?’ shrieked the little warlord. ‘What are you talking about? Of course it’s wise! What else is there to do with spies?’

Kemba stepped closer, and whispered in his master’s ear.

‘Interrogate them. Learn the secrets of the Chaka fleet.’

‘And then hang them?’

‘Quite so, my lord.’

The little warlord nodded, and strode about the room, deep in meditation. Everyone remained still and silent.

Then he came to a stop, and announced his decision in a ringing voice.

‘The spies will be interrogated first, and then hanged.’

Once more, Kemba murmured low in his ear.

‘You must tell them they won’t be hanged if they cooperate, my lord. Otherwise they won’t tell us anything.’

‘And then hang them?’

‘Quite so, my lord.’

Raka nodded, and said again, in ringing tones,

‘The spies will not be hanged, if they co-operate.’

Tanaka choked with angry surprise.

‘Not hanged, my lord?’

‘This is an intelligence matter, Commander,’ said Raka testily. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I understand that the counsellor shrinks from doing his duty,’ said Tanaka with grim pride.

Raka chose to ignore this.

‘Take them away, Counsellor,’ he said, making shooing gestures with his hands. ‘Interrogate them.’ He moved back to the map-table. ‘You and I, Commander, have a battle to prepare.’

The children were marched back to their prison cell. Once there, the guards were dismissed, but Kemba himself remained.

‘I have bought us a little time,’ he said. ‘And I need a little time, to think of a way out of our dilemma. I do not propose to waste any of that little time asking you for the secrets of the Chaka battle fleet.’

‘We don’t know the secrets of the Chaka battle fleet.’

‘It’s really not important. The dilemma is this. We can’t hang you, without breaking the treaty. But we can’t let you live, without dishonouring our ancestors and all Ombaraka. To a man, we are pledged to avenge our dead with Chaka blood. This hasn’t caused a difficulty up till now, because we’ve never actually held any Chaka prisoners. And believe you me, I wish we didn’t now.’

He proceeded to explain. It seemed that some time ago, to stem the bloodshed of the perpetual war between the Barakas and the Chakas, a treaty had come into being between the two warrior peoples. This treaty stated, very simply, that from that time forward no Chaka blood would be spilled by Baraka warriors, unless Baraka blood was spilled first; and vice versa.

‘So the war ended?’

‘Not at all,’ said Kemba. ‘That was and is unthinkable. The war can never end. The very existence of Ombaraka depends on war. We live on a moving island to protect ourselves from attack. We are a warrior people, all the ranks in our society are military ranks, and most importantly of all, our leader, Raka of Baraka, is a warlord. No, the war goes on. It is the killing that has stopped. No Baraka or Chaka warrior has died in battle for a generation now.’

‘How can you have a battle where nobody gets killed?’

‘With machines.’

Kemba pointed out of the window. On the far side of the exercise yard, the masts of land-sailers could just be seen.

‘Our battle fleet attacks their battle fleet. Sometimes we come out the winners, sometimes they do. But no men are at risk on either side. The corvettes and the destroyers and the battle-cruisers go into battle all by themselves.’

‘So it’s all just a game.’

‘No, no. It’s war, and we fight with all the passions of war. It’s not easy to explain to outsiders. Raka truly believes that one day his army will destroy Omchaka, and he will be the sole ruler of the plains. We all believe it; even I, in a way. You see, if we stopped believing it, we’d have to live quite differently, and then we wouldn’t be Barakas any more.’

‘But even so, you don’t really need to hang us, do you? You’re not as cruel and heartless as that.’

‘Oh yes, we are,’ said the counsellor absently, his mind revolving the problem. ‘I don’t care a button for you. But I do care about the treaty. If the Chakas learn that we’ve hanged some Chaka spies, they’ll have to avenge you, and then all the killing will start again.’

‘There you are, then. You can’t hang us.’

‘But all Ombaraka now knows you’re here. Everyone’s expecting a hanging. You’ve no idea how excited they are. We’re all brought up to kill Chakas, and now here at last, after all these years, we have three Chaka spies, caught in the act of sabotage. Of course you have to be hanged.’

He was gazing out of the window once more, speaking more to himself than to them.

‘I negotiated the treaty, you know. It was my finest hour.’

He sighed a long melancholy sigh.

‘You could let us escape.’

‘No, no. That would bring shame on us all.’

‘You could pretend to hang us.’

‘How would that help? If the pretence succeeded, the Chakas would say we’d broken the treaty, and the killing would start again. And if the pretence failed, the people of Ombaraka would tear you to pieces with their bare hands, and probably me as well. Please try to think clearly, and make sensible suggestions, or remain silent, and let me think for myself.’

So silence fell; but for the constant creaking and rumbling of the entire structure, as Ombaraka rolled on across the plains.

After a few minutes, the counsellor clapped a palm to his brow.

‘Of course! What a fool I’ve been! There’s the answer, staring me in the face!’

Bowman and Kestrel hurried to the window, to see what it was he was gazing at. There was nobody out there in the yard. Nothing seemed to have changed.

‘What?’

‘The battle fleet! Let the punishment fit the crime!’

He turned to them, his aged face positively glowing with excitement.

‘I knew I’d think of something! Oh, what a brain I have! Just listen to this.’

There was to be a battle the next day, he explained. The Baraka battle fleet would be launched, and the Chaka battle fleet would be sent out to meet them. The armed land-sailers would collide at enormous speeds in mid-plains, and would destroy each other with their spinning blades. What better death could there be for the Chaka saboteurs? Send them out in one of the battle corvettes, to be smashed to pulp by the Chaka battle fleet!

‘Do you see the beauty of it? You would die, which would satisfy us, but you would be killed by the Chakas themselves, so the treaty would not be broken! Isn’t that perfect?’

He strode about the cell, throwing out his arms like a man doing deep-breathing exercises.

‘The symmetry of it! The purity, the elegance!’

‘But we end up dead?’

‘Exactly! And all Ombaraka can watch! Yes, truly, I believe this is one of the best ideas I’ve ever come up with in all my life!’

He swung round and headed for the door, no longer interested in the children.

‘Guard! Open up! Let me out!’