The Making of Heroes

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Kzar, his men and servants lived in a compound of many rooms, corridors and open spaces. Some were for living, some for show and some purely utilitarian. But - tucked away along a short, dedicated passageway, easily guarded - was a small unique space that could not be so easily categorised. It had a single door with one large, industrial lock. On the floor was a mat, grubby with use; a plain ceramic candlestick - with candle - and a small clay pot of red headed matches. On the wall nearby were short scrape marks, where matches had been struck into flame. And above - just discernible on the ceiling - was an indefinite circle of black sooty deposit. The candle had often been lit: the room was frequently used.

It was spartan and unadorned, with an air of solemnity. Some thousands of years before, this would have been recognised as the cell of a hermit, or monk.

I was where Kzar came to think. And dream. And plan. The candle was burning: Kzar was there.

He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, hands still, letting his mind circle like a bird before settling - inevitably - on Tavia.

Tavia. His niece. His late brother’s only child. Kzar took a deep breath through his mouth and let it out slowly through his nose. He did this twice. Tavia.

As men do, his brother had become ill and weak, his voice diminishing with his strength. After death Kzar had laid his body in a remote place for the wild dogs to discover. And - as was the custom - Kzar had cut his own arm, to drip and smear his blood onto his brother’s body. Usually that spot would now be avoided by the family for some months, perhaps years, until all memory had ceased, but Kzar, indifferent to convention, had returned within a week, to sit and dwell on mortality and loss.

So now, after thinking of ghosts past, he thought of Tavia, the infuriating girl from hell who was more often right than not, nearly always got what she wanted and was totally relentless in achieving her ends.

The candle flickered: there must be a draught. Maybe a rat had managed to squeeze between the metallic plates. Kzar stared at the wall. The candle flickered a few more times, the flame wavering uncertainly. His brother had been fit, but then not fit, and Kzar - when he remembered - wondered if he too might find himself dead one morning.

There were some knocks from behind him: knuckles on the door, if he was any judge. And a muffled voice. “Sir! Kzar, sir! Are you OK?”

Kzar stirred. He turned his head. “Go away! I’m thinking.” He fell to looking at the candle again, at the way the orange tip shaded to white, then orange again and finally into blue at the base. The tip, he was sure, would be the hottest part, as all the heat would be channelled to it, but then, he had read - or someone had told him - this was not correct. The base, that was where it was hottest. Blue, not orange!

The flame burnt steadily. Kzar put a hand up to one eye, then the other, changing his viewpoint, shifting the image back and forth. The candle was burning low: soon it would go out. But he had started with a new candle, he was sure. And candles lasted for hours!

How long had he been here?

And with a jolt, Kzar the street boss came back to the present, the here and now. For a moment or two he concentrated on his breathing, feeling the soft flow of air coming in and going out as a fish might feel a wave.

Then he went to the door.

It had been over two hours since Kzar had mumbled ‘I’m OK.’ Since then, nothing.

Catman, undecided, screwed up his face in concentration. “If I were asked, I’d say he’s getting worse.”

“Yeah.” Tavia stared at the door as if the sheer force of her will could make it open.

“But then again I’d say - were I to be asked - I’d say he kept it together with Gomez.”

“Yeah. Mostly.”

They both fell silent. Tavia crammed her hands into her pockets. Just when she needed him most, Kzar was increasingly absent. She felt like kicking the door down or at least, kicking the door. Making a protest.

In later years, with Kzar long gone and her own erratic, violent life heading towards a spectacular finale, Tavia would sometimes remember this moment. Remember staring at the door, with her sense of frustrated resentment becoming almost unbearable. Remember Catman’s squashed, kindly features and her own urge to scream at him to use the key - the key she knew he had - to open the door, to force Kzar to ….. To what?

The business with Spiker Gomez had been concluded but not finished. She had got what she wanted but not - she later realised - what she desired. It was as if, somewhere within the chaotic spread of her existence, there was an undefined, unseen gap. Like a missing shadow or an unknown event that hadn’t happened.

She turned to Catman. “Give me the key.”

“Tavia -”

“Give me the key!” This was unfair, she knew it was unfair, but she held out her hand. “The key!”

Face working, he bit his lip. Eventually: “Were I to be asked, I’d say it’s not fair to put a Clansman - a loyal Clansman, under pressure, because -”

“The key! Now!”

Catman reached into his pocket. “I was given this but told never to use it.” He produced a key, rusty with disuse, anchored firmly with a length of chain.

“Come on!”

Ponderously, Catman made his way to the door. “I will open it. Me.” Reluctantly, he fumbled with the key, lifting it to the lock, then stopped, hearing a click and the noise of tumblers falling into place. The door swung open.

Kzar strode out, his footsteps rapid, his eyes clear. To Catman: “Door.” To his niece: “Follow me.“

She nearly had to run to keep up.

Inside his quarters a V-Screen set to max was depicting troop movements and tactics from a long-ago war. Red and green arrows showing attacks and defensive maneuverings, black squares and rectangles for strongholds, numbers showing time (speeded up) and casualties (large).

“Tavia. I have been thinking about the Splice raid.”

She immediately retorted: “My Splice raid.”

If he caught her emphasis, he ignored it. “You won’t be in charge. It’ll either be Spiker or Figgus, I haven’t decided yet. I might even just wait and see who comes out on top. But it won’t be you.” Behind him the red arrows made a sweeping, encompassing movement and the casualty counters made a sudden, dramatic spike.

Her voice was low. “This is my raid. Mine!”

Dismissively, Kzar sat. He was feeling quite pleased with himself for being firm. “And if it works the credit will be yours.” And then, quickly “and as for the other two, Smitty and Smurf.”

“Those two?” Tavia could hardly disguise her astonishment. “They’re a pair of tupping clowns.”

“They’re good fighters, loyal and not stupid. They’re going, and you don’t have any choice in the matter.”

Tavia’s mouth turned down into the stubborn, brutally unforgiving curve he knew only too well. An outburst, a tantrum, a massive explosion was on the cards, and Kzar - his burst of energy already draining away - couldn’t face it. Quickly, he put up a hand. “I have something for you. A present.”

That averted - for now - the crisis. Face working, brows lowered in suspicion, she stared at him. “What?”

From his pocket he drew out a small black bag, which he opened and tilted. A cube - the edges no longer than a couple of inches - slide like mercury into his cupped palm. The sides fluctuated with colours that mixed like oil on water in sunshine.

Tavia’s expression changed and in spite of herself, in spite of her rising anger, she found herself giving way first to surprise and then wide-eyed delight.

“You’re giving that to me?” Her voice was hoarse.

“It is time. I have to know you’ll be safe.” He licked his lips, almost as if he was changing his mind, or had forgotten what he was doing. “Take it quickly now.”

Cautiously, she held out both hands as if receiving a sacrament. Kzar said “Think before you use it. And use it sparingly.” The cube slipped so easily from his palm to hers it was almost as if it were alive. It was cold to the touch. She lifted it up so it was level with her eyes. The cube was oddly translucent, allowing her to see into it, where the swirling, mingling, entwined colours dived in and around each other like endless, hypnotic snakes. Through them she caught glimpses of her uncle’s calm, reflective and somehow empty face.

He said: “They will take your energy from you. Even if you do nothing you’ll only have fifteen minutes.” For a moment he felt lost. Why was he was doing this? He was growing uncertain. Concentrate. He had to concentrate.

He pushed her hand aside, catching her in his gaze. “Watch the colour. It darkens. When it’s black, you’re dead.” For a second, she saw doubt in his eyes, as if regretting what he was doing, swiftly followed by a small, almost imperceptible sigh of inevitable acceptance. “Now, I need set you up. Or if you try to use them, you’ll be …” his voice dropped and trailed off and his mouth hung open.

Tavia managed to restrain herself from slapping him. “Uncle! Kzar!” His eyes focussed on her. “Set me up! Do it!”

For a few seconds that felt like an age, Kzar remained vacant. Then he squinted, first at her, then at the cube. “I’ve never used it” he said. “Never dared.” He looked round at the room as if seeing it for the first time.

“Uncle. Concentrate!”

His gaze settled on the cube. It seemed to energise him. “Yes, of course! Hold it steady.”

Her hand was shaking. The cube wobbled. She fastened her fingers around her wrist and jammed her elbows into her sides. The cube became still.

Kzar lifted his hand, index finger extended. “When I say, push your finger in, to meet mine.” The cube dimpled as he stabbed into it, then folded around like an eager mouth receiving a tidbit. Through the whirling, agitated colours Tavia saw his finger reach the centre. His eyes lifted. “Now you.”

She took a breath and - feeling this moment was truly momentous - pushed her own forefinger in from the other side.

“They need to touch.” Kzar’s voice was soft. “I have not done this since my father gave me it on his deathbed.” Her finger reached the centre and met his. It felt oily, slippery, cold and dead. “Don’t move. Wait for the change.”

“What change?”

“Wait….” his voice was now so quiet she could hardly hear it. He stared - they both stared - at the swirling colours. Five seconds passed before a sudden surge of intense black flooded through the cube as if it had been injected with the deepest, darkest dye.

And then it had gone and the cube was back to how it had been.

Tavia felt a weight dragging on her hand. Kzar’s arm had seemingly lost strength and was sliding away, to hang uselessly at his side. His face was slack and remote and his eyes had dulled.

She quickly bagged the cube and placed it carefully in an inside pocket. “Uncle! Kzar?”

He did not react. It was as if, in passing the cube on to Tavia, his soul had flown. She had never seen him this bad, this vacant. He seemed to have shrunk, and when she took him by the shoulders it was as if she was holding an empty figure made of paper.

She shook him. “Wake up! Please! Come back!” But he was unresponsive and made no resistance when she sat him in his chair. For a moment or two, she looked at him before frustration took over. She took a step and violently kicked the wall, her steel-tipped boot slamming into the metal with a resounding clang.

From behind her, a movement: the side door had opened.

“What was that? What’s wrong with him?” The orphan was standing there, eyes wide and unfocused. He was wearing a simple plain sleepsuit. His thumb was already back in his mouth.

Automatically, Tavia said “Don’t suck your thumb, moron! I hate it when you do that.”

Obediently, Tom Boyd lowered his arm. “What’s wrong with him?”

Immediately, Tavia snapped back. “Nothing!” Then she relented. “He’s tired, That’s all.” She looked round. “Have you seen Catman?”

Tom shook his head, then asked “Will you read to me?”

Tavia was astonished. “Read to you? Now?”

“You said you would. Yesterday. You promised.” This was true. As if sensing he was gaining an advantage, Tom repeated “You promised. You know you promised.”

“Yes. OK. Five minutes. I need to find Catman.”

“Five minutes?”

Tavia spat out her reply. “OK! Yes! Five minutes! Now - tup off!”

For a few seconds Tom didn’t move. Then, with an obvious gesture, he lifted his right arm, crooking it in front of his face to consult a large, old fashion wristwatch, which he then showed briefly to Tavia. “Five minutes.” He turned and sped off, the door closing behind him.

Tavia had turned back to Kzar when realisation struck. “That’s my watch!” She made after Tom. “That’s my tupping watch!”

But the door had been latched from the other side, and wouldn’t open. The tupping little bastard had planned this. He’d kept the watch hidden until the last minute and then had made his escape.

Furious, Tavia charged to the outer door and opened it. Catman was there, filling the space as came in.

“What’s happened?” His eyes looked over her shoulder, seeking Kzar. “Oh … tupping s**t. How long has he been like this?”

For a brief, inelegant second or two, she tried to get out while he tried to get in. But Catman was large and determined. “How long?”

Tavia stepped back. “Not long - one, two minutes.” She hovered while Catman crouched over the street boss, peering into his face. A large but gentle hand drew one of Kzar’s eyebrows upwards. The exposed eyeball rotated, showing white.

“Have you seen him like this before?” For Tavia, her watch - for the moment - had receded in importance.

“Yeah.” Catman bit his lip. “But not this bad. I’ll put him to bed, let him sleep it off.”

“You OK with him?”

“Yeah. ‘Course” Catman looked at his boss, sighed and shook his head. “Leave him to me.” He bent over and tenderly scooped Kzar up, one arm under his knees, the other round his back. Kzar’s head rested peacefully on his shoulder. As he went off, heading towards Kzar’s bedroom, Tavia heard him say “... if I were an old gent finding it hard to keep it together, I’d want a nap ….”

With Kzar being taken care of, Tavia could concentrate on other matters. The watch, the moron, that tupping little orphaned s**t!

Tavia set off. The orphan was going to be in big, big trouble.