Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

From an opening between two stands of tiers, Sirigar entered, wearing a light silken cloak that billowed out as it walked, its deep hood covering its head and antennae. Two acolyte nymphs followed, swinging burning censers.

The assembly fell silent as it strode to the centre and cast its gaze across the serried ranks of dhuyumirrii, almost as if challenging them to question its authority.

Chandar entered the amphitheatre, hobbling towards the imperious figure of Sirigar, whose presence dominated the chamber. Chandar cut a poor comparison, with its limp and its broken antennae; if the Padre had been a betting man, he’d put his money on the thoroughbred, not the nag.

Chandar had explained the nature of the debate. It would have to openly challenge Sirigar’s stance and Sirigar in turn would defend it. But debate among the Khungarrii could go on for hours, if not days, requiring not just mental but physical stamina. Statements were accompanied by stylised movements, punctuating argument and proposition, counter-argument and denial. When they were last here, the Padre heard a disparaging Jeffries compare them to dancing bees. No blows were landed, though in the far distant past perhaps it had been a more bloody affair that had become ritualised over time.

The Padre hadn’t quite appreciated what Chandar had meant until he saw it.

“Are – are they fighting?” asked Nurse Bell, dismayed.

“After a fashion,” said the Padre.

As challenger, it was Chandar’s place to begin by proposing the statement to be debated. It stepped forward in a low lunge, pushing its arm out, as if physically delivering the challenge, its blow not striking, but the proximity of the blow to the defender no doubt signalling the strength of feeling on the subject. The heel of its hand stopped inches from Sirigar’s facial plate. It seemed more oriental martial art than debate.

Shifting its centre of gravity, Sirigar stepped back gracefully, then responded, symbolically brushing aside Chandar’s opening statement with a sweep of its arm and a rapid statement of its own.

As the ritual debate progressed, there seemed to be an element of chess to it; forms of statement and response with which both debaters were practised, perhaps restating old arguments or theological positions, familiar forms of attack and response. The Padre noted that one tactic was to lure your opponent into a physically and maybe philosophically weak position while you considered your next point. Sirigar, once it discovered Chandar had been weakened by injury, forced it to maintain a stressful position. Chandar began to lose its concentration and its theological points were blocked, struck down or conceded, one after another.

Nurse Bell watched in frustration. “What is Chandar waiting for? Why does it not produce the amphora?”

“It seems to be more complicated than that. There’s a ritual formality to the proceedings. I think it has to bring the argument round to it. Sirigar seems to be countering and blocking that line of enquiry. Chandar has to find new ways to introduce the point.”

“I didn’t realise it would be like this. It shouldn’t be doing this with its injury. I thought it would just be talking.”

Sirigar was well versed in the arguments that kept it in power, and practised in deflecting challenges, but it had grown too confident. In a devastating series of attacks, it forced Chandar to recant and concede. However, it was a feint, drawing Sirigar onto ground where it was less certain in order that Chandar might bring in its new evidence. Chandar, it seemed, was more cunning than the Padre had given it credit for. Chandar was rallying, building a convincing argument-attack, batting away Sirigar’s increasingly feeble and desperate counterpoints.

From the reaction of the watching Khungarrii Shura, the Padre and Nurse Bell could see a change in fortunes as Chandar went on the attack. Sirigar fell back, apparently unable to defend his position.

“Yes!”

“What’s happening?”

“I think Chandar is about to make its point.”

Weakened by its exertions, Chandar stumbled up the steps to the ceremonial bowl, the flame guttering beneath it. It grabbed the edge of the bowl and felt inside the robe for the amphora, the Commentaries of Chitaragar, ignoring the spreading blue stain soaking through its bandage.

Sirigar, unwilling to admit defeat, cried out harshly and several scentirrii with spears stepped into the amphitheatre. Even as the scentirrii moved forward to stop it, under the caws of protest from the ranks of the Shura, Chandar poured the sacred scent text into the bowl. The scentirrii rushed the steps, seized it by the arms and dragged it to its feet.

The oil ran slowly down the curve of the bowl toward the heated centre.

Chandar was taken down the steps towards a crowing Sirigar, its arms thrown open as it gnashed its mandibles together, addressing the assembled chatts.

Unseen, the oil pooled and bubbled in the bottom of the ceremonial crucible, boiling and evaporating into the air, carrying its message up on warm currents to the domed roof, where it cooled and sank down over the gathered dhuyumirrii.

The Shura fell silent as antennae twitched, absorbing the delicate notes of the ancient aroma, as shifting layers of subtext from the long-lost scent scripture revealed themselves. The Great Corruption so feared by the Khungarrii was not the Pennines. They had been used unscrupulously by Sirigar to further its power. The danger the Commentaries forewarned against was the corruption of their own faith by those who would use it for their own ends. The tide turned against Sirigar. Here was the proof that it had tried to deny, incontrovertible and damning.

Sirigar whirled round in confusion as his support fell away, until it too sensed the top notes of the ancient commentary, warning against false dhuyumirrii, and let out a harsh venomous hiss of frustration.

“By God, I think Chandar’s done it!” said the Padre, turning round to Nurse Bell, but she was fleeing from the room. The scentirrii stood aside for her, but stopped the Padre from following.

EDITH COULD THINK only of her patient. She raced along the passages and before she realised it she had entered the amphitheatre. She barely noticed the reaction of the Shura about her as she rushed to Chandar’s side.

“Let me see,” she said to Chandar, examining the sodden bandaging.

Chandar brushed her hand aside. “Not yet.” It raised its head, looking past her. “Look,” it wheezed.

Edith looked. Around her the entire Shura was sunk on their legs, looking down at them, at her. The Queen’s scent, she realised. She had been Chandar’s final proof.

“You are blessed. Untouchable. Even Sirigar dare not move against you while you exude the Queen’s scent.”

Chandar steadied itself and addressed the Shura.

“The Shura has seen how they have been misled, and if further proof were needed that these urmen were not the Great Corruption we long feared, behold, this urman djamirrii, anointed by the Queen herself. How is that possible if they were ever such a threat? The true threat has been amongst us all this time. The Shura’s attention had been falsely turned outwards, when the real threat was within.” And it pointed at Sirigar.

Sirigar sank into a crouch. The evidence of its treachery was inescapable, permeating the very air around it.

Rhengar stepped from the shadows, and at some chemical command, the scentirrii seized Sirigar and led it away.

It was only once Chandar had the Shura’s assent and had been instated as liya-dhuyumirri, the position held by Sirigar, that it allowed Edith to escort it back to the chamber to treat its wounds once again.

“What will happen now?” she asked.

“Now? The Tohmii will uphold their end of the bargain. They have been absolved. A chemical decree has already been disseminated throughout Khungarr. This view will become the established view. This will always have been the view.”