Mistress of shoroku, Rottu's mantle remained gray. Ushulubang, though she was an even greater mistress of the art, allowed hers to glow green.
After a moment, Rottu turned away.
"I must be gone, or my absence will be missed."
"A moment, Rottu. I have a last question."
"Yes?"
Ushulubang gestured to the sheets on the bench.
"You have read them. Do the Pilgrims of the mountain continue to claim that the Answer is known? By the Mother of Demons?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe it?"
Rottu whistled. "I leave philosophy to you, old sage. I have enough secrets to keep me busy."
Ushulubang's whistle echoed the amusement.
"Just so. I myself do not believe. I believe the Pilgrims on the mountain have lapsed into the great error. I believe in the teachings of Goloku. There is no Answer. There is only the Question."
"As you say, Ushulubang. In this you are always my guide. We will know soon enough."
She turned and left the chamber.
Back on the streets, Rottu resumed her cautious movements. She thought of nothing, beyond the immediate needs of the moment, until she was quit of the slums. Then, however, she allowed her thoughts to flow freely. If she were seen now, she would be able to explain her whereabouts to the satisfaction of the Tympani. Awkwardly, and not without being the object of derision. An old gukuy, seeking pleasure in an unseemly manner.
Let them whistle. They will not whistle long.
Her thoughts raced down well-known corridors. Weaving her stratagems. It would be a cunning weave—the warp and the weft so utterly tangled that the thugs set loose on the streets would flail themselves. She would see to it that the names of true Pilgrims were lost. In their place, she would insert the names of informers. It would be those informers who would be forked during the pogrom. Their bodies dragged through the streets by the mob.
Let the Tympani of Ansha whistle.
Once only did Rottu's mind drift from her scheme. Dawn was approaching, and the sight of it creeping into the Mother-of-Pearl brought back an old memory.
The same sky, long ago, had once been marked by a strange and terrible sign. Rottu herself had seen it, and had trembled with fear. But, along with all other gukuy, the passing of many eightyweeks had faded the memory.
Until, not so very long ago, word had come to Shakutulubac from the mountain. The first small party of Pilgrims sent to the Chiton by Ushulubang, in search of a place of refuge, reported. Astonishing report. There were demons on the mountain. Demons who said they came from beyond the world.
Rottu had deciphered the strange numbers of the demons. She would never forget the thrill of terror which struck her soul like a lightning bolt, when she realized that the demons had left that mark in the sky, long ago. The world itself had turned red with fear at their coming.
And now, Ushulubang had decided to embrace this new and mysterious power. To seek out the Mother of Demons, and her terrible children.
The Mother of Demons. The one being in the world, said the Pilgrims on the mountain, who knew the secrets of the future. But would not speak of them. Not even to her own children.
So be it. Let mighty Ansha flush scarlet with fear.
Eightdays later, however, when the truth became known, mighty Ansha did not glow red with fear. Blue fury was the color which flushed the mantles of the awosha, when they finally realized how thoroughly they had been duped.
The Pilgrims had evaded the pogrom. They were gone, all of them. Even the accursed traitor Ushulubang.
Gone where? None knew.
Executions were ordered.
Who then were the victims of the mob?
Informers. The mob had destroyed most of the Tympani informers.
Blue outrage. Intolerable incompetence.
The ranks of the Tympani were further thinned.
How was such a fiasco possible?
Investigations were ordered. Scarlet-tinged Tympani pursued the trail of evidence with great zeal. A tangled, twisted trail. But eventually, the culprit was found. Her name reported to the awosha.
Rottu? The awosha mantles glowed orange astonishment. Rottu?
Yes. It is certain.
Arrest her!
With Tympani officials in the lead, a squad of warriors raced through the halls of the Divine Shell. In the quarters of the highest-ranked members of the clan, they found the door to Rottu's quarters. The door was smashed open by the warriors. Flushed blue with fury and black with implacable purpose, the Tympani burst within.
And found nothing. No trace of Rottu, beyond a disgusting, scavenger-covered little pile on the floor.
Rottu's last shit.
Chapter 4
"The demons will protect the Old Ones," argued Kopporu. "And even if they do not, how can the Kiktu save the Old Ones if we ourselves are destroyed?"
Even before she heard the derisive whistling, Kopporu knew that she had lost the debate. She was universally recognized as the Kiktu's greatest battle leader, despite her relative youth. But she was not a clan leader, and this was not a battle. This was a full meeting of the tribal leaders, where clan status and venerable age weighed heavily in the balance.
And our ancient leaders have grown stiff in their minds, she thought bitterly. They have come to believe in the myth of Kiktu invulnerability.
Even as the thought came to her, one of the old clan leaders spoke.
"The Kiktu have never been defeated!" orated Taktoko. "Never!"
Not in living memory, no. But we too were once a small and unknown tribe, like the Utuku, until our conquests made us famed and feared. Like the Utuku.
"Does not even the Ansha Prevalate fear our flails?" demanded Taktoko. "Have not even their mighty legions whistled in fear at our onslaught?"
A chorus of loud hoots echoed her sentiments. Encouraged, Taktoko continued her peroration.
"The Ansha Prevalate only survives due to our benevolence! Should we choose, even they would fall before our flails!"
A few, faint hoots greeted this last claim. Most of the leaders present maintained a discreet silence.
At least they are not totally mad, thought Kopporu. Taktoko is an idiot. She cannot see the difference between defeating a few invading Anshac legions and conquering Ansha itself. If the Kiktu ever tried to conquer Ansha, we would be destroyed. For that matter, if the Anshac ever seriously attempted to conquer our lands, we would be forced to give way. Just as we will before the Utuku. Except the Utuku will not be satisfied with our lands. They will devour us whole.
She ignored the rest of Taktoko's speech. She had heard it all before—if not quite so mindlessly put—and there was no purpose to be served in further argument. She had lost the debate, as she knew she would. The clan leaders had scoffed at Kopporu's proposal to withdraw southward, with the aim of defeating the Utuku in the course of a long campaign. That was the traditional tactic used by weaker tribes faced with stronger enemies. Some of the battle leaders had been sympathetic, at the beginning, but the clan leaders had been outraged at the implication that the Kiktu were no longer the mightiest tribe on the plains. They had decided to meet the Utuku in the narrow throat in the Papti Plain between the Lolopopo Swamp and the great bend of the Adkapo. That was the traditional boundary of Kiktu territory. The clan leaders, full of pride, were determined to prevent the Utuku from desecrating the tribal lands.
It was the worst possible position, Kopporu knew, for the Kiktu to face the greater numbers and heavier forces of the Utuku. But the decision was now a foregone conclusion. She must look to the future.
Her course of action was clear to her—had been for days, since it became obvious that the Kiktu would attempt to confront the Utuku invaders directly. The tribe would be destroyed, broken into pieces. The clans and battle groups would be mangled beyond recognition. Her duty was now to salvage what she could.
A rush of emotions momentarily threatened to sweep over her. But she pushed it r
esolutely aside, maintaining iron control. Not a trace of her sentiments could show in her mantle, if she was to succeed in her plan.
Kopporu's attention was brought back to the discussion by the sound of the Great Mother's voice.
The Great Mother, she realized, had spoken her name.
"—that the demons will protect the Old Ones. Do these demons even exist? Has anyone seen them? They are nothing but a tale for new-borns!"
The Great Mother was glaring at Kopporu, her enormous mantle rippling with blue anger and yellow contempt.
They exist, Great Mother. I have not seen them, but I have seen their work. An entire slave caravan slaughtered to the last gukuy. Dead of horrible wounds, like none I have ever seen. And I have spoken to Pilgrims of the Way, seeking refuge in the Chiton.
But Kopporu maintained her silence. She had already lost much of the prestige with which she had entered the meeting. What little she retained would vanish if she engaged in a futile religious debate with the Great Mother. Most battle leaders believed in the existence of the demons, but it was a difficult thing to prove. Especially to old clan leaders, who did not look kindly upon new concepts.
Eventually, the discussion turned to battle stratagems. Kopporu knew that it would be a distressingly short discussion.
Amass our invincible warriors. Attack.
It was a method of battle which had served the Kiktu well in their various clashes with neighboring tribes. Not only did they outnumber any of the other tribes, but even when faced with combinations of tribes the Kiktu had always been able to rely on the justly famed individual prowess of their warriors and battlemothers.
It was difficult to argue with success. But Kopporu knew that the underlying reason for their victories against other tribes was simple:
Because the other tribes fight as we do.
The Kiktu methods had even served, in the past, to defeat invading Anshac legions. But Kopporu had participated in the last battle with an Anshac legion, as a young warrior. She had been stunned by the military effectiveness of the disciplined and organized tactics used by the legion. True, the Kiktu had won the battle. But they had greatly outnumbered the legionnaires, and, even so, had suffered three times the casualties.
In the years which followed, as she rose in status until she became a battle leader, Kopporu had attempted to adopt Anshac tactics to the extent possible. She had never been able to use the Anshac methods as much as she would have liked, of course. The inveterate individualism of the Kiktu warrior was a constant obstacle, as was their loosely organized tribal society.
Despite her efforts, the traditional tactics still prevailed. And those tactics would be disastrous against the Utuku.
They are the most brutal and vicious tribe which has ever existed on the Meat of the Clam. But they do not fight like savages. Their discipline is even harsher than that of the Anshac legions. The Utuku tactics are crude and simple. But what does that matter—when the Utuku warriors fight like mindless clams? And there are so many of them!
As she pondered these thoughts, Kopporu was waiting for the right moment to speak. It came unexpectedly—a gift handed her by the braggart Taktoko.
"And where does Kopporu wish to muster her warriors? In the rear—guarding the gana?"
Silence fell over the meeting. Only the faint sound of the wind—most of its force reduced by the ganahide walls which surrounded the leaders, isolating them from the curious tympani of the tribespeople—could be heard.
Kopporu rose slowly to her peds. She said nothing; simply stared at Taktoko for a long moment. With amusement, she noted the traces of pink which rippled through Taktoko's mantle.
Taktoko has just remembered that I am the best warrior as well as battle leader in this group. Not the best in the tribe—by a small margin. But more than good enough to peel her mantle.
Taktoko was nervously watching Kopporu's mantle, but Kopporu let not a trace of her emotions show.
Taktoko fears blue rage. Ironic—what I fear is a trace of green relief. The arrogant fool has given me exactly what I needed.
When she was certain that she had her emotions under control, Kopporu allowed black to darken her mantle. Her arms assumed the gesture of command. She spoke.
"I will lead the right flank. I demand the privilege, since my courage has been insulted."
As she expected, there was no argument. Several of the clan leaders spoke sharply on the subject of proper conduct in debate, rebuking Taktoko. In soft voices—still loud enough to be overheard—two of the battle leaders exchanged quips as to the probable position of Taktoko. (The old leader's high clan status was not accompanied by any comparable reputation on the battlefield.) The Great Mother even interjected a remark concerning Kopporu's unquestioned valor.
By Kiktu battle standards, leadership of the flanks was considered the most prestigious position. There were no tribesmen to guard one's unprotected side. True, in this coming battle, the small Opoktu tribe would marshall on the right—but the Kiktu did not consider the Opoktu comparable to themselves as warriors. Kopporu herself did not share that general assessment. She had found the Opoktu as brave as any gukuy, within the limits imposed upon them by their small numbers. She even admired them for their cleverness, and was on good personal terms with their battle leader Lukpudo.
In the coming battle, moreover, the right flank was considered the most dangerous position. The Kiktu on the right would be against the Lolopopo Swamp, with little of the maneuvering room that the warriors preferred.
Uncertain allies, and a swamp at my side. They think me brave because of that, when it is those two factors that I will need in order to accomplish—
She hesitated, grieved, completed the thought:
My treason.
That night, in the yurt she shared with Aktako, she finally told her the truth. She was hesitant, but knew she had no choice. Aktako was her most trusted lieutenant, as well as her lover. Without her conscious assistance, the plan could not succeed.
She had expected resistance, even vehement resistance. But she had underestimated Aktako. After listening to the plot, the old veteran simply whistled softly—not in fear, but in admiration.
"I knew you were weaving some kind of scheme, but I didn't realize how big it was. You always did have a better brain than me."
Kopporu began stumbling through an apology, in which the word "treason" featured prominently, but Aktado cut her off with a rude hoot.
"That's nothing but shit! It's not your fault the clan leaders are idiots. You're just trying to save something out of the wreckage."
Ochre indecision mottled Kopporu's mantle.
"But how can you be so sure I'm right? What if we defeat the Utuku?"
"Then we defeat them, and life is simple. No one will ever know what you were planning except me." A whistle of amusement. "And maybe those swampsnails you've been collecting around you—for reasons which mystified me until tonight."
"They will say nothing. And I told the clan leaders—those few who asked—that I wanted the swamp-dwellers for scouts. To make sure the Utuku didn't surprise us by coming through the swamp."
Aktako's whistle combined amazement and humor.
"And they believed you?"
"I think so. They give almost no thought to the nature of the enemy, Aktako. The Utuku would never come through the swamp. Their tactics are designed for dry land—flat, open areas. In the swamp, they would be at a great disadvantage."
"That's what you're counting on, isn't it?"
"Yes. That and—" She paused, brown misery washing over her. "And the fact that the Utuku will be wallowing in their victory."
Brown rippled across Aktako's mantle as well. But within a short time, the brown deepened to black.
"Life is what it is, Kopporu. We do what we must. I have always taught you that—from the first day you joined my battle group."
The veteran stroked Kopporu's arms.
"So bright and fierce you were. And beautiful. I thought for sure yo
u'd choose one of the younger and better looking veterans."
Kopporu whistled derision. "I may have been young, but I wasn't stupid. Much good it does you to have a pretty lover when the forks are shattering. I knew what I wanted—a scarred old warrior, wise in battle."
The two gukuy gazed at each other lovingly. Theirs was an unusual romance. Most Kiktu warriors went through a succession of lovers, but Kopporu and Aktako had been together for eightyweeks. At another time, under other circumstances, their mantles would already be turning white with passion. But on that night of sorrow, there was only the soft green of long affection.
They fell asleep sometime later, their arms intertwined. Aktako's last words were:
"You know what the biggest problem's going to be, don't you? How to keep Guo alive during the battle."
"I'm not worried about that. Guo's going to be a battlemother out of legend. The real problem will be to keep her from trying to rescue the Great Mother after the battle's lost."
"How will you do that?"
"I don't know, Aktako. I don't know."
Kopporu may not have been worried about Guo surviving the battle, but the infanta herself was sleepless that night.
Not worried about her survival, however, but about her conduct during the battle. She suspected, in the half-cocksure/half-uncertain manner of youth, that she was probably the greatest battlemother produced by the Kiktu in generations. But what she knew, on that eve before the clash, was that she had never been in a real battle before. Her experience was limited to the practice field, and a few minor skirmishes with other tribes. But those skirmishes were meaningless—not least because the opponents had fled instantly upon seeing a battlemother.
The Utuku would not flee. It was not the least of their unspeakable savagery—the contempt in which they held all mothers. Guo knew that the Utuku did not even use the word "mother" in their own language. They simply called them "breeders." Utuku mothers were maimed at birth: the tendons in their peds slashed, so that the pitiful creatures could not even walk. Mothers captured from other tribes were treated likewise. And then condemned to a life of forced breeding.