To Journey in the Year of the Tiger

by H. Leighton Dickson

  He had had no part in these discussions, naturally. It was not his arena. He had no national say. His was solely the defense of the Empress, the maintenance and training of her personal Guard. But he was familiar enough with Court politics to know there was more involved than a simple policy of national security. The Phun’Jah could easily be protected by increasing the allotment of guards and improving their supplies. An expansion of the Wall along such sweeping lines would be met with war. Dogs were fiercely territorial, even more so than cats. Cats were, in fact, innately generous - one only had to understand the terms of the Chi’Chen concessions to know this. Before you could take the Wall into the mountains, you would have to take the mountains. This, against a massive army of dogs and the innumerable swarms of rats that infested these foothills, would be no easy task.

  He let his gaze drift over the peaks now distant in the east. The land sloped and rolled and stepped and he had no doubt it had once been quite beautiful. There was the bed of what once may have been a powerful river, now dry. It was a desolate land, abandoned save garrison towns, isolated mining villages, gypsy caravans and bandits prowling the salt flats. Chancellor Ho cared for none of this. No, this was not about the Phun’Jah. This was about the Mountains. The Great Mountains. This was about strength and unity of a Kingdom known for these very things, about a people who identified themselves by the majesty of her peaks and the depths of her valleys. It was pride and it was purity and she was their Good Mother. Theirs and theirs alone.

  It was a vein of nationalism that Kirin shared, but to a degree, feared, for it led down roads he would rather not travel. It spoke of pragmatism over people, a trait he was seeing far too much in himself of late. The Scholar and the Seer had been swift to point it out. The Seer, riding two horses ahead, had lived on such roads. It had scarred him, made him barbed and defensive and hated by those in the Imperial Courts. He was seen as a compromise to order and stability and to the accepted way of things.

  Kirin, on the other hand, embodied this ideal.

  He had been proud of it too, before embarking on that fateful road to Sha’Hadin. Now he was not so confident. He had become aware of the glass.

  The Seer had been right. He could forgive Kerris, he knew he could. It had been hard for him, too. A grey lion born into a world of gold. It was remarkable and therefore marked him different in a world where difference was shunned. He had been entertained as a curiosity, no more. Tamre Ford-d’Elsbeth would never have considered a match with Kerris Wynegarde-Grey. No family with high-born daughters would. Even his own mother had pushed the marriage on Kirin as the only eligible heir, when she knew, she knew his heart belonged elsewhere.

  He grinned to himself. Another road best not traveled. Chancellor Ho probably hated him too.

  It was late in the evening he pondered these things, as torches from the towers of Sri’Gujar’Rath came into sight. A troupe of guards were awaiting them there, led by a handsome, dark-maned lion. The Captain called his own troupe to a halt.

  “Sir,” said the lion. “I am Major Lucas Roth-Dhaliwar, commander of Sri’Gujar’Rath. We have been expecting you.”

  And he executed a most formal bow, fist to cupped palm.

  Naturally, Kirin did not. “Good,” he said, swinging down from his horse. “And the parchments?”

  “All we could muster, sir. As you might imagine, there is not much call for paper here.”

  “We will take only our need. Please, have someone see to the horses. Has my brother arrived?”

  Roth-Dhaliwar exchanged glances with the leopards at his side.

  “The grey one, sidi?”

  Kirin steeled his jaw, finding the comment suddenly grating. “

  That would be him.”

  “He’s, ah, he’s in the stables, sir.”

  “In the stables. Of course.”

  “Yes sir. Actually, he’s cleaning them...”

  ***

  The legs, Fallon thought. Definitely the legs.

  Or perhaps, the pelt, buttercream and white with fine black spots, begging a lingering stroke of the fingers. Or the hair, black as night and down to the fullness of her chest, drawing the eye as it went. Or the way her body curved and arched when she moved, a hint of possibility and stealth or or just the way she moved or or or her eyes, all painted and golden and knowing, or her voice, deep and dark and breathy...

  Fallon sighed. Who knew what it was that made men look at Sherah al Shiva the way they did? She had seen it happen time and time again and could tell the immediate disjunction of self from soul when it did. It was if they were transfixed, lost in the sheer art of her. She couldn’t dismiss it, however, their base, primal, powerful reactions, for at that exact moment, she was looking at Kerris Wynegarde-Grey in precisely the same fashion.

  He was cleaning the stables.

  He was forking the last of fresh straw onto the newly-scrubbed floor. Both cloak and tunic were discarded, tossed over a cedar beam and the pelt of his chest was a glistening dark grey. She thought – with an odd, detached sort of thought – that he wasn’t nearly as broad as his brother, his musculature not nearly so defined, and his pelt not nearly so littered with battle scars. The ones she had given him, however, stood out like stripes, white tiger stripes down the length of his back. His pendants swung and snapped as he worked.

  With a deep puff of breath, the grey lion paused to wipe his brow with a forearm. He surveyed the stalls, and nodded swiftly.

  “Well, I think that’s it. Looks much better. Smells better too. Horses deserve so much better. Why don’t people understand?”

  And then he noticed her, standing at the foot of the stair.

  “Oh, hello sidala. You’re all here now, are you? It’s about time.”

  She separated from the protective cover of the stairwell.

  “Yep. We’re all here.”

  “I suppose Kirin wants me up for supper, or something. Well, tell him I’ve already eaten, thanks. I was starving.”

  He stepped over to a far wall, leaned the fork with others along the brickwork.

  “I think we’ll have to rethink our portable lunches. Soup may be tasty, but it’s nowhere near filling enough for this kind of journey.”

  Her mind was racing, thinking of all sorts of interesting and appropriate responses, but she had suddenly gone mute. It seemed important to listen now, taking in what he said, and more importantly, how.

  He had snatched a straw broom from the same wall and was now sweeping small loose flakes into the stalls.

  “So I was thinking milk-paste. We’ll need to arrange for goats somewhere along the line, or cattle, or now - wait a moment, a nursing mare. Yes, that might do it. She could come with us, wouldn’t slow us down...”

  His voice trailed off as he swept, swept, swept.

  “Milk-paste?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Yes. You dry milk into a paste, put it in a canteen with some rice or millet, add water first thing in the morning, and by mid-day, you have porridge. Not very tasty but it fills your belly for the rest of the day.”

  She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and stepped forward again. Her heart was in her throat.

  “Are you alright?”

  “What? Me? Oh yes, I always talk to myself. Not to worry.”

  “I mean, after last night, and and and this morning, I just wondered...”

  She shrugged, feeling very inadequate and young.

  “Ah, yes, well.” He looked down for a moment, then he shrugged too. “Too many vices, I suppose. They catch up with me from time to time.”

  “I, I just thought...”

  “Thanks.” He smiled at her, a different one this time, sadder, a glimpse of starshine usually hidden by sun. “Say, how’s your leg?”

  “Oh, that...” She glanced down, raised her ankle, gave it a shake. “Funny thing about legs...”

  He laughed and she flushed with pride that she had caused it.

  “Kerris!”

  They hadn’t heard the j
ingle and clop of horses and suddenly the Captain was there, leading the great Imperial stallion down the stair and into the stable. Kerris was at his side in a flash.

  “Here, let me take him. I’ve cleaned this place up, top to bottom. It wasn’t fit for a yak.”

  He caught the reins, led the horse to a large corner, pointing and shouting directions as the others filed down the stair.

  “Over there, over there, and you, ah, over there! Kirin, I’ve been thinking, we really should consider milk-paste for our mid-day rations, once we reach KhahBull. We will, of course, have to arrange for a mare...”

  And Fallon stepped back to watch it all, the shift sudden like a closing door, and she understood a great deal more than she had expected, but still nowhere near what was there.

  ***

  The meal had been bland, tasteless but filling. Root vegetables and salt pork, unsweetened green tea. It was the way of things here in Sri’Gujar’Rath and Kirin had assured Major Roth-Dhaliwar that improvements would be made in their stationing. The commander had seemed pleased at this. So now, like so many nights before, they huddled round the charcoal brazier, embers creating warm edges on everything, waiting for Solomon to arrive.

  Fallon hugged her knees to her chest and looked around. The Seer was sleeping, the Major curled at his side. It seemed that she too slept, and to Fallon, completely natural that she should. It was only when she saw a sliver of ice-blue from behind black lashes that she realized otherwise. She shook her head. The woman was relentless.

  The Alchemist slept as well and Fallon studied her face for a long time. There were no baiting airs in sleep, no place for suggestion or lure. Her lips were parted slightly, like a child’s and the tigress felt a wave of guilt wash over her. It was so easy to presume with this one, to assume and infer and to judge this mother of kittens, regardless of the circumstances of their births. She was what she was, or more likely, what life had made her. Who knew what truly lay beneath?

  Then the brothers. She shook her head again. What puzzles they were, trading strength for strength as day trades with night. Sun for moon, clouds for stars, gold for silver. It couldn’t have been easy, being who and what they were, born to privilege and duty, weights to bear whether or not they were wanted. She couldn’t fathom such a life, for either one. Double-edged swords, they were, brilliant and sharp and grave and quick. Perhaps that was it. They were, after all, twins. Two edges of the same sword. They both cut deep.

  And so they sat, the Captain, the Scholar and Kerris, around the brazier, spokes of a waiting wheel. The Captain was running an ivory comb through his long golden mane, ensuring no ripple or snag in its satin finish. With his hair down like this, he looked very young.

  “We need maps,” sighed Kerris, sitting in a ball, chin in hands. He always looked young.

  “I know. But Kerris,” Kirin looked up. “I honestly have no idea how we can get them. After KhahBull, I honestly don’t.”

  For a moment, he was not the Captain but a man, a brother, a fellow traveler on a dark road.

  Kerris chewed his bottom lip, frowning.

  “I mean, if we still go west, we have the many roads and the Wall is under construction for a very long way past KhahBull. North all the way to through Khanisthan to the Khash’phian. And from there, there is still work through Shiryia, and the Dead Lands. They are laying foundations in Aegyp, you know.”

  “But that’s south.”

  “Oh. Yes, you’re right.” He sighed again. “Well, we must know something by KhahBull.”

  The ivory comb caught in a very small tangle. The Captain glowered at it and continued to comb all the more.

  “What about Solomon?”

  “What about Solomon?”

  “Well, he seems to know something of the land. Remember how he sounded when he realized where we were?”

  “And his strange words. But Kirin,” he straightened his back as they moved well into his territory. “You can’t draw maps from hearsay. Not accurate ones.”

  “We may have no choice.”

  “And if he says, ‘Go north to the big mountains’, and meanwhile, on the way to the big mountains, there are more mountains? And you think ‘Are these the big mountains’ or are these just medium mountains and the ‘big’ mountains are even farther beyond? If so, where’s the pass? Or perhaps there’s a canyon in between? Or a lake?” He sat forward now, “Oh yes, a lake, right between us and the big mountains. Do we take the left bank or the right? Because invariably, one leads to the big mountains, and the other to the very heart of Gowrain country and we are all shish’khebabs for supper.”

  Kirin laughed softly and Fallon would have too, had she not been in deep, wheel-spinning thought.

  Kerris grew serious.

  “Why is he there, Kirin? I would very much like to know how a tiger comes to a place where even Kaidan hasn’t been.”

  Fabled Kaidan. Legend Kaidan. Kirin shrugged, grinning.

  “Perhaps Kaidan has been there. Perhaps he’s simply… forgotten?”

  At that, Kerris laughed so loudly that jolted everyone from their slumbers, even the leopards.

  “Shush,” shushed Kirin, but even he was still grinning as his brother fought for control. Fallon was grinning too, but she didn’t really know why. Something to do with Kaidan.

  “Oh my, oh my,” Kerris panted, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Now that was terribly funny, Kirin. Really, it was. Some hope for you yet.”

  The Captain nodded and the others, not particularly awake but not anymore sleepy, rolled to sit, bleary eyed and patient. She waited until it had gone very quiet again, very still, before

  Fallon cleared her throat.

  “I, I think I have an idea.”

  The Captain eyed her from under his curtain of hair. “That is why you’re here, sidala.”

  “Yes,” purred Kerris. “A Scholar in the Court of the Empress, you know.”

  She felt the heat rush into her cheeks and thankfully, the Captain seemed to notice.

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  She squeezed her knees. “Well, do you remember the night at Sri’Varna? When Sireth almost went over the Wall?”

  “Rather memorable one, that. My legs are still sore,” grinned Kerris, but the Captain had furrows on his forehead, eyes steely as he scrambled to follow.

  “It, it’s an observation I’ve made since the start, since the very first night back in the monastery.”

  At the mention of the monastery, Sireth rose and took a place by the brazier, another spoke in the wheel. The Major did likewise. Only the leopards and the Alchemist did not.

  “When Solomon comes,” Fallon went on. “He not only exists in Sireth’s soul, but in a way, in his body as well. When the cold came, Sireth froze. When the rats came, he ran. I think, for that very brief span of time, for however long they are connected, they are connected, body and soul.”

  It was there, just beyond his grasp. What the tigress was saying made sense. He knew where she was going, but she had made a leap in reasoning that he simply could not make. He was soldier, not scholar, after all. But it was there, right there, just at the edge of his reason...

  “If he does really and truly know our lands, then Solomon could draw our maps in Swisserland. There and therefore,” she inclined her head to the Seer. “Here.”

  She glanced around, suddenly afraid of the laughter that was undoubtedly coming, or the scorn or other such things as she had experienced in her short, sheltered lifetime. It was always like that at home. Her father and her sisters had smiled and patted her head, shaken their heads or laughed in outright dismissal.

  Funny though, she thought in retrospect, her mother never had.

  “Brilliant,” said the Captain. “That is brilliant, sidala. Once again, you have rescued this mission. I thank you.”

  He stood and twisted his long mane into a queue down his back.

  “Kerris, get the parchments and chalks. The good ones, the ones that last, inks and brushes. Ton
ight we find Swisserland.”

  As the lions set about their work, Fallon sat by the brazier, hugging her knees and smiling, thinking she was the happiest she had ever been in her life.

  ***

  When Solomon came that night, he was very optimistic, jovial even, and had actually asked if this had been the idea of Fallon Waterford, ‘Scholar in the Court of the Empress.’But then, as he began muttering about data bases, flash screens and global positioning beacons, political maps versus geographic ones, and a myriad of unlikely word combinations such as ‘continental drift’, his mood changed. He would need a day to access it all, for something called the ‘Tem Power Sell’ was low. He would be ready for them tomorrow night, he promised, and had mentioned his excitement at finding a ‘Hum-lan-der’ intact and operational. By the time the connection had faded, Fallon was convinced that this man was no ordinary tiger. If, she suspected deep down inside, if he was tiger at all.

  She suspected he was dog.

  That, she also suspected, would be a definite problem.

  So, on this night of little victories, she bedded down restless, trying in vain to stop her mind from wandering and spinning in darker directions. That night, in her dreams, the pheasant farm by Parnum’bah Falls was gone.

  ***

  The sky was red. Clouds stretched across it, long purple fingers covering the last glimpse of the sun as she laid her sleepy golden head on to her pillow, the Great Mountains. On a normal evening, the sight would cause the Captain to marvel and wonder and even wax philosophic if he had the time. He was such a lion. But this hour, any of these hours of late in fact, he was in no mood for marvels or wonders or philosophies. These past hours, there had been no room for sun.

  Today, they had made Roar’pundih.