‘I’m sorry I asked.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t be peevish. You call Benzamir a good man. So are you. But you have to realize that failure is sometimes inevitable.’
‘With God, all things are possible,’ he retorted.
‘And you said you didn’t know the mind of God. He has to teach you humility somehow. Who better to learn it from than a woman?’
‘You were eavesdropping.’
‘Just like me,’ said Benzamir. He handed down the last two books and picked up a tray before joining them on the ground. He breathed in the smells of Earth: damp air, frozen soil, rotting wood. ‘This is it, then.’
The tray held three beakers and an ancient stone bottle.
Alessandra picked up the bottle, opened the stopper and recoiled as the vapour assaulted her nose. ‘What is that?’
‘It is’ – Benzamir hesitated – ‘not of this world. But it won’t kill you.’
He held the beakers together and Alessandra poured a generous measure in each. ‘Steady,’ he said. ‘The tsar’ll find us asleep in his fields in the morning. And an inconveniently large spaceship not quite touching the ground.’
Sighing, Alessandra raised her beaker. ‘To friends.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Va. ‘You’re doing it wrong. A toast is the reason to drink. It gives meaning to it, and the drink is the amen. Like this: Rory macShiel helped me, even when his own wife begged him not to. Without him, I’d never have recovered the books, and so I drink to him.’ He tilted his wrist and sank all the liquor in one gulp.
Benzamir shrugged and followed suit. Alessandra sipped at hers.
‘Now. Said.’ Va reached for the bottle again. He topped up his beaker, and Benzamir’s.
‘I’ll take him,’ said Benzamir. ‘Said Mohammed is gracious in defeat, humble in victory, ferocious in battle and wise in the ways of peace. He is a good friend whom I will never forget. For him I wish long life, good health, a good wife and many camels.’
This time they all drank like Russians. The bottle went round again.
‘Wahir?’ said Va.
‘Why not?’ Alessandra massaged her throat to force her voice from it. ‘Wahir, with his head full of stories, his endless questions and unquenchable enthusiasm. Not quite a boy, not yet a man, but he’s seen and done more in his short life so far than many will ever see or do.’ She drank again, and gritted her teeth as she swallowed. ‘Gah.’
‘Solomon Akisi.’
Benzamir reached for the bottle, missed, and tried again. ‘I thought you hated him.’
‘Hate is too strong a word,’ said Va. ‘He was courageous and determined, but he sought the wrong goals. It made him misuse his power, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to kill. But he defied his emperor and unwittingly led us all to Great Nairobi. For that reason alone I’ll raise my glass to him.’
They were silent as they toasted Akisi, knowing what was coming next. There was only one more. And then they would have to part.
Benzamir coughed, took a deep breath and started.
‘No,’ said Va. ‘This is my duty. Elenya Lukeva Christyakova, Princess of Novy Rostov, loved me for six years without hope. Despite everything, she followed me, became my voice when I couldn’t talk, and my guide when I couldn’t find my way. I disappointed her, ruined her life, destroyed her dreams, and she still stayed with me. I hope and pray that wherever she goes, the Holy Mother, Saint George and Saint Basil will protect her.’
After they drank for the last time, Va smashed the bottle on the ground.
‘I’ve lost all feeling in my legs,’ said Alessandra.
‘Then I’ll have to carry you,’ said Benzamir.
‘How long will it take you, to get where you’re going?’ Va looked up into the broken sky, dark cloud partly obscuring the bright stars of heaven.
‘A week.’ Benzamir followed his gaze. ‘Depends on the amount of in-system travel we have to do, and what we find at the other end. City-ships sometimes have to move in a hurry. We’ll round up a fleet, some people to act as guards, then come back for the rebels. But we’ll resist the temptation to come and see you.’
‘That’s for the best, I think. I want only a quiet life.’
‘You’ll be patriarch before you die. You can’t help but do things well.’
‘I’ve no ambition for myself.’ Va clasped Benzamir to his chest and pounded his back. ‘But Godspeed to you. Finish what you started: take your traitors away and don’t let them come back.’
‘And you, Brother Va. Ready, Alessandra?’
‘I should really be asking you that question.’
‘You have a better offer? I don’t see anyone else around here with their own starship.’
‘Answer me, or I’ll leave you here.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Elenya wasn’t for you, Benzamir Mahmood. But I am.’
When it was done, and Va was left staring dry-eyed up at the sky, he thought he saw a flash like a piece of turning diamond: red, green, blue. Then nothing.
He settled down cross-legged at the side of the piles of books and waited for the sun.
The great Kremlin bell marked the time until dawn, when the gates opened and the peasant farmers came out with cartloads of manure.
An old man wended his way down the paths from the tsar’s highway to where Va still sat.
‘Holy you might be, but you’re in my way. Shit doesn’t spread itself.’
‘I’ve a message for the patriarch,’ said Va. It suddenly struck him that he’d used that phrase before.
‘Well, I’m not His Holiness, that’s for certain.’ The peasant circled the two unequal stacks of books. ‘What are these?’
‘Get your filthy hands off them. They belong to the Church.’
‘Valuable, eh?’
‘Beyond measure.’
‘Perhaps you can sort something out with the watch.’ The man nodded at the two horsemen trotting across the ridged earth towards them.
‘What’s going on here?’ one of them called.
‘He says he’s got a message for the patriarch,’ said the peasant.
‘Oh crap,’ said Captain Mikhaelov. ‘Not again.’
About the Author
Dr. Simon Morden, B.Sc. (Hons., Sheffield) Ph.D (Newcastle) is a bona fide rocket scientist, having degrees in geology and planetary geophysics. He's also the author of a number of short stories blending science fiction, fantasy and horror. The Lost Art is his first novel.
‘Another fat book offering plenty of entertainment’
Independent
‘The Lost Art is fast-paced, readable and a lot of fun, with prose sparky enough to suggest that, whichever way he goes next, Morden is a man with a future’
SFX Magazine
‘Simon Morden is what sci-fi and fantasy fans alike have been waiting for . . . Totally satisfying and highly recommended’
www.thetruthaboutbooks.blogspot.com
‘Morden combines science fiction and fantasy in a novel with a cracking pace that pitches savagery and bigotry against reason’
TES
‘Highly recommended as a summer read for all s-f fans’
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‘There is no doubt that this novel is compelling. The various mysteries in the story combine to keep the reader turning the page, and the world in which it is set is fascinating’
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‘A potent vision of the future that cracks along at a fair pace’
www.dwscifi.com
‘This is science fiction, a whodunnit, an adventure and even a bit of a love story all rolled into one. Oh, and by the way, the author is a genuine rocket scientist, so he knows his stuff. Brilliant! *****’
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‘Morden is clearly a writer to watch’
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‘If you like Iain M Banks Culture novels then this is an absolute must . . . A brilliant adventure for Sci-fi lovers of all ages’
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THE LOST ART
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 407 07788 8