Portal of a Thousand Worlds

by Duncan, Dave

  The Bamboo Banner was heading to Heart of the World, of course, to dethrone the she-dragon and appease Heaven’s anger, but it was going to be a very long journey.

  Man Valor’s torment in the Silent Cadre ended one baking hot noon in Lotus Moon. The men had eaten and were standing in line, eagerly waiting for their midday yang leaf.

  “Spit!” Silent said. They all spat. But then he stopped unwrapping the packet, leaving them with their mouths open and juices flowing. He smiled. His smiles were very rare and usually meant trouble for someone. “Duteous, Man Valor, Spring Tide … You three have completed the course, wait here. The rest of you, fill your canteens at the spring, then run to the top of that hill and bring back a pebble. Last man in will take them all back again.”

  He unwrapped the yang and began feeding the salivating mouths. That trek would be grueling in the noon heat. The army was in arid country now, and the wind carried dust that stung a man’s eyes, gritted in his teeth, and threatened to skin him. The cadre took their leaves and dashed away.

  Poor devils! Man Valor chewed his leaf happily. He eyed the other two, wondering which was Duteous and which Spring Tide. They were eyeing him, no doubt, for similar reasons.

  As Silent threw away the banana leaf, he looked up at Man Valor. “Three moons ago, you said you had questions. Do you still?”

  Man Valor shook his head.

  “You may speak if you have anything to say. Do you?”

  “Yes, Leader.”

  “Say it.”

  “I have wanted to smash you every day for three months.”

  Silent showed his garden-rake teeth. “You had plenty of chances. You want to try now?”

  “No, Leader. You would smash me. Thank you for showing me what a leader should be.” Duteous, or possibly Spring Tide, clapped Man Valor’s shoulder to show that he approved of what had been said.

  For the first time since Man Valor had met him, Silent looked pleased. “You always had the brawn. I hoped I could give you some sense, and maybe I have. These two,” he gestured at the others, “had too much of that. I tried to knock some brains out of them.”

  “They still have enough sense not to risk speaking before you give them leave, leader,” Man Valor said. The other two grinned.

  Silent did not. “So I see. Come and be proven.” He spun on his heel and ran. His pupils followed.

  There were three provings. The first came a few days after a nobody enlisted, when he had to show that he could withstand two blows from a staff, one across his chest and the other on his back, in the exact exercise that Leaping Serpent and Chestnut River had demonstrated for Man Valor in Face to the Sun. There were ways of standing the impacts, and the rest of the troop would have taught him those tricks if they approved of him. There were also ways in which his leader could strike him that seemed deadly but would not seriously hurt even a nobody, and ways that would look the same but cripple anyone except a patriot of the second proving. His leader must be able to administer the one he wanted, and Silent had taught his cadre how they would do this when they led their own cadres. Thus a promising nobody became a patriot of the first proving; all others were sent home with a couple of broken ribs. NOT sticks nor stones. …

  The second proving was made with a blade and was much more dangerous. Silent had given his students very careful instruction, for men who failed it died. The exact ritual was essential.

  Three days after leaving Face to the Sun, Chestnut River had raised Nobody Man Valor to patriot. Leaping Serpent had promoted him to second proving. Today, he must risk all in the third proving, the grimmest of all, and he must do it for himself. Swords and shot can hurt me NOT. …

  Man Valor felt that he had earned the honor and had no doubt at all that he would survive the proving. As they ran through the camp, he savored the thought of a Man Valor Cadre. It had a nice ring to it.

  The Pearl Army was growing. Now it had wagons, to carry its stock of weapons and siege equipment, and also tents, although those were not needed yet. It had horses to pull the wagons and all the harness and paraphernalia that livestock required. No doubt the other armies were growing too. The she-dragon must know her days were numbered and must tremble on her stolen throne.

  There were several thousand men lined up around the stony hollow, standing with arms folded. Because they were almost never still—even waiting in line to have their rice bowls filled they would run in place—they were showing that they could do so to perfection, standing like statues with only the dangling ends of their headbands fluttering.

  A narrow passage had been left open, and Silent led his little troop to the open center. They took their place at the front of the crowd and bowed hastily to Bamboo himself, who sat on a throne at the far side. Man Valor had seen him twice at a distance and soon would speak to him face-to-face! He was obviously the most powerful man in the Good Land now—the she-dragon had no army to match his—but he refused any honor beyond a bow. He said there would be time enough for his men to kowtow to him after they had put him on the Golden Throne, or so the cadre leaders reported.

  Second provings were already under way, with a man standing in the center, holding a sword, and Man Valor was delighted to recognize him as his old cadre leader, Leaping Serpent. That seemed like a very good omen for his own third-knot promotion. The candidate trotting out to him was Radiant Duty, one of the nothings who had served on the Golden Aspect raid.

  Man Valor knew from his own proving that Leaping Serpent would perform the ritual perfectly, but he could watch it now with an eye trained by Silent. As the candidate approached, Leaping Serpent extended the long, slightly curved, sword at arm’s length. Radiant Duty walked straight to it until the point was just touching the end of his nose. Leaping Serpent raised his arm and the blade vertically.

  Radiant Duty took off his headband and held it straight out in front of him with both hands, as if offering it. The next move was tricky, because although the patriots were invulnerable in battle, they could suffer minor accidents just as nobodies could, and a proving sword was as sharp as a razor. If the two men misjudged, the candidate’s nose would be sliced in half. Very slowly, Leaping Serpent brought the sword down. Radiant Duty did not flinch as the point went by his face and the blade passed between his outstretched hands. It went through the headband like smoke. He flickered a faint smile as a drop of blood fell from the end of his nose, nicked to perfection. That would have been his own doing, an imperceptible move of his head, and a slight scar there was much admired.

  He spread his arms out to the side, a fragment of ribbon in each hand. Leaping Serpent raised the sword again, took one step forward, and attacked, slashing down at Radiant Duty’s right arm. Had his victim not been a patriot, that brutal stroke would certainly have amputated the limb just below the shoulder, but his arm repelled the sword. It moved under the impact, of course, and he obviously felt the blow, because he winced, but he did not fall apart, nor even bleed. Instantly, Leaping Serpent swung again, another flash of steel, this time at Radiant’s left forearm, and again the arm recoiled from the impact but was not severed.

  Radiant Duty waved both fists overhead in triumph. The onlookers bellowed, “Hiya!” the salute to a new second-knot. The roar echoed back from the scabby hills. Leaping Serpent produced a fresh headband and tied it on the beaming patriot. He had one more ribbon dangling from his belt, and another man came trotting out to be proven, a man Man Valor did not know.

  Then another cadre leader, with four ribbons trailing from his belt, trotted out to replace Leaping Serpent. Man Valor took a few minutes to remember his own second proving, and the two narrow bruises he had sustained. They had hurt, and his arms had turned beautiful colors all the way to his wrists afterward, but he had known from then on that he was invulnerable to mortal attack. Leaping Serpent had told his cadre that their provings were only to convince themselves. The rest of the world must learn in battle. />
  As the cheer went up for the fourth candidate, Man Valor could not resist a sideways glance to see how many more seconds were waiting. There were no more seconds, and two men with guns were marching in from that direction. Silent scowled at him.

  “If you’re so impatient, Man Valor, you can go first.”

  Without a word, Man Valor ordered his feet to move. His heart was beating faster than usual, the whole parade glittering for him with the glory of yang. He was to win a third knot! He was going to speak with Bamboo and see the great man up close.

  He trotted across the space to the throne. Under its canopy, Bamboo was the only man shaded from the sun, but his face was as dusty as any other man’s, and streaked with shiny rivulets of sweat. He wore only what his men wore—baggy unbleached trousers and a headband. His ribbon was golden instead of green; that was all. There were streaks of silver in his hair and trailing mustache, and his musculature was that of a mature man, but his thickness was not flab. He was obviously still fit and strong. Bamboo was of pure Gentle People stock, descended from Emperors of the Tenth Dynasty, before the Outlanders came. He was rumored to be more than a century old, but seemed no more than fifty.

  “Bamboo, I am Man Valor of the Silent Cadre of the Pearl Army.”

  “You have sworn to fight for me, Patriot?”

  “I have, Bamboo.”

  “But will you obey other orders? If I judge that some lackey of the she-dragon deserves to have his head chopped off, will you do the chopping?”

  “I will obey orders, Bamboo.”

  “If I decree that he ought to be impaled, will you swing the hammer to drive in the spike?”

  “I will obey orders, Bamboo.”

  “Will you die for me?”

  “If I must.”

  “Go and prove it.” The great man held out a hand. Man Valor removed his headband and gave it to him. Then he spun around and walked away. Any man who turned his back on an Emperor would die horribly, but Bamboo refused such honors from his warriors.

  The two riflemen were standing at ease, guns at their side. A third man was waiting with a paint bucket, and it was to him that Man Valor went, and to him that he gave the first order: “Paint a target on my chest.”

  The youth smiled as he dipped his brush in the bucket. “Plenty of room for it,” he whispered. He dabbed the brush over Man Valor’s heart, then drew a circle around it with two quick strokes.

  Man Valor did not look down at the artwork. He walked over to the sharpshooters. They were not grinning. They must know that men sometimes died in this proving; perhaps they had shot a few themselves.

  “Firing squad, attention! Prepare to shoot me.”

  They went down on one knee apiece.

  “Load.”

  Each produced a cartridge, inserted it in the breech, and closed the bolt.

  Man Valor spun around and walked away. Not too far, but not too close, either, Silent had warned. The rifles could kill him as easily at ten paces as at five, and if he stood closer than five, the impacts might knock him flat on his back, which would be a very evil omen; men would not want to serve under him. A stagger was all right. One, two, three, four, five paces. Turn.

  Sun and sweat and the wind stroking his hair. Life was very sweet. Thousands of eyes on him alone.

  “Aim!”

  The riflemen raised the butts to their shoulders and peered along the barrels. Man Valor was looking at two gun muzzles. They seemed enormous, like cannons, and much, much too close. He had forgotten to allow for the length of the barrels, so he was probably less than five paces away. Too late to do anything about that, though. It was permissible to wait a moment, Silent had warned, but more than a moment was exhibitionism or cowardice. Neither cowards nor exhibitionists would be trusted with a cadre.

  “Fire!”

  Man Valor had never been hit so hard in his life. He stumbled back about three paces, arms wheeling. Even through the yang glow, it hurt! He had not expected pain. But his heart was still beating and there was some blood on his chest, which was also good. Had the audience shouted, “Hiya!” already? He had missed it.

  “Firing squad, at ease.”

  He marched back to Bamboo and bowed. The great man smiled and nodded. “Well done, Man Valor. I have never seen a third proving done better. You honor both your ancestors and your own name.” He tied one more knot in Man Valor’s headband and handed it back.

  Chapter 13

  “Snow in Harvest Moon again?” the Empress Mother glared out the window with her gaudily painted face pulled into a grotesquerie. “I do not know what the weather is coming to!” The few uncertain flakes drifting around had so far failed to make any difference to the golden roofs of Heart of the World. Perhaps they melted before they got down that far.

  “Alas, Honored Mother, I fear this blizzard may impede Supreme Guardian’s progress.” Butterfly Sword kept a straight face for the benefit of the listening eunuchs. A great ceremony in the Hall of Celestial Peace had just adjourned. After two hours solemnly playing statue on the Golden Throne, he wanted to vault on a horse and go for a long gallop in the Game Park, leaving his cavalry escort frantically straggling far behind. Or perhaps swim in his personal lake with one of his concubines. The water would still be warm and the snow was nothing. That was the joke—after months of nagging and a myriad excuses, Supreme Guardian had finally been forced into action, setting off at the head of the Imperial Army to suppress the Bamboo Revolt. His commission had just been given to him in the name of, and under the eye of, the Emperor.

  “It doesn’t take much,” the Empress Mother agreed knowingly. Emperor Absolute Purity was being seen in public more often these days, and it had become a tradition that he have tea with his mother afterward to discuss the business done. And mock the participants. Mimicry was a skill the Gray Helpers encouraged and one at which Butterfly Sword had always excelled. He delighted the old she-dragon with his imitations of her chief ministers, especially ancient First Mandarin.

  The servants backed out of earshot, bowing. Butterfly Sword had questions to ask. Possibly he would provoke a temper storm, but he had resolved that today he would persist and risk her wrath.

  The two coconspirators in high treason against the dynasty had come to share a strange, and very tenuous, friendship. He was a fraud, she a vicious killer. The harem was the center of all the palace gossip and Snow Lily passed it on to him, so he knew now that few Gray Sisters or Brothers could have equaled the Empress Mother’s murder tally. She was a tyrant and a usurper, autocrat of the Good Land for nigh on a generation, and yet he could see for himself that the loneliness of power sat heavily on her aging shoulders. There was something almost pathetic in the way she had adopted her spurious child as a confidant, sharing secrets with him and wallowing in his flattery. He was the son she should have had, and she could not see him as a threat to her power. She took a prurient interest in his bedroom labors.

  Novice Horse had always gotten along well with people just by being his own convivial, unflappable, and genuinely friendly self. Brother Butterfly Sword, recognizing that his life hung by a thread, had easily learned how to play toady and flatterer for the Empress Mother. She soaked up adulation, no matter how thickly he spread it. Night soil makes crops grow.

  “Well, you have done your duty by Snow Lily and Devotion and, er …”

  “Sweet Melody.”

  “Yes. The others don’t inspire you?”

  “They wear me out, they are all so desperate to please. Lack of success is not for lack of effort, Honored Mother.”

  “Possibly you need more variety.” She displayed wrinkles in a satisfied smirk. “We will tell Chief Eunuch to round up some more virgins for you. How do you like them—plump, skinny, cultured, stupid … ?”

  He found it hard to remember that the crone had started out as a concubine herself. He knew he was eccentric in seeing
women as more than mere breeding stock, but that was because of his upbringing. Almost alone among the Gentle People, the Gray Brothers treated women as equals, because they knew that the Gray Sisters were at least as good as they were in the magic of seeming, at least as deadly with knife or potion, and could often beat them at unarmed combat, too. Novice Horse had learned that lesson from sassing Sister Lotus, his anatomy instructor, at about age fifteen. Lotus had been at least twice his age and half his size, but she had taken him to the wrestling gym and thrown him around the floor until he was so bruised he looked like a bunch of grapes. A month or so later, she had rewarded his improved attitude by ordering him into her bed and humbling him there also.

  “Congenial,” he said. “I don’t want my seraglio to be a permanent cat fight. Let the Pearl Concubine make the final choice.” Seeing the Empress Mother starting to bristle, as she did whenever he showed any trace of disagreeing with her wishes, he quickly added, “She has to live with them all day. If I don’t like their looks, I can just blow out the lamp and tell them to be quiet.”

  She chuckled. “So you can, dear boy! So you can.”

  So he was her dear boy today. “Honored Mother, I am deeply troubled by so many reports of famine and floods, and yet First Mandarin never seems to take any action. Can you do nothing to ease the lot of the peasants?”

  She hissed like a serpent and her eyes glittered. “You expect me to stop floods?”

  “No, Your Majesty. But cannot you order food moved into the areas where people are starving?”