First came strong-muscled many-scarred Dimon, veteran manac and master of the art. He held his bladed helmet under one arm as he paid his respects. The Johdila accepted his bow with a delicate inclination of her lovely veiled head. Then she let her eyes, concealed as ever, reach past the manac, past the throne where her future husband sat, to Bowman, standing behind. It seemed to her that her friend’s brother was watching her with his thoughtful eyes. The Johdila sat very still and straight, too proud to show her nervousness, but deep inside she was shivering. Oh, Bowman, she was thinking. What am I doing here? Why can’t you and I just creep away somewhere all on our own and talk, and get to know each other?
Bowman was looking at Kestrel.
Don’t, Bo. It’s dangerous.
He couldn’t help just reaching out, and stroking the edges of her mind. She was very tense, which was to be expected, but also very excited.
When will it begin?
I don’t know, she replied. Be ready.
She turned again to watch Zohon.
Ba-ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam! Up onto the sandy boards jumped lean Cadiz, the manac with the longest reach of them all. Slim and hard as corded wire, he bowed his courtesies, and acknowledged the applause.
Zohon was gazing down the tiered seats to the Johdila. The curve of her slender neck beneath the close-fitting cap was so seductive that he longed to caress it with his strong hand. He thought he saw her tremble as he watched her, and avert her gaze from her bridegroom. Never fear, beloved! he called to her in his heart. I will save you! And he turned his gaze on his enemy, the arrogant young man who presumed to marry his own Sisi, and stared at him with steady hatred. To his great satisfaction, he saw Ortiz blush, and drop his eyes.
Ba-ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam! Now it was great Arno, huge Arno, the most feared manac of them all, who straddled the stage, vast arms akimbo, and lowered his bull’s head for the royal visitors.
Ortiz acknowledged Arno’s bow, his cheeks still burning. He had blushed because he had been looking across the arena at Kestrel, and she had met his look, and her eyes had flashed with sudden fire. Why is she angry with me, he asked himself? There could be only one answer. She saw in his eyes that he loved her. This thought filled Ortiz with a sudden wild delight. That bright eager face, that now seemed to him to be more beautiful than all others, that vivid spirit, had been touched by his emotion. Perhaps she even returned his love! Madness to think it, madness and chaos and impossibility!
Ba-ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam! The fourth manac ran onto the platform to bow before the dignitaries, and it was Mumpo. Kestrel recognised him with shock, and only just prevented herself from crying out. He looked so different. His bare oiled body gleamed, his way of moving was supple and assured. Now in control of her responses, she watched and marvelled. She didn’t yet know the nature of the manaxa, and so felt no immediate fear for him. Bowman, watching from the far side, knew all too well, and he shuddered.
The drums now fell silent. In the silence, the sound of the many spectators shuffling to get comfortable slowly faded into a nervous stillness. Into this stillness came three low raps, the sound of a violin bow tapping on a railing: rap, rap, rap. All eyes turned upwards. There in the shadowy gallery above the arena, the figure of a man could be made out. A huge crimson-robed form, on his head a golden helmet with a mane of golden chain, in his hand a violin. One word rustled down the benches.
‘The Master! The Master!’
The Johanna was disconcerted.
‘Shouldn’t he be down here?’ he whispered to Barzan. The Grand Vizier whispered to the Keeper of the Master’s Household. The Keeper whispered back. And so the whisper returned to the Johanna.
‘The Master is conducting the music. He will have the honour of meeting you after the exchange of vows.’
‘I see. Oh, well. All right, then.’
Fresh sand was strewn over the platform. The drums rolled once more to signal the start of the manaxa. And the first pair sprang into the arena. Dimon faced Cadiz, the wily master against the young giant. A single rap came from the gallery above, and the fight began.
The manacs circled each other, mirroring each other’s steps without making contact, the short blades on their knees and fists glinting in the rose-coloured light. Gangling Cadiz sprang first, spinning as he leapt, but Dimon was gone when he landed, and already counter-striking. Clang! The sound of blade on arm guard was followed by a bewilderingly fast exchange of blows, as knees danced and fists flew, calla-calla-calla-clang! and both manacs spun gracefully away, unharmed.
Sisi was electrified. With that first strike she realised the game was serious. The fighters meant to hurt, to wound, perhaps even to kill. Each move mattered, each flash of steel could end a life. Suddenly the fighting seemed to her the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. The feints, the strikes, the blocks and parries, executed with such economy, such precision, such daring! All that exposed skin, just waiting to be cut, sliced, torn, gouged! The almost blood of it! Her heart beat fast and her eyes shone bright as she followed the steps of the deadly dance.
Wily Dimon swung round and beneath his opponent’s long arm, his left knee rising even as Cadiz sprang back. Out drove Dimon’s right arm, Cadiz blocked with his left, and sprang back again as Dimon’s right knee pranced.
‘Ha!’ cried Dimon.
With this one move, Dimon had gained control of the rhythm of the manaxa, as the other watching fighters and their trainer knew. Helpless now, Cadiz blocked and retreated, until he was at the very edge of the platform, from which, with a graceful high-arcing leap, he conceded the fight.
The applause was generous. A classic bout, conducted with skill by fighters at the top of their form: but no blood. Ortiz, watching, guessed that the trainer had so ordered it. Visitors who had not been raised on the manaxa were sometimes shocked by its more brutal aspects.
Kestrel turned to look at Zohon. His eyes were glittering: he was fascinated. He’ll make no move so long as the manaxa lasts, she told herself. Then all thoughts of Zohon and the coming battle were driven from her mind. Mumpo was entering the arena.
The drums rolled, and Arno clambered up onto the platform, to face the novice Mumpo. A strange pairing, Arno so vast and fleshy, Mumpo so slim and lithe. Curiously, Mumpo seemed if anything to be moving more slowly than his huge opponent, almost as if he was in a trance. Ortiz, seeing this, at once recognised the pre-fight concentration of the true manac, the fighter who makes his moves without conscious thought. He’s a natural, he said to himself with approval. This will be a fight to remember. His eyes turned to Kestrel, and he noted how she too seemed to be fascinated by the young manac. ‘She understands. She feels the power of the manaxa. I knew she would!’
The signal was given, the fight began, but neither manac seemed to be in a hurry. They moved with an exaggerated slowness, almost within reach of each other, responding to one another’s turns and sweeps exactly as if they were dancing. In reality, they were intently engaged in finding each other’s rhythm, that subtle beat that lay at the heart of the manaxa. Dreamily, eerily, they swayed and curved, turning all the time, seeking control.
Then Mumpo curled in close, and Arno struck. An obvious lure, an easy parry: but now the tempo of the fight increased. Mumpo seemed to have his eyes shut, to be sensing rather than seeing the big man’s movements. He was astonishingly graceful, each turn beginning and ending with an unhurried ease that made it seem he knew in advance all that was to come. Arno too, now that the action was accelerating, had a breathtaking command of his body. As nimble as Mumpo, as fast to strike, he possessed twice the power. One lethal blow from that great spiked fist, and Mumpo would not recover. But the blows did not land, on either side. The formal sequences of strike, parry, riposte, and counterstrike were unfolding in textbook formation, a true masterclass in the high art.
Lars Janus Hackel, seated by the arena tunnel, watched with satisfaction. The boy will come to no harm, he thought to himself. He’s too good. He saw the prof
ound level of concentration with which Mumpo was fighting, and knew that the big champion would never break those defences. Now the moves were flowing at dazzling speed, quick tight moves that were over before you could track them, each blow delivered before the mind of the fighter could calculate its effect, following patterns of combat in which both fighters had been drilled. Dikka-dikka-dikka-dik! went the blades, just touching each other or the limb guards, wasting no power on fruitless thrusts. Faster and faster now, turning, leaping, the manacs were locked in a ceaseless and accelerating dance that made the spectators hold their breath. Surely any moment now one of them would miss a beat, would fail to anticipate the next strike, would see the flying blade burst through the unprotected skin? But on they went, each yielding nothing, holding perfect concentration, and the tension grew.
Sisi could hardly bear it. She gripped her hands tight and leaned forward in her seat and willed the fighters to – to what? With a flush of shame she realised she wanted the climax towards which this dance of blades was speeding, the moment of blood and pain. She couldn’t help it. Everything about the manaxa called for its culmination. Captured by beauty, the spectator cried out for the release of blood.
Kestrel felt it too, but for her the excitement was darkened by dread. She could hardly bear to watch, and yet couldn’t remove her eyes. With all her being, she was willing Mumpo, calling silently to him.
Jump, Mumpo! Run away! Don’t be killed!
On whirled the manacs, now so close and so fast that they seemed to be embracing. They had reached the point in the manaxa where the first fighter to break the rhythm takes control of the other, and in an attempt to do this both were varying their moves at every turn. Arno tried a succession of left sweeps, hoping by sheer repetition to catch Mumpo unprepared: but after the fifth sweep Mumpo was blocking with his knee, which forced Arno to defend himself against the dangerous two-fist strike, and they were back into more familiar patterns. Suddenly Mumpo launched a forward spring that brought all four body blades into play at once, a move that usually forces the other fighter back. Arno, too experienced to retreat, responded with a full-arm forward thrust, that should have driven deep into Mumpo’s belly, but that he leaped and twisted in midair, and caught the blade with one armoured shin. And down, round, and back, fists flashing: a beautifully-executed attack and defence that was greeted with awed applause.
The fighters were tiring now. How could they not, after such a punishing pace? In wordless agreement, they allowed the space between them to widen, and the speed of attack and counter-attack to lessen. This was always a danger point in a fight. One or both would let his concentration slacken, and the other would seize the advantage. But the invisible cord that held the two manacs to each other remained taut even as they parted. Circling carefully, the fight entered a new phase. The trainer looked at the champion and knew precisely what he would do next. Mumpo was too new a fighter to predict his opponent’s move. There simply hadn’t been time to teach him everything.
And here it came: the famous wild man charge. Arno rose onto the tips of his bare toes and hurled himself forward, thrashing the air before him in crazy stabbing movements that followed no pattern at all. Flailing and kicking, he bore down on Mumpo, hoping to draw him into an answering wildness: at which point, as Hackel had seen so many times before, Arno would switch in an eye-blink to a deadly precision, and it would all be over. But Mumpo stayed solid as a rock. He made no attempt at all to block the wilder outer strikes, keeping his full attention on Arno’s own exposed torso. This forced Arno onto the defensive, and the attack ended as quickly as it had begun. Then, skilfully using his failure, Arno made a sudden turn, briefly offered his back to his opponent, and Mumpo took the lure. He reached out in attack, and Arno’s left fist blade span round, slicing Mumpo’s upper right arm. The bright blood poured out of the cut, and down into the armoured lower arm. The crowd all gasped at once. Hackel shook his head: the boy shouldn’t have fallen for that. Kestrel, horrified, cried out loud.
‘No! Don’t hurt him!’
Mumpo’s head jerked round. He had recognised her voice. Now he saw her, for the first time. Astounded, he could only throw her one look before the big champion was attacking once more. Now Mumpo was in confusion. He backed away, buying himself time, all his concentration gone. Hackel saw it with dismay, Ortiz saw it with surprise: the boy had fallen apart. Arno drove down on him with relentless power, knowing that the fight was now his for the winning. His objective was to force Mumpo to the edge of the platform, and there, with a slight glancing blow, to topple him to defeat.
Mumpo backed and parried, the blood dripping from his right hand to the sand. His defences were still good, but he had lost the initiative. Big Arno was now dictating the rhythm, and inexperienced though he was, Mumpo knew that meant he would lose. The fundamental rule of the manaxa was that the attacker wins. Arno was increasing the speed of their engagement with every strike, denying him the chance to turn his ceaseless reactive defence into an attack. Moreover, out there on the benches watching him was Kestrel. He kept throwing glances towards her, and every glance took him out of the fight.
Now Hackel was gravely concerned. The boy was making mistakes. He’d better jump, and soon. Even now, as he watched, Arno broke through once more, and one knee blade caught Mumpo on the thigh, drawing more blood. The crowd gasped again. Mumpo, not even feeling the wound, looked up and caught the anguished look on Kestrel’s face. All at once, his confusion cleared. Kess doesn’t want me to lose, he found himself thinking. So I won’t lose. A burst of happiness exploded in his heart, and he sprang back as Arno attacked again. He saw now exactly how he would do it. Bracing himself, instead of preparing himself to defend against the next strike, he spread his arms wide.
Ortiz saw and half-understood, rising from his seat in excitement. ‘He can’t!’
Hackel saw, and went white. ‘He can’t!’
Arno saw, and drove forward into the expected sequence of thrust, parry, riposte, counter-thrust. But Mumpo didn’t parry. Arno’s strike flew between both arms, and the fist blade drove into Mumpo’s chest. Kestrel screamed, ‘No!’ Everyone on the benches sprang to their feet. But Arno did not strike again. He was standing, motionless, and Mumpo’s right arm was reached out towards him. Only then did the crowd realise that Mumpo had accepted the blow in order to strike himself. He had executed the notorious double-kill manoeuvre: and his fist blade had plunged deep into the big champion’s heart.
Slowly, in utter silence, Arno fell, pulling his own blade out of the side of Mumpo’s chest as he dropped. The huge body thudded onto the sanded boards, and did not move again. Mumpo stood motionless, bleeding steadily from arm and thigh and chest. And the applause began. First they stamped their feet, then they beat their fists on the benches, then they screamed: a howling hammering explosion of emotions that could not be contained. The beauty had ended in a kill. The dance had turned to death. Sisi howled and hammered with the rest, swept by surges of passionate feeling that left her drained and exhilarated. Only Kestrel did not scream. She sat still, shaking all over, and kept her eyes on Mumpo.
Slowly he raised his arms to acknowledge the applause. He seemed dazed. Hackel gave a signal, and arena slaves climbed onto the platform to remove the corpse of Arno. It took six of them to lift him. Hackel himself led the victorious manac out of the arena, to have his wounds cleaned and dressed. Mumpo turned as he went, and threw one last glance towards Kestrel.
19
Kestrel dances the tantaraza
As soon as the manaxa ended, the Johdila rose, and accompanied only by her young servant, left the arena. Zohon, still elated by the fight, was caught by surprise.
‘Where is the Johdila going?’ he demanded.
Hasty enquiries revealed that the Johdila had retired to a side room to prepare her clothing for her dance.
In the side room, Sisi was tearing off her wedding dress as fast as she could, as she and Kestrel exchanged clothing. The emotions roused in Sisi by t
he manaxa, added to nervousness over the coming deception, made her hands shake as she hooked Kestrel into the tight dress.
‘Oh, Kess! What if they find out?’
‘They won’t.’
‘You’re trembling too. I can feel you.’
‘That’s because of the fight.’ She shuddered.
‘Did you hate it, darling? I hated it so much it made me go hot and shake all over.’
‘I didn’t hate it,’ said Kestrel in a low voice. ‘I should have done, but I didn’t.’
‘Didn’t you? Oh, Kess, do friends tell each other what they really feel?’
‘They do if they want.’
Sisi whispered. ‘I felt excited.’
‘So did I.’
‘Did you? Oh, thank you, Kess darling! Sometimes I think I’m so bad I shouldn’t be allowed to go on living. There – now the cap.’
Kestrel drew the cap over her head, and lowered the veil in silence. She was gripped by a new fear. What if Zohon made his move now, while she was dancing the tantaraza?
She looked up at Sisi and saw tears in her eyes.
‘What will happen, Kess? Something strange and terrible is coming. Don’t you feel it?’
‘Yes,’ said Kestrel. ‘We must be brave.’
While the ladies were preparing for the dance, Ortiz found himself suffering an almost unbearable restlessness. The manaxa had stirred his blood to such a degree that he was ready for anything, however unthinkable the consequences. He knew that after the dance came the exchange of vows, and then it would be too late. Somehow, he must speak to the unknown lady now.