Five Odd Honors

by Jane Lindskold

  “You were dead by then,” Loyal Wind said with the callousness of one to whom death is not anything but a change of address.

  “I was,” Nine Ducks agreed, “for many years, but my good Hua continued to make offerings to my spirit not only at the New Year and on Ching Ming, but weekly. I heard the family news in great detail until Hua’s death.”

  Loyal Wind nodded. He knew the difficulties that had followed Hua, and the part her treatment had played in the dissolution of purpose among the Thirteen Orphans, but his thoughts were on present problems.

  “So this bitter Tiger has decided to act against us,” he said. “I am glad I asked you what to expect. Despite my glimpse of Thundering Heaven when I was tracking the Monkey, I think I expected to meet with the young man I had known before my death.”

  “But now you will not?”

  “Now,” Loyal Wind said, thinking himself garbed in armor and with his favorite weapons near to hand, “I will go prepared to deal with an angry Tiger, one who would gladly eat even his own young.”

  “And I will go with you,” Nine Ducks said, rising from her chair and shaking out the skirts of her golden-yellow robes. “I may be an old Ox, but my horns are still sharp, and I have not forgotten how to gore.”

  When she came out of the office, Brenda heard the clash of sword against staff and knew Pearl and Riprap were still hard at practice.

  Brenda knew she wasn’t much of a fighter. Her inclination was to believe physical violence should be a last resort, but recent events had told her the only thing likely to come from that attitude was her own injury or death—or worse, the injury or death of someone she failed to help in time.

  I wonder if Des wants to practice?

  Des Lee, however, had gone out on one of his mysterious errands. Nissa was available, and when she learned what Brenda intended she put down the book of Chinese mythology she’d been studying and sprang to her feet.

  There were times Brenda tended to forget that Nissa Nita was only three or so years older than she was. Their lives had been so different, what with Nissa becoming pregnant when she was about Brenda’s age, that Brenda always thought of Nissa as a lot older.

  Today, however, as Nissa almost ran to join her, Brenda realized that they could have been in the same college classes, if Nissa had maybe had some requirement to take or Brenda had been taking a higher-level elective.

  “Where’s Lani?” Brenda asked automatically.

  “With Des. He’s going to drop her at Joanne’s for a singing lesson, then pick her up on his way back. What kind of practice did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I wasn’t completely happy with how I handled the bracelets there at the end of the Tiger’s Road,” Brenda said, referring to the conflict in which Pearl’s hand might not have been broken if Brenda had been better prepared.

  “You did better than I did,” Nissa said. “I never even got into the fight. I wasn’t even there to help the wounded, like I was supposed to.”

  “So we both could use some practice,” Brenda said. “I don’t think anyone would complain if we expended some bracelets. We could even practice with dummies, just to get the moves right.”

  “I’m for it.” Nissa moved to a window. “Pearl and Riprap are slowing down. I bet they’ll be quitting soon. Why don’t we go out and use the patio?”

  Ten minutes later found them out on the brick-surfaced patio beneath the shade of a ramada overgrown with grapevines heavy with several varieties of grapes.

  Riprap was seated in one of the chairs in the shade, alternating between sipping from a tall tumbler of water and mopping sweat off his face.

  “Pearl is in a mood,” he said. “Man, did she ever push—off-hand made no difference. If I’d closed my eyes, I would have thought I was fighting Flying Claw.”

  Given that Flying Claw was in his early twenties and in perfect physical condition, this said a lot.

  Nissa grinned. “If you’d closed your eyes while fighting either one of them, you’d have been flat on your butt, fellow. Now, Brenda and I came out here to practice. Are you going to let us get on with it?”

  “I’ll just sit here in the shade, ma’am,” Riprap said, drawling his words like a cowboy in an old western, “and admire your technique.”

  Brenda grimaced, but there was no sense in asking Riprap to leave. The man was not only their fellow student, but he had spent years as a coach. If he had anything to say about their technique, it would likely be useful. The two women ignored him, and took places across the patio from each other.

  Brenda and Nissa had brought out an assortment of amulet bracelets. These resembled nothing so much as fourteen mah-jong tiles strung together with elastic into rather chunky bracelets.

  Resemblance was deceptive. Unlike the jewelry they resembled, these tiles were made from polymer clay, each tile shaped by hand and carefully etched with the various symbols: bamboo, dots, characters, winds, and dragons. When created with appropriate concentration, the tiles stored within them a single spell that could be released upon the destruction of the bracelet.

  There had been a time when Brenda, exhausted from the expenditure of both ch’i and concentration that went into each bracelet, had tried to envision willingly destroying her handiwork. That reluctance had vanished the first time one of those stored spells had intervened between her and danger. Now she broke the amulets willingly, and longed for the days when she could summon and direct ch’i without the need for an intermediary.

  “Nissa,” Brenda began, “you said you wanted to work on getting your defenses up fast. Why don’t we start there?”

  In reply, Nissa lightly touched her left wrist where an amulet bracelet rested.

  “I’m waiting.”

  Brenda reached behind her back and came out with a Japanese bokken, a sword-shaped piece of polished wood, that she had stuffed in her belt when Nissa wasn’t looking.

  “You can’t wait,” Brenda said, drawing and coming at Nissa, the bokken upraised to strike.

  Brenda had no skill with a sword, but the bokken was well balanced and felt natural in her hand. She’d had ample opportunity to watch real swordplay over the last couple of months, and came at Nissa as if she knew what she was doing.

  Her act wouldn’t have fooled a real fencer, but it flustered Nissa. She fumbled at her wrist for the bracelet, but hadn’t slammed it down to summon the protective spell within before Brenda had brought the bokken against her waist.

  Brenda pulled the stroke so that the polished wood only touched Nissa’s side.

  “Damn!” Nissa swore softly. “That would have been right through me. Step back and come at me again.”

  “Right.” Brenda skipped back several paces. Then, again without warning, she charged forward.

  This time Nissa did much better. She hooked the amulet bracelet with the fingers of her right hand and threw it down hard against the bricks. The polymer clay tiles exploded into dust. Brenda felt the ch’i released into the surroundings. She didn’t pause, but continued her charge, bringing the “blade” of the bokken in at Nissa’s head.

  Nissa ducked, but Brenda had been ready for this and adjusted her blow on a downward slant. This time she didn’t pull her stroke, and the bokken hit against the Dragon’s Tail spell Nissa had released.

  The sensation was rather like hitting a punching bag. The surface Brenda struck against yielded, but not much. Brenda yelped as the force of her own strike reverberated up her arms.

  Over on the side, Riprap laughed, although not in the least unkindly.

  “Stings, doesn’t it? You don’t get the same bounce if you’re using an edged weapon, but still you feel the resistance.”

  Riprap rose, and came over to join them.

  “Nissa, you shouldn’t have ducked. That’s a waste of motion. The Dragon’s Tail is wrapped around you, and you’re pretty safe unless your opponent is using something like fire or gas or liquid poison. You knew Brenda just had that bokken. You should have been working on your countermov
e.”

  “But it’s hard to strike out of a Dragon’s Tail,” Nissa protested. “What could I do?”

  “A counter spell. Dragon’s Breath, for example. Or you could have turned tail and run. A Dragon’s Tail blocks, but it doesn’t leave you immune to, say, having a net tossed over you.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt Breni,” Nissa said. “She doesn’t have a protective spell up.”

  “You could have mimed tossing another bracelet,” Riprap said relentlessly. “Go through the routine again. This time trust that Brenda’s bokken is going to get nowhere near your pretty head.”

  Nissa stuck her tongue out at him, but she followed instructions. So did Brenda.

  They’d worked up a sweat to match Riprap’s own by the time Nissa’s Dragon’s Tail gave up beneath repeated pummels and they decided to call it quits.

  As they headed inside, Brenda glanced up. She caught a glimpse of Pearl standing at the window, looking out. Brenda waved, but Pearl did not respond. Clearly, she was seeing nothing present, and Brenda was very glad.

  Pearl’s expression had been very fierce.

  “Thundering Heaven!” Loyal Wind yelled. “Come forth. I would speak with you.”

  His challenge bugled across the open field, but only its echo from the rocks of the Tiger’s cave came as reply.

  “Field” was something of a misnomer, for the area at whose farther edge the Horse stood was nothing but hard-packed dirt. A field, yes, but a killing field whose only crop was the promise of death.

  Loyal Wind called again, more loudly.

  “Go away!” came an answering shout. “You’re not the one I wish to see.”

  The voice sounded hollow, but did not reverberate from the rock. Spoken from within the cave, then.

  A dark shadow stood against the grey of the rock face. Standing within that shadow . . . Yes. A darker figure, man-shaped, holding fear within its outline.

  Had Loyal Wind been other than himself, he might have backed away, but Loyal Wind had faced more than his own death. He had confronted and admitted his own shameful part in that death. Fear had little power over him.

  He stepped out into the killing field, muttering a charm that would keep him safe in case the creature within decided to launch a missile attack. Such preventative measures did not indicate that he feared—or so Loyal Wind told himself—but doubt whispered beneath his breastbone.

  “Thundering Heaven,” Loyal Wind repeated, and tried to keep the note of challenge from his voice. “Come forth. I want to ask you a question.”

  The dark shape of fear took a step forward and, illuminated in the harsh, directionless light that hung over the killing field, became Thundering Heaven.

  He was older than when last Loyal Wind had seen him: a man in his prime, strong, heavily muscled, yet lithe and graceful, powerful, as a tiger given human form must be. Thundering Heaven’s jet-black hair was caught up in a knot near the nape of his neck. He was clad in a green tunic over green trousers, the fabric dyed so dark a hue that his clothing showed as muddy black except where the light hit them.

  Thundering Heaven’s features were handsome, although, coarsened by age and exposure, they no longer held the heart-stopping masculine beauty that made his great-nephew, Flying Claw, seem more like a work of art come to life than a living man. Yet the resemblance between them could still be seen. Loyal Wind understood how Pearl Bright could have caught a glimpse of the one and known the nature of the other.

  “You have a question for me,” Thundering Heaven said, stopping in his advance as soon as he was out into full light. “Ask then.”

  “I have traced Bent Bamboo, the Monkey, here,” Loyal Wind said. “I have news for him—good news. Steps are being taken to finally end our exile.”

  “But you need his help to achieve this admirable goal,” Thundering Heaven sneered. “Don’t ask how I know. I do. Living and dead must join forces if this exile is to end soon enough to benefit those who—in all justice—should be viewed as our enemies.”

  “They are not enemies,” Loyal Wind said. “Peace has been made between us, peace confirmed by loyalty when confronted by considerable danger. Surely we, who have been exiles ourselves, understand the desire to return home. Moreover, the exile will not end only for them. Our new allies have sworn that upon their return they will rescind our sentence. All will be as we wished.”

  “Will it?” Thundering Heaven asked the question first as one who meditates over a philosophical conundrum. Then he repeated it with mockery in his voice. “Will it? They promise, but can they keep their promise?”

  “I believe they will,” Loyal Wind said.

  “But why should I?” Thundering Heaven smiled a very unkind smile. “Ah, what I believe does not interest you. You do not want my assistance. You came here not for me, but for Bent Bamboo, the Monkey, who is my guest.”

  “Guest?” Loyal Wind asked. “Then why does Bent Bamboo not come forward to speak to me? We were once comrades.”

  “Perhaps he does not wish to speak to a comrade who betrayed him,” Thundering Heaven said slyly.

  But Loyal Wind was beyond where such comments could sting him.

  “If so, then bring Bent Bamboo forth so that I may apologize. When my apologies are made, I will explain to him what has happened in the world of the living, and how, with his aid, all can be right again.”

  “I have already told him,” Thundering Heaven said. “And I now come to tell you that Bent Bamboo is not interested in your proposition.”

  “Let me ask him myself!” Loyal Wind replied, not bothering to keep the note of challenge from his voice. “Let me hear his answer.”

  But Thundering Heaven replied as if he had not heard.

  “Bent Bamboo is not interested in your proposition unless . . .”

  He paused, drawing out the words, but Loyal Wind did not think that what Thundering Heaven had to say would surprise him. He met the other’s gaze and found madness glittering like flaws in broken obsidian.

  “. . . Unless the offer is made to both of us. Then Bent Bamboo will sever the tie that binds his neglectful heir to the Monkey and take on the mantle again. And, since dead can serve your needs as easily as can the living, Pearl will renounce her scandalous connection to the Tiger. Then I will take up my rightful place among the Twelve.”

  “Pearl Bright is the Tiger,” Loyal Wind said. “Proven and confirmed in that role by Pai Hu, the White Tiger of the West, himself. She has not forgotten her place nor neglected her training as my own heir has done. We do not—”

  He bit off the hasty words, but Thundering Heaven finished them with a slow, ugly grin.

  “You do not need me. You have a Tiger—two Tigers if one includes our enemy turned ally, Flying Claw. What you need is a Monkey, but I have the Monkey.”

  “Then Bent Bamboo is your prisoner!”

  “He is my guest. I assure you. He does not wish to see you.”

  “Only because you have poisoned his thoughts.”

  But Loyal Wind doubted that this was completely true. Bent Bamboo had been the least interested of all the Twelve in returning to the Lands, just as Copper Gong, the Ram, had been the most driven by her yearning to return. Thundering Heaven had picked his target well. Perhaps Bent Bamboo truly didn’t care about rescinding their exile.

  No. Loyal Wind refused to believe that. From what the others had told him,

  Bent Bamboo had changed near the end of his life. He had been a good father to his young heir, but . . .

  Thundering Heaven was speaking. “Surely if honoring promises made to enemies—and I am struck by the peculiarity of making promises to a defeated foe—means so much to Pearl, then she will be happy to assist in any way possible. Bring her my message. If she is loyal to your goal of reopening a way into the Lands, soon you will have both the original Monkey and the original Tiger to speed your plans to fruition.”

  “Let me talk with Bent Bamboo,” Loyal Wind countered. “Let me hear his support of this plan from his o
wn lips.”

  “Are you saying you don’t trust me?” Thundering Heaven taunted. “Yet you trust others not nearly so worthy. Leave your emotional assessments out of the matter. Who would serve your purpose better? Surely not an old woman who is well past her prime, who was tutored in an attenuated version of the lore of the Lands, and who, until recently, never used her skills either with sword or spell in combat.

  “Why would you prefer her to me? I have seen war. I have fought in personal combat. I know the Lands and belong to them as Pearl never could. Moreover, I have shed the restrictions of a living body. If I so choose, I can be anything I was in life.”

  Loyal Wind found himself almost persuaded. What Thundering Heaven said did make sense. Perhaps Bent Bamboo, the Monkey, who had not had Loyal Wind’s opportunity to know and appreciate the strengths and versatility of the living Orphans, might indeed have been persuaded to back Thundering Heaven.

  But then why does Bent Bamboo himself not come forth and tell me? Loyal Wind thought. Monkeys have never been known for holding their chatter. If Bent Bamboo truly is Thundering Heaven’s ally, then he should be at the Tiger’s side.

  Therefore, Bent Bamboo is a prisoner, not an ally. If I can but free the Monkey, defeat Thundering Heaven, then all will be as we desire.

  Without allowing time for further consideration, lest Thundering Heaven read his changed resolve in the lines of his body, Loyal Wind advanced.

  “I must see Bent Bamboo for myself,” he said, “and assure myself that he is free and cooperating with you voluntarily. If he is, I will accept my defeat, but if he is a prisoner, I owe him—”

  “As he is my guest,” Thundering Heaven retorted, drawing a blade he had not been wearing a moment before, “I owe him privacy within my home.”

  The sword was not Treaty, the blade Thundering Heaven had created, for that sword had not died with its owner, but had been inherited by Pearl. Loyal Wind felt a moment of gratitude for this, for Treaty had a strange way of awakening when binding agreements were threatened. If Thundering Heaven and Bent Bamboo had indeed made a pact . . .