The King’s Last Song. Geoff Ryman
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‘We all must look to our futures,’ said Indradevi Kansru with a gentle, teasing smile.
‘Look after your own! I only asked who he was. I did not recognize him because of the moustache.’
‘You only like him because of the moustache.’
Jayarajadevi saw how it looked to her sister. ‘It does give him the air of a holy man, and it is foolish of me to think that. But then I am young and foolish.’
‘At least he looks like a man who does NOT regard women as if they were elephants.’
‘Fortunately some great princes are beyond our ken.’
‘For … tune … ate … leeee,’ said Indradevi Kansru and rattled the tips of her fingers on her sister’s arm. Between themselves they called some of the highest princes in the land the Oxen. Among them, Yashovarman.
But oh, even the Oxen were beautiful young men. They wore their princely quilted jackets, all gold embroidered flowers, and were finely built and swift of movement. That gave low pleasure but also higher pleasure. If lotus flowers were a symbol of divinity for their colour, their form and their life, then surely the same could be said for beautiful young men?
Though the lotus had the advantage of not trying to be beautiful, or being arrogant about it.
Kansri had indeed heard of the Prince who called himself Nia. She wondered why this favourite of the Universal King would do himself such an injury as to be named after the lowest category of slave. He could be consecrated as a little king and take a noble title, but he still called himself Hereditary Slave.
Jayarajadevi Kansri knew why she would give herself such a name. She would do it to show that the titles of this world were meaningless, that compassion was owed to the lowly.
Was it possible that in this palace of warmongers there was a man who would give himself that name from the same motives? Possible that he would regard slaves as being worthy of attention, simply other souls trapped in samsara? How wonderful it would be to find a man with whom you could talk about such things, who would take such thoughts and man-like turn them into solid facts.
Such a possibility. A dream, like the cloud-flowers that everyone hoped to see and never did.
So this happy prince – and he does smile beautifully – helped his younger comrade up. He was neat and quick; and he explained so patiently to the little boy about the double crossbow on the beast’s back.
He pointed out the weapon’s thick arms and showed how to pull them back. He made it look easy. He guided his charge’s hands and together they pulled back the nearest bow. Then he nipped out of the howdah down into the bamboo cage that clung to the side of the beast.
Jayarajadevi Kansri heard the sergeant cluck his tongue. The old female elephant trotted forward, creased and whiskery like a granny.
The little one in the howdah was having difficulty. He wavered as he pulled back on the bow; he wobbled as he knelt on the platform; he squinted into the sun. The Slave Prince half stood, balancing on the bamboo struts of the cage and encouraging the boy.
The little boy looked cross. The elephant’s motion jostled him. The crossbow veered dangerously.
Without warning the bolt sprang forward, as long and heavy as a spear. It plunged deep into the elephant, just where the rounded dome of its head met the hunch of its neck.
The old female screamed, and broke into a charge. The Slave Prince pulled himself back into the howdah.
Some of the Oxen roared with laughter. Jayarajadevi Kansri sent tiny blades out with her eyes: oh it is so funny to see a beast in agony. Oh it is so robust to laugh when someone might be killed!
Bellowing, the old female stumbled into the high fluttering banners, scattering category people. She dropped down onto her knees and shook her head as if saying no, no, no. The sergeants ran to secure her again. The howdah jerked from side to side. The Prince grabbed the boy’s hand and turned to jump free. Just as he launched himself, the elephant shrugged and he lost hold of the boy.
The Prince was dumped heavily onto the scrub earth. His knees gave way, but he caught himself with his hands and he scuttled forwards out of the way. He jerked himself to his feet and twisted around, to see the elephant lower herself onto her side. The side basket crackled as her weight crushed it.
The boy clung to the low sides of the howdah. ‘Jump!’ the Prince called up to the boy and held out his arms to catch him. His charge hung back, weeping. The Oxen laughed.
The elephant began to roll onto her back. The little boy screamed and flung himself free, hurtling down onto the Prince, who fumbled him, held him, and staggered backwards, pulling the boy out of harm’s way.
The elephant, nearly on her back, kicked her legs and shook her head, trying to scrape the bolt out of her neck. She drove it deeper in. The balustrades of the howdah collapsed under her with a sudden thump.
The keepers edged forward with spears. Ducking and fearful, they tried to grab the harness around her body and shoulders. The bell around her neck clanked and clattered.
There was a gasp from the onlookers. The foolish Prince had run up her ribcage. He looked as though he was climbing rocks in the river, only these rocks shifted underfoot. The Prince grabbed the thick shaft of the spear in the elephant’s head. The old beast cawed like a giant crow and kicked and the Prince was swung out over the ground, still holding on. Then the shaft swung back. He found his footing, and hauled out the weapon. He jumped free from the beast and flung it away all in one motion.
The elephant kicked once more and then went still.
The keepers advanced on her with lances.
‘No, no, no!’ the Prince cried aloud, holding out his hands.
The dazed old elephant lifted up her head. She snorted out breath as if in relief. Very suddenly she kicked herself back onto her feet. She stood still and blinked at her keepers who warily approached.
‘The bolt just went into the flesh of her neck,’ the Prince said. As if treading across thorns, he slowly crept towards her. The old animal lowered her head and shuffled backwards. She associated him with pain. He backed off as well and instead turned to his young charge.
The little boy was standing at stiff attention. His face was dusty and tracked with tears, but he was not crying now. Poor thing, he thinks he will be punished, perhaps even sent back to his mother, who knows?
Jayarajadevi Kansri leaned forward, turning her head sideways to hear, aware that her sister Indradevi was looking at her and not at the Prince.
‘You were not strong enough to use the bow,’ said Prince Nia. ‘You will get stronger if you work. Will you work?’
‘Yes!’ said the little boy, nodding hard.
‘I will help you get strong,’ said the Prince and touched the boy’s arm. Then he saw the keepers approach again with spears.
‘No, no, no!’ he commanded them. ‘She will live. No! She can carry things!’
‘Well,’ said Jayarajadevi settling back. ‘He is certainly not one of the Oxen.’
As soon as people got wind of the potential attachment, they took sides.
Indradevi Kansru wound her way through the palace routines until she could sidle up to the Slave Prince. ‘You are a popular man, Prince.’
‘Am I?’ He had a nice open smile.
‘Oh indeed. You have found favour in the eyes of a certain lady. You are a lucky man to secure such favour. This is a high-born lady of the greatest beauty and accomplishment.’
He beamed in measured pleasure. ‘That is very pleasant to hear.’
‘May I tell the lady that?’
‘I cannot think which lady it may be,