by Duncan, Dave
Archives frowned at his wine goblet.
No! No! No! Silky leaped to his feet and fled.
One word would do it: “Wait!” or “Stop!” But no such word came before he hauled the door open, entered, and slammed it behind him. There was no sign of Verdant as he tore across the room and out into the courtyard beyond. She and Watersprite were sitting on a bench there, and they looked up in terror at his urgent arrival. They both tried to rise, but Verdant was hampered by her condition. Watersprite sprang in front of her to defend her.
“I didn’t tell her!” Verdant shouted. “She guessed and gave me instructions.”
Silky relaxed, and laughed with relief. “Then I am not obliged to kill you!” He nudged Watersprite aside and sat down to hug his wife gently and kiss her fiercely.
“It worked?” Watersprite asked.
“It’s working,” he said. “What did you use?”
“Midnight Blue.”
A few drops in the bottom of a metal beaker would not be noticed, and Midnight Blue was very fast-acting.
“I daren’t do it sooner,” Watersprite said. “I had to wait until he let his guard down, or he might have switched drinks on you.”
“He did do that, several times, but not tonight, thank Heaven. He was about to order me to—” But Archives hadn’t issued those orders, just said he was going to.
“I’ll check on how he’s doing,” Watersprite said, and sauntered off.
Silky stole another kiss and murmured in joy. He had misjudged his ancestors. They played jokes, but they weren’t cruel in the end.
Verdant said, “Oops!”
He looked at her, eye very close to eye. “Something starting?”
“Maybe. Nothing may come of it. The sooner the better. Get the little nuisance out of there.”
Watersprite opened the door and looked out. “Hey, boss— Give me a hand putting out the garbage?”
“I am forbidden to harm him,” Silky said, but he followed her out to the balcony.
Brother Archives wasn’t dead yet and was still writhing in agony. Watersprite had gagged him so he was he unable to utter orders.
“He is in terrible pain,” she said. “I don’t think putting him out of his misery would count as harming, would it?” She caught hold of the victim’s ankles.
“Let me ask.” Silky bent over the dying man. “Would you like us to end the pain, My Lord? Mm? I’ll take that spasm as a nod.”
Silky gripped his wrists. One … two … three … and the former Master of Archives was on his way to the Fifth World. Or would be when he landed.
Silky kissed Watersprite. “Thanks. Celebrate tonight?” Verdant was currently not available for what he had in mind.
“It’s traditional after an outing, isn’t it? What do we say when we’re asked where Pearl White 11 is?”
“Who?”
“My Lord?” said a male voice. It was Chariot Driver’s turn to peer out. “Three horsemen are coming up the hill.”
It was almost dark; no one should have been allowed past the check point after sunset. More trouble!
“I’ll be right there,” Silky said.
By the time he reached the upper gate, the night guard was in place. The day guard from the lower gate had been relieved and was on its way up, following the three unknowns. Torches had been lit.
The visitors were already so close to the top that all he could see of them were their hats. Their horses were weary, and their saddlebags slim. Why had they been allowed in? They might be Gray Brothers who had given the recognition signal. Not likely three Goat Haven herders trapped outside when the earthquake closed the path—that had been six months ago, and none of the three was riding like a professional horseman.
Silky watched as they dismounted and his waiting stable hands took charge of the mounts, but he was still puzzled. One man was elderly and should therefore be the leader, yet he stood back in the shadows. His companions were both young enough to be his grandsons—one tall, one short.
“I am Prince Silk Hand. Identify yourselves.”
It was the short one who limped forward into the torchlight. “My name is Sunlight,” he said.
“So?”
The boy smiled. “This time around.”
Recognition struck like a thunderclap.
“Urfather?” Silky sank to his knees, and all the guards and hands hurriedly did the same.
Was this yet more ancestors’ trickery? Was Goat Haven once again going to be snatched out of Silky’s hands? One thing was certain: The entire workforce would obey a mere hint from the Firstborn before any orders Silky uttered. If that puny, fragile youth denounced him as a fraud—not a lord, just a Gray Helper helping himself—then he would be following Brother Archives to the Fifth World before you could say “bounce.”
And the Firstborn had a curious twinkle in his eye whenever he glanced at his host, as if he could read him like a scroll. Perhaps he looked at everyone that way.
The visitors had been provided with the best available guest quarters, with wash water, towels, clean clothes. And then food, the best available, which was rice, squash, and fresh carp from the fishpond. They ate in Silky’s office, hastily refurnished as a private dining room. The youngster called Mouse ate as a man of his age should—with zest and speed, as if he were close to starvation. The Firstborn and the scholar Shard Gingko just nibbled by comparison.
Verdant dropped in briefly to make her excuses for not being a better hostess. The men all rose in respect, which was a surprise in the Fortress Hills.
“You are certainly pardoned, my lady,” the Firstborn said. “My blessings on you and your daughter.” He glanced momentarily at Silky, eyes twinkling again.
Silky was not to be baited. “I will forgive her for a daughter this time, Ancient One. We already have a boy child, who is temporarily absent.”
Shard Gingko congratulated Silky on the wine. But a meal could not last forever. Even the boy called Mouse had to be filled eventually. Then to business?
“May I assume that you are come to these parts to witness the opening of the Portal, Urfather?” The Year of the Firebird would not even begin for three full months and would last twelve, or even thirteen, if Court Astrologer in Sublime Mountain decreed a Cuckoo Moon for the year.
“That is my hope. I have never seen it do so.”
Never? This from a man who could remember lives all the way back to the invention of people? Who had met everybody’s ancestors, spoken with half the Emperors, and all the great teachers?
“But,” the boy added, “we will not impose on your hospitality that long. We have just come from a very pleasant stay with your neighbor, Knifeblade 5, the Lord of High Vista.”
Mouse glanced at old Shard Gingko and smothered a grin.
Silky said, “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the noble lord.”
The Firstborn nodded slightly, as if confirming something. “Do not pine for the experience. The last time I came by here, Goat Haven was ruled by Sky Hammer 3.”
That statement was a question, and Silky’s intestines had all knotted into a tiny brick inside him. “A long time ago, then.”
“Certainly.”
“Sky Hammer 7 and his son, Sky Rider, both perished in the recent earthquake. I belong to a, um, cadet branch of the family.”
The Firstborn laughed, and poured himself more wine. “Shard, dear friend, you are out on your feet, or would be if you stood up. Mouse, you can’t possibly stay awake much longer after that banquet you just downed. Why don’t you both take your leave of our host? He and I have some matters to discuss.”
Silky excused them, of course. Shard looked relieved and Mouse piqued, but they both rose obediently and departed.
As the door closed, Silky sat back to hear his fate.
“Your accent tells me you are originall
y from Wedlock.”
“Yes, Ancient One.”
“The Sky Hammer 1 was a barbarian raider, you know that? He took this place by treachery, then threw every man and boy over the cliff edge. He kept the women.”
Silky said, “Oh?” and suddenly relaxed.
The Firstborn was leaning back, wearing a very boyish grin. “So whatever you did to steal this place, Gray Brother, you weren’t that bad. Tell me about it.”
How did he know Silky was a Helper? “The whole gory mess?”
“Every scarlet drop.”
The story took a long time and sounded even worse than Silky had expected it to, but he held back nothing, even that Sky Rider just might have survived if the earthquake had not been given some help. His audience of one said not a word until he came to the end.
“Gruesome! But that’s one of the best stories I’ve heard in centuries. So who holds your leash?”
Startled, Silky said, “You know a lot about us, Ancient One.”
“The Gray Brothers are not as old as I am, but we have tangled often enough over the centuries. Who holds your leash?”
“The Abbot of Wedlock died in the earthquake. His second…” Silky told of that day’s execution of the former Brother Archives. And still the Firstborn did not denounce him as a monster.
“The lion defending his kill?”
“Um … I suppose so, Ancient One.”
“Is there anyone left who has a better claim to Goat Haven than you?”
Silky had admitted so much that a little more matter could not matter much. “Sky Rider had three sons. The oldest’s about ten or so.”
“And what did you do to them?”
“The eldest, Musket, tried to challenge me. I scared him silly and threatened to flog him if he ever said anything like that again. He’s still around. He’ll be asleep right now, of course, but tomorrow you can—”
“Good for you,” the Firstborn said. “Not prudent, but pleasing to the ear.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” Silky could break this kid’s neck in an instant and tell him to come back in a thousand years and try the Portal again. Regrettably, the Urfather’s disappearance would lead to a lot more questions than Brother Archives’s had.
“Nothing,” the Firstborn said simply. “This is how it works, here in the Fortress Hills. The Emperor claims to rule, but he keeps his army posted well back from the Great Valley, you notice—at Cherish. The Fortress Hills are well named, not just because of their shape. Many of them, like Goat Haven or High Vista, are giant castles, and pay only lip service to the Golden Throne. Their rulers do not tolerate Outlander raiders, either.”
Silky said, “Oh.” Not being a soldier, he hadn’t seen that.
“In the Fortress Hills, the strongest always rule, so you have every right to keep what you’ve won.” The Firstborn smiled. “I won’t betray your confidence, but I may ask a small favor of you in a few days. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed, and you had better go and comfort your wife, because she’s just begun labor.”
Chapter 20
Back in the spring, when Fair Visions had joined up with his uncle Bamboo’s army, it had been an awesome force, a tide of angry warriors marching north, dedicated to overthrowing the obscene rule of a woman and putting its leader on the Golden Throne.
That had been then. Now was the start of Falling Leaf Moon, and not only trees were shedding. The Bamboo Banner had shrunk and also scattered. Small groups spread out to scour the countryside in search of food. The yang ration had been cut to almost nothing, and men fought over every scrap, murdered their cadre leaders for it, and sometimes stole it out of the mouths of the corpses. Men went suddenly mad, wandering around in homicidal stupors, screaming their rage at the skies. Hungry men catch fevers easily. The army left a trail of unburied bodies behind it, and not only its own dead, for now it was more dangerous than it had been in the days when it was disciplined. Back then, it had always demanded food, but any place or person that gave generously to the cause had been left in peace. Now every hovel and larder was looted bare. Not a chicken or dog was spared.
Now it was heading roughly north again, along the awesome and aptly named Great Valley, channeled between the peaks of the Western Wall on one hand and the lesser Fortress Hills on the other. A turgid, swampy river flowed southward along the Great Valley, and contained some evil-tasting fish. There was little else to eat anywhere, and winter crept closer every night.
Fair Visions stayed very close to his uncle, because he felt less endangered there, although by no means safe. Bamboo traveled on a litter within a personal bodyguard of about a hundred top warriors, now led by Silent, that egregious maniac. These elite received a pittance of yang, and so were hated by all the rest. Not safe, no, because one day the outsiders would fall upon the insiders, and the revolution would implode in blood.
Bamboo himself was even crazier than he had been, but at least he rarely spoke now, so his madness was less obvious. He lay in his litter like a ball of warm lard, staring at the invisible, pondering the meaningless. He was unwashed and repulsive. At night, he slept in the curtained litter, still within his protective bubble of guards and a pentagram of bonfires, so that no one could sneak up on him. Fair Visions stayed close to the leader’s snores, warmed by one of the bonfires. All around him lay the army, its galaxy of tiny fires gradually winking out as the fuel was consumed.
He longed to escape, and dared not even think about it. Everyone knew who he was. He was so resented as Bamboo’s nephew and toady that he would not even make it out of the encampment before being stabbed or clubbed so that his corpse could be searched for yang.
But then, as daylight gave way to another long moonlit night, a distant sound of hooves on hard ground roused the guards around Bamboo. The dying fires to the north brightened as their embers were stirred. Torches were approaching. Shivering, Fair Visions sat up, pulling his blanket around him—by day it was his cloak, and much envied. He had foreseen the change of season before most others did, and had thought to pillage some warmer wear from a wrecked village.
Silent shouted orders, and the guards came alert, ready to withstand attack. Now it was not just a few horses coming; they were being followed by an angry growling like the noise of surf on a stony beach. It could be only the sound of hunger, for horses were edible. The newcomers might soon find themselves forcibly dismounted and their mounts slaughtered by the starving horde that was closing in around them.
Six horses, six riders.
As they reined in, Fair Visions scrambled to his feet and backed up against Bamboo’s litter, while the guards closed in to form a wall of muscle around it. He recognized the leader of the newcomers as Ominous Scroll, a youthful ex-scholar who had been a member of Bamboo’s short-lived advisory council.
“We bring news!” Ominous bellowed. “The Empress Mother is dead!”
For a moment, there was no reaction. For months, they had fought and endured for the sole purpose of dethroning the unnatural she-dog who had usurped the Golden Throne. Then a long roar that slowly died into its own echo, coming back from the mountains.
“And the Emperor himself is leading his army against us!”
This announcement was greeted by a rumble as it was spread out through the army.
“He lies!” That was the voice of Bamboo himself. He had hauled the draperies open, and was sitting up, his eyes wide and crazy in the firelight.
“I do not lie!” Ominous Scroll bellowed. “We heard the news from everybody. The she-dragon is dead and her son the Emperor leads his army even now into the Great Valley.”
Tumult.
Fair Visions thought of guns. The army would certainly have guns, probably cavalry. The Bamboo Banner was mostly armed with clubs. The men were starving, maddened by the yang craving. This, surely, was the end.
Silent had a war horn and b
lew a long blast to call for silence.
“This cannot be!” Bamboo declaimed. “Absolute Purity died years ago. I am the rightful heir. Whoever leads that army is an imposter.”
Fair Visions saw a tiny chink of hope and went for it.
“Then send me to denounce him, Bamboo! Send me and others you can trust to go and investigate this army and bring back the truth. We will proclaim the rightful heir.”
It was insane. Why should Bamboo ever trust him to return? Or anyone? And yet Ominous Scroll and his companions had returned. Whoever was leading that army, Emperor or imposter, would surely move to block the few passes leading out of this gigantic ditch—and very probably had already done so. The revolution was trapped.
“Go then!” Bamboo yelled. “You and Ominous Scroll, go and find this fake Emperor. Silent, go with them and keep them honest.”
He fell back on his cushions, exhausted. Silent closed the drapes on him and turned to leer his ill-fitting teeth at Fair Visions 3.
“Ready?” he said.
Chapter 21
Shard Gingko wiped his brush and paused in his writing so that he could admire the scenery again. He had found a sheltered nook just outside the main hall, a paved path that ended at a ramshackle, obviously temporary, wall on the very brink of the cliff. It must have originally led to some building that the earthquake had removed. A servant had brought a chair out for him, and he had been trying to describe the view of the Western Wall. It was breathtaking, quite beyond his literary powers. He wondered what artist, even, could ever have done it justice? Agate Shining, perhaps?
A shadow moved into the edge of his view, and Mouse squatted down by his side. The private part of Shard’s mind briefly sighed for the days when his joints had moved so easily.
“Heaven bless,” he said quietly, although he regretted having his meditation interrupted.
“And you likewise, Master. You prefer Goat Haven to High Vista?” Mouse had developed a quietly mocking smile exactly like the Firstborn’s.
