The King’s Last Song. Geoff Ryman
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the palace temple. At least that got him away from his wives. Attendants had strung up his hammock and lowered draperies to keep out the night air. In the old days a woman might have been left with him, for the sake of form.
But the Universal King was old now. He did not want women with him. He did not like the way they searched his face and looked at his old body. He was exhausted with the impudent stripping gaze of everyone who saw him. They searched his face for signs of glory and found only a man after all.
And yet, what he had done! He was the Sun King, who had swamped his enemies. Might not a little of that show on his face?
Nowadays, Suryavarman turned might into merit. He had built the biggest temple in the world in honour of Vishnu and all the Gods. Perhaps doubt was the burden that gods lay on kings for coming too close to them.
You sluiced water around a stone, and claimed it was holy. You did not know whether it was or not. You never saw a god, or felt a god. At times you used the Gods strategically, to frighten or threaten or shame your rivals.
Sometimes you wondered if any of it was true.
At night, lying awake and listening to the sounds of insects, you would know: you were tough and strong but sometimes that strength crushed things you wished to keep. You had a mean streak, you had a fearful streak, and you had a mind that always played chess with people’s lives. You took pleasure in all the politicking; you promised yourself that you would stop. You tried to convince yourself that you had finally won and could afford to be more forgiving. Something in you prevented it.
Bigger and bigger temples, more and more stones piled high, more exiles, more confiscations, more setting families off against each other. And at night, loneliness.
Something fluttered in the shadows of the candle. It slipped around the draperies, like a gecko.
‘I am child,’ a boy said, and flung himself down onto the stone.
I can see that, thought Suryavarman and sat up. The boy must have avoided the stairs by climbing up the sides of the temple, on the carvings. ‘Have you ruined the stucco?’ the King demanded.
‘I took care to avoid doing harm, Great King. I am small and light. I do not come for myself, King, but for another.’
The King beadled down on him. ‘Whose son are you?’
‘Yours,’ said the boy, and then hastened to add, ‘in spirit I am yours, for I have grown up in your house, but my father is Dharan Indravarman, who serves you as a small king in the northeast.’
‘I know him,’ rumbled Suryavarman. My cousin, not particularly troublesome, a man of no obvious faults and a Buddhist, so doubly harmless. ‘You can sit up, I want to see your face.’
The boy was a plump little fellow only about twelve years old, with a big round face and thick peasant lips. No matter what he said, his serious, regarding eyes had no trace of real fear.
The King asked him, ‘What makes you think you are not in a lot of trouble?’
The boy replied, ‘Because you are a Universal King. A Universal King is brave and has faced terrible danger. Such a king would have no need to frighten me.’
‘You are troubling my sleep.’ Like bad dreams.
The little fellow bowed and crawled closer. Determined, wasn’t he?
‘King. You are generously setting up new temples, and you are to give to these establishments great gifts of land and water and parasols and oil and wax and people.’
‘Yes?’ Dangerous stuff, little fellow, for these gifts are the canals of politics. Gold and silver and obligation flow down them. And blood.
‘There is a slave girl. Her name is Fishing Cat. She was honoured to be made part of our household when she was five. She is so happy to be here, she has not thought of her village since. She does not even remember its name. But I have checked the records and I see she must have come from the villages near Mount Merit. If …’ Here the child faltered, bit his lip, became a child again. ‘If that is where you are planning a temple, then perhaps if she is sent there, that would be a good thing. She could see her family again.’
‘Is that all you want?’
‘I have been very foolish,’ said the child in the tiniest possible voice. ‘I became friends with her. It was easy for me, it was fun. I had no thought of the danger for her. It is my fault, but she is the one being punished.’
The King could not help but smile. ‘You climbed up here for a slave girl?’
The boy sompiahed, yes. ‘My guru says I must learn humility.’
The King chuckled. ‘A strange way to show humility, to wake up a king with demands.’ The boy went still and looked down.
Impossible to gauge, little fellow, how much of a danger you will be. But what a heart you have. A brave heart and a good heart, to care so much for a slave girl. ‘All right. I will order it.’
The boy flung himself face-down onto the stone. Then the little imp sat up and made sure the King remembered. ‘Her name is Fishing Cat. Mount Merit.’
The King nodded. He stood up. His chest had sagged, his belly swelled, his calves had shrivelled. He shuffled into his sandals. ‘Come along, little fellow, I will get you past the guards.’
‘Don’t punish them,’ said the boy, suddenly alarmed. ‘I am very small and quiet.’
The King had to laugh. The boy’s heart is a kingdom; it could contain everyone. He cares for guards! They would kill him at a nod from me.
‘I won’t punish them,’ promised the King.
Suryavarman quickly calculated. Little Buddhist, you have ten more years before you become a danger. By then, I will be dead. With all this sudden trouble over my wife’s brother in Champa and with the Vietnamese in the north, someone somewhere will betray me soon. And so I know who you are. You are the danger to whoever is my successor. You can be my harrow.
If you love me.
‘Can I tell you who you are?’ Suryavarman said, as they walked. ‘Your father is my first cousin. Your mother was from Mahidharapura, the same pastures from which my own family came.’ His hand on the boy’s shoulder pressed down hard. ‘So I am fond of your family, that is why I asked especially for you to be here. Really.’
He nearly laughed aloud again; the boy’s eyes were so completely unfooled.
‘That is why I said you are my father,’ whispered the boy.
‘But now I will remember you as the boy with the good heart. You know the greatest pleasure in being King? It comes when you know you have done something good.’ Suryavarman mounted his kindly, regal countenance. It was a heaving great effort.
The boy narrowed his eyes and considered. You’re not supposed to think, lad, about what the King says. You’re supposed to agree.
‘Yes,’ the boy said. ‘Yes. That must be the greatest pleasure. That would be the whole reason to be King.’
‘Yes, but bees make honey, only to lose it. Are you good with a sword, young prince?’
The boy seemed to click into place. Good heart or no, he had a man’s interest in all things military. ‘I’m better with a bow. Better with a crossbow on an elephant’s back. Swords or arrows, the thing is to have a quiet spirit when you use them.’
Oh, yes! thought Suryavarman. You will be my revenge; you will be my scythe. I pity the poor cousin who succeeds me.
‘I want to train you specially,’ said Suryavarman. ‘In the art of war.’
Everyone learned how the beardless Brahmin’s scheme had backfired.
Why exactly the King favoured his cousin’s son no one knew. A cousin’s son was there to be held