Martin faced the eagle again and tipped his head skyward, grunting and snorting. The eagle blinked at him bemusedly. What was it waiting for – should he mime taking flight himself? If it had been a seagull he might have flailed at it with his hands to drive it off the ground, but his instincts warned against trying that on a raptor. He looked back at Javeed, whose bird was airborne now; it was straining against the harness as if the hunk of rabbit flesh just beyond its reach were a pigeon fleeing across the skies. Now there was an idea for Kavus’s next version: harness some actual living prey, and maybe take-off would proceed more smoothly.
Javeed made a guttural noise. ‘Like that, Baba!’
Martin imitated him. Nothing. He tried again, deeper in the throat, while flicking his head up encouragingly; finally, his eagle took flight, and when it reached the end of its tether it remained aloft. Maybe you had to be a native Farsi speaker for the right sound to come easily.
The three of them moved around the pavilion, unhooding the eagles and encouraging them to persist in their futile attempts to reach the lures. Martin still had the most trouble persuading his birds that they should mush like sled dogs, but Shahin and Javeed waited for him; if they’d raced ahead at their own pace that would have risked unbalancing the whole structure.
When Martin set his tenth bird in motion, the pavilion lurched and began to weave across the grass like a hovercraft with broken steering. Apparently the combined effort of thirty golden eagles – according to the game’s fanciful notion of their power – was enough to overcome the weight of the craft and its passengers; with friction all but banished, the imperfect cancellation between the horizontal thrust from the variously inclined tug-ropes was enough to send the pavilion skittering in all directions. The field was wide and there were no obstacles nearby, but the earthbound observers wisely mounted their horses and retreated further from the action.
Javeed was beaming with delight. ‘Hold on to the rods!’ Martin warned him; Javeed nodded and took hold. Martin wasn’t sure if it was entirely logical – nothing Javeed did could actually support him in his ghal’e; holding thin air wouldn’t help him stay upright when the real floor beneath his feet tilted – but it was a good habit to cultivate regardless, and it could certainly affect what the game did to his icon. Martin was feeling slightly queasy from the visual cues alone; if anything, the fact that he could feel himself lying flat on his back, motionless in the scanner, exacerbated his discomfort as his eyes told him he was zigzagging across the grass. But it was worth it just to see Javeed so happy. If the worst happened, Martin decided, Bernard would probably manage to stop him choking on his own vomit.
Kavus was standing in front of his tent, trying to appear regally composed even as he swayed like a sailor on a storm-tossed deck. His adviser, who’d wisely gripped the side of the tent, looked as sickly as Martin felt.
Shahin called out, ‘Come on, get to work! The next three together!’
Martin unhooded his eleventh eagle; it regarded the mad, sliding world around it with a look of doleful avian stoicism. ‘On the count of three,’ Shahin shouted. ‘One. Two. Three!’
Martin grunted at the bird and flicked his head. It rose from the platform, and when its tether snapped tight the pavilion’s motion suddenly became smoother. Martin peered over the edge. Before, they’d been scraping the grass, brushing against every second tussock; now they were clear of the vegetation, half a metre or so above the ground and still rising.
‘Again!’ Shahin urged them. Martin hurried to unhood the next bird. ‘One. Two. Three!’
They quickly brought the last of the eagles into play. By the time Martin had a chance to look around again they were higher than the treetops – which was lucky, because they were drifting straight towards the cypress grove.
‘The Lord of the Earth becomes Lord of the Sky!’ Kavus proclaimed modestly. ‘Ten thousand generations will not see the equal of this feat!’
‘Lord of the Earth… Lord of the Sky,’ his adviser mumbled. The poor man did not look well.
The pavilion passed over the grove, safely clear of the highest branches. Martin took a step towards Javeed, then he felt the platform tilting and retreated. Though Javeed was lighter than his two fellow bird-wranglers, Kavus and his adviser must have been far enough from the centre to help maintain the balance. But the luck – or contrivance – that had granted them a level ascent meant that any change now was risky. If they moved at all, it would have to be coordinated very carefully.
‘Try looking through the floor,’ Martin called to Javeed. Javeed glanced down, then squatted and peered through the latticework. Martin had his icon adopt the same posture, discordantly aware for a moment that his real back and knees remained unbent. He could see straight down into the treetops, and as they drifted along he spotted a small, unguarded bird’s nest with three speckled eggs, built on a forked, swaying branch. He felt a sting of resentment; however well-researched the details, there was something demeaning about seeing the natural world through so many layers of mediation – rubbing his face in his rapidly dwindling prospects of ever encountering such a thing in the wild for himself. Would he ever go hot-air ballooning with Javeed in the real world? It wasn’t beyond hope. Maybe after his transplant, if everything went well.
For now, though, this was what he had to make do with. Better to savour the details than resent them: for his own sake, for Javeed’s, for the Proxy’s.
Javeed called out to him excitedly, ‘Baba? Did you see the eggs?’
‘Yeah!’
The eagles carried them higher, and the wind – or some persistent difference in strength between the birds – drove them further across the land. The king’s estate gave way to ploughed fields, then pristine woodlands. Martin wasn’t sure exactly where in Iran they were supposed to be; Kavus was a figure out of myth, not history, and if the Shahnameh had ever named his seat of power it had slipped from Martin’s memory. It wasn’t important. Wherever they were, Javeed was ecstatic, gazing down at the landscape from the edge of their glorious, impossible contraption.
‘Baba! See the river!’
‘Yeah, it’s beautiful.’ Sunlight glistened across the silver thread. ‘Hey, see the dark spot near the bend in the river? Now it’s crossing the water-’
‘I can see it.’
‘That’s our shadow.’
Javeed looked up at him to see if he was teasing, then looked down again. ‘Ohhh!’
When they rose into a thick bank of clouds and the air turned to fog around them, everyone started laughing with delight, even Kavus and his motion-sick courtier. When they emerged, the land beneath them was hidden. They drifted through a surreal world where massive shapes that, in the distance, seemed as solid as carved white rock melted into swirling tendrils as soon as they drew near. Martin barely spoke now; he needed only to exchange a glance or a smile with Javeed to make the connection, to convey everything.
See that cloud that looks like a dog’s head?
Yes! And Baba, see the one behind it, like a nose with snot coming out one side?
They continued to ascend, and the world of giant sculptures flattened out into a blanket of torn grey fleece. Through every tear was a glimpse of the desert far below.
Then in the distance, rock punctured the blanket. The peak of a mountain broke through the clouds.
‘Mount Damavand,’ Shahin declared.