More commands were issued. A long timber crane arm came swinging out from a level high above, and from its end there descended a pair of massive iron jaws. The men working the beam and tackle were skilled at their job. Before the children had realised what was going on, the jaws had closed about the land-sailer, and with a great jerk, they felt themselves being hoisted up into the sky.
As they rose up and up, they saw people on the mother craft pointing towards them and gesticulating. The crane arm now swung inwards, and the smashed land-sailer was lowered with shuddering jerks down a well in the upper decks, to a lower deck. Already the order to move on had been given, the sails had been unfurled, and the whole huge edifice was juddering on its way. As the land-sailer hit the deck, the children saw a ring of ferocious-looking men waiting on every side, their arms folded before them. They all looked alike: they were tall and bearded, they wore sand-coloured robes cinched by leather belts, and their long hair was tied in hundreds of narrow braids, each one of which had plaited into it a brightly-coloured thread.
‘Out!’ commanded one of the men.
The children climbed out. At once they were seized and held.
‘Chaka spies!’ said the commander, and spat contemptuously on to the deck. ‘Saboteurs!’
‘Please, sir – ,’ began Kestrel.
‘Silence!’ screamed the commander. ‘Chaka scum! You don’t speak until I tell you to speak!’
He turned to the land-sailer. Some of his men were inspecting it to assess the damage.
‘Is the corvette destroyed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lock them up! They’ll hang for this!’
He strode away, followed by a gaggle of his subordinates. Bowman, Kestrel and Mumpo were pushed towards a cage on the side of the deck. Their guards came into the cage with them, and called out, ‘Down! All the way!’ The cage was then lowered, running between vertical timber rails, to the lowest level. As they descended, the guards glared at the children with hatred and open disgust.
The cage bumped to a stop, and the children were marched down a dark passage to a barred door. A rough push sent them tumbling into what was all too clearly a prison cell. The door closed behind them, and they could hear the sounds of a big key being turned in the lock.
The cell was empty, not even a bench to sit on. It had one window, which looked out on to an exercise yard. As the children stood up, and looked round them, and took stock of their new situation, they heard the sound of marching feet. Through the window they saw a troop of bearded robed men lining up in the yard. The men’s leader barked out an order, and they all drew long swords and held them out before them.
‘Kill the Chaka spies!’ he cried.
‘Kill the Chaka spies!’ cried all his men.
There followed a sequence of violent cries and gestures, which seemed to be a war dance. The leader called out on a rising note, ‘Baraka!’ and the men struck the air with their swords and howled back, at the tops of their voices, ‘Raka ka! ka! ka!’ and ‘Kill the Chaka spies!’ This was repeated many times, louder and more violently each time, until the men were stamping and red-faced with passionate fury, ready to fight anything and everything.
Kestrel and Bowman watched this with mounting dismay, but Mumpo followed the war dance with admiration. Most of all, he was struck by their hair.
‘Do you see how they do it?’ he said, fingering his own lank locks. ‘They wind red and blue string into each plait. And green and yellow. And every colour.’
‘Shut up, Mumpo.’
The lock rattled, and the door opened to admit a man who looked just like all the others, except that he was older and somewhat stouter. He was breathing heavily, and carried a tray of food.
‘Can’t say I see the point,’ he said, putting the tray down on the floor. ‘Seeing as you’re to be hanged. But it’s as the Morah wills.’
‘The Morah!’ exclaimed Kestrel. ‘You know about the Morah?’
‘And why wouldn’t I?’ said the guard. ‘The Morah watches over all of us. Even me.’
‘To protect you?’
‘Protect me!’ He laughed at the idea. ‘Oh, yes, the Morah protects me, all right. With storms and diseases, and good milk-cows dying for no reason. That’s how the Morah protects me. Just you wait and see. Here you are, all bright and bonny, but tomorrow you’ll be hanged. Oh, yes, the Morah watches over every one of us, all right.’
The food was corn-bread, cheese and milk. Mumpo sat down and started eating at once. After a moment’s hesitation, the twins followed suit, eating more slowly. Their guard stayed by the door, watching them suspiciously.
‘You’re small for spies,’ he observed.
‘We’re not spies,’ said Kestrel.
‘You’re Chaka scum, aren’t you?’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘Are you telling me you’re Barakas?’
‘No – ’
‘Then if you’re not Barakas, you’re Chakas,’ said the guard simply. ‘That’s what Chakas are.’
Kestrel didn’t know what to say to this.
‘And we kill Chakas,’ added the guard.
‘I like your hair,’ said Mumpo, who had now finished his food.
‘Do you?’
The guard was taken by surprise, but it was evident he was pleased. He reached up and tugged carelessly at his braids.
‘I’m trying greens and blues this week.’
‘Is it difficult to do?’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s difficult. But getting the braids evenly spaced as well as tight, that takes a bit of practice.’
‘I bet you’re good at it.’
‘I do have quite a deft hand,’ said the guard. ‘You’re a bright young fellow, I must say. For a Chaka scum.’
The twins followed this with astonishment. All the hostility had left the guard’s voice.
‘The blue’s the same as your eyes,’ said Mumpo.
‘Well, that was the idea,’ the guard admitted. ‘Most people like a touch of red, but I prefer the natural tones.’
‘I don’t suppose you could do mine,’ said Mumpo wistfully. ‘I’d love to look like you.’
The guard contemplated him thoughtfully.
‘Well, I could,’ he said at last. ‘I mean, seeing as you’re going to hang anyway, I don’t see that it would make much difference. What colours would you like?’
‘What colours have you got?’
‘All of them. Any colour you please.’
‘Then I’d like all of them,’ said Mumpo.
‘That’s not very subtle, you know,’ said the guard. ‘But then, it is your first time.’
The guard left them, locking the door behind him.
‘Honestly, Mumpo!’ said Kestrel. ‘How can you be thinking about your hair at a time like this?’
‘What else is there to think about?’ said Mumpo.
The guard reappeared, carrying a comb and a bag full of hanks of coloured string. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and set about braiding Mumpo’s hair. As he worked away, he became almost friendly to them. His name was Salimba, and his normal job was being a cowman. He told them that Ombaraka, the huge rolling town in which they lived, carried a herd of over a thousand cows, as well as a herd of goats and a flock of long-horned sheep. Kestrel took advantage of the guard’s friendliness to discover more essential information. Who, for a start, were the Chakas?
Salimba took this question to be a trick.
‘Ah, you don’t catch me like that. Now, here’s a fine rich purple. Your hair could do with a wash, you know.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Mumpo.
‘Are the Chakas the enemies of the Barakas?’ pursued Kestrel.
‘How can you ask me that? Enemies? You Chakas have butchered us without mercy for generations! You think we’ve forgotten the Massacre of the Crescent Moon? Or the murder of Raka the Fourth? Never! No Baraka will rest until every Chaka scum is dead!’
Salimba became so agitated that his hand slippe
d, 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.’