The Shifu Cloth (The Chronicles of Eirie 4)

by Prue Batten

  Hate me if you must but I felt you had the right to know. I beg only that you won’t hate my son by consequence.

  Underneath the bald words, his father had scrawled an ‘F’, simply and without flourish.

  Nicholas closed his eyes. A father so newly found and now he was a mere speck of dirt to be ground under Nicholas’s heel.

  Does he think it makes it better that he craves Poli doesn’t include me in the inevitable disgust and distrust? What is a father to a son who can’t admire him? What is a father who must be hated? Better I grew up with Phelim and with honour and valour.

  He stood up, folding the detestable note and walking to Poli’s side. The man’s face was calm in sleep, a faintly upward tilt to the lips, as if he dreamed good dreams and was happy in the journey he had undertaken.

  Nicholas pressed the packet between his palms.

  I can’t give him this. What good will it do? Bring back memories that should lie buried? Inform him that my father was his father’s murderer?

  His heart pounded against his chest wall.

  Let him know that I am my father’s son?

  He walked back to the other side of the fire.

  I can’t. I like him. Against all the odds, this is the first person I’ve met since Isabella’s kidnapping who could be a kindred spirit. If I’m to find Isabella, I want him by my side.

  He held his hand out over the coals as if he warmed the frigid ache that spread through his body. An ache of which he thought he had rid himself the minute he and Poli had decided that ‘North by Northwest’ meant something. He dropped the packet into the heat, guilt assailing him from all sides.

  I need him with me.

  The edges of the packet curled and glowed and then a small flame jumped up as if life had entered the packet; another and another until the flames sparkled and spat. Nicholas grabbed another branch and placed it on the fire, encouraging the flame until there was nothing of the packet remaining but flakes of charcoal. It occurred to him as he watched it burn, that he was incinerating the last chance he would ever have to know his father.

  Or to want to know him.

  ‘A difficult thing to do, Nicholas.’

  He turned at the sound of her voice. Behind him stood the Moonlady in her diamente and midnight glory.

  ‘What choice did I have?’ he mindspoke.

  ‘One that only you could make. It was perhaps a foolish thing your father did. He may think it assuages the guilt that has plagued him but in truth it does little. I shall say to you what was said to him at that awful time. It may have been Poli’s father’s mortal bane to die and in that way. It is always unfortunate when a mortal is caught in an Other’s game, and Finnian was disturbed and at odds with life at the time. The one saving grace is that he grew up. He stopped being self-indulgent and developed a conscience. Despite what you may think, Nicholas, he did become an honourable man whom you could admire.’

  ‘But at someone-else’s terrible expense.’

  ‘True. For which Finnian has suffered greatly and pays even after life for him has ended. Poli’s father on the other hand, lives in the Afterlife knowing he himself was a kind man who did the best he could do for everyone. And let us be realistic, if things had not gone the way they did and Poli’s father still lived, do you think the young Poli would have become the owner of a shipyard? Or that in the end the two of you might still have met? Think on that for a moment.’

  ‘I can never forgive my father.’

  Nicholas felt a spark of disgust being fanned by a chill wind.

  ‘You will learn forgiveness in your time, Nicholas. It is part of your journey.’

  She moved close by him and he breathed in the fragrance of a never-ending floral garden and she touched his arm so that a frisson tingled.

  ‘Hard times are to come. Do not be diverted by anything but truth.’ She chuckled, a small sound filled with poignancy. ‘And yet,’ she pointed at the fire, ‘there is the conundrum. You had a truth in your hands tonight. Shall you tell him?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘That is your decision. Take care, my Nicholas, and remember truth.’

  She kissed his cheek, a feather-light touch and was gone.

  *

  My decision? Then I shall not. If I ever see my father again, I shall wear my decision with honesty which was more than he did when he played a ‘game’ as he called it.

  He closed his eyes. All the most bitter feelings toward his parents, in particular his father, surfaced tenfold. Only now there was a reversal. In the past it was the bitterness of perceived rejection. Now it was the bitterness brought of being the rejector. And worst of all, it tainted what he had hoped would be an honest relationship with Poli. Now he felt a compunction to live a lie and even more, to protect Poli with his life, because it was the very least he could do.

  It didn’t matter the Moonlady had said his father grew to become an honourable man who could be admired. He sighed and lay down by the fire, wrapping himself in a blanket and frayed dreams, but sleep took him quickly and he knew nothing more.

  He woke to the smell of something cooking on the fire. A pottage simmered and he sniffed gratefully before the last night’s event flooded into his consciousness. He pushed himself up onto an elbow and looked for Poli, finding him cutting the hard bread cakes they had packed as they left Veniche. Nicholas levered himself to stand, determined to push away the memories of last night.

  ‘Oh, awake are you? Man, do you snore! I swear you woke me a dozen times.’ Poli stirred the pot. ‘What do you think of my pottage? In that last village, while you were with the smithy, I went walking. Found a plot with no one around and with turnips and potatoes, and even carrots and some parsley and so I pulled some of each. It was a fertile little patch and even when I pulled the stuff, one would never know. The turnips may be a bit odd, it’s the wrong time of year, but better than nothing. But it’s a small pottage, Nicholas, I have to make everything last.’

  He ladled some of the broth into a mug and passed it over with a piece of the hard cake. Nicholas nodded his thanks, dropped the bread in to soften it and put the mug on the ground, running his fingers through his hair to pull it to daytime order.

  Poli sat beside him.

  ‘Nicholas, pardon this question, but how Færan are you? The reason I ask is that we have little food left and no idea how long it will be before we find more. I ask because if you could mesmer…’

  What a question, as if we passed the time of day about whether I was half Venichese, half Pymm.

  Nicholas pointed to his chest and scoffed in reply, lifting the dripping bread to take a bite. It tasted better than he thought.

  Pepper or something, that’s what he’s added.

  He pointed at it and smacked his lips. Touching his tongue and lifting his shoulders, he posed the question. Poli came right back with the answer, as he knew he would. This business of almost reading his thoughts.

  If only.

  ‘Ground pepper-berries and a little garlic. But Nico…Other?’

  Nicholas grabbed a paper scrap and the charcoal.

  ‘Don’t know, never tried.’

  ‘Incredible. Half Other and never did. Phelim’s experiences certainly had their effect, didn’t they? Ah well, can you have a go?’

  ‘Now?’

  Nicholas squirmed as he wrote and Poli obviously noticed.

  ‘Think on it. We have enough food for a couple of light days but then we might be in a little trouble. And speaking of trouble, I gathered we would need silver to protect ourselves. Or at least I would. What about you?’

  ‘Cannot touch silver, have never been able to,’ Nicholas scrawled.

  ‘Really? Now that bodes well, I think. Look, I have silver – a knife.’ He dragged it out and it glistened in the dawn light. ‘I grabbed it from the table at the Ca’ Specchio as we ran from your Færan friends. The real Ca’ Specchio, I mean, the one which is in my world.’

  Even a little distance from Nicholas and without
touching it, a cruel heat emanated and he moved back.

  ‘Huh, it’s that bad?’ said Poli. ‘Well, I think you may be more Other than you suspect and if I were you, I would think on it a significant amount before we get to the Vale.’

  With that Poli dabbed at the last of the soup in his mug, chewed the bread as he stood and then began to clean and pack their miniscule supplies in his saddlebags.

  Nicholas dipped his mug in the little stream close by, drank and then packed it and his share of the hard cake in his own bags. He filled a costrel for each of them and then began to saddle his horse, and all the while Poli sang a soft sea shanty and clicked at his horse as he belted the girth. It was a good sound, an affirming sound.

  This is why I burned the letter. A good sound.

  *

  ‘You know Nicholas,’ said Poli as they climbed into the rocky foothills of the west Goti Range, ‘I do wish you could speak. I get sick of the sound of my own voice. Although I tell you, the more I’m with you, the more I’m learning to read your nuances. A twist in your lips or shoulder, whatever. Sometimes it’s uncanny how I know what you’re thinking. Have you noticed?’

  Nicholas smiled without looking at Poli, he knew the man was watching.

  Well then, friend, tell me what I am thinking about right now.

  ‘You dirty devil! Is she pretty?’

  Nicholas dropped his reins and turned to Poli in shock. Poli said nothing immediately, just lifted one eyebrow cockily and shrugged one shoulder, but then he continued.

  ‘How handy it would be if I could read your mind even more. That one was simple, it’s a look men get. And now that you are over the surprise that I am a little more intuitive than you thought, I hope you’ll think about mesmers.’

  Nicholas grunted.

  I have been and I wish Phelim was close by right now to show me.

  ‘It’s a pity Phelim wasn’t a little more assiduous in parts of your education, but how hard can it be?’

  I don’t know till I try and I won’t try with you watching.

  ‘Look.’ Poli pointed up. ‘It’s beginning to cool with all those clouds. Mesmer a breeze so that we may have sunshine again.’

  Eventually however, he lapsed into quiet as the horses began to strain on the incline, the riders needing to concentrate on the terrain, keeping clear of shale and loose ground. Nicholas’s horse shook its head and snorted as a wasp buzzed around and then again as the persistent insect landed close to the beast’s ear.

  If it stings the horse, we’re both going to slide down the gully…

  He lifted his fingers off the reins and in a secretive gesture, he moved them in a small sweep, his mind fixed on the task in hand. The wasp fell from the horse’s ear onto the mane, and then onto the ground where a hoof squashed it flat. Nicholas sucked in his breath. He looked ahead but Poli was a length in front and clicking at his horse as he guided him carefully. Nicholas tried again, another glissade of his palm and as they rounded a corner on their journey, a small breeze lifted the horse’s forelock, brushing Nicholas’s face and smoothing out his surreptitious joy.

  ‘Damn,’ called Poli. ‘A gully draft, not the kind of cloud-clearing breeze I hoped for. Aine, it’s chilly.’

  As well you can’t see my face, Poli.

  Their horses were strong, pulling them up the first inclines rapidly, so that by late afternoon, they were able to look down on the plains they had traversed. Nicholas could barely believe they had been on the road for ten days, so quickly had the time passed, and yet it seemed as if they crawled like caterpillars across the vast expanse of country to North by Northwest.

  They had reached a pass that reminded Nicholas of a bottle. Rounded and scooped out in the bottom where they rode, but narrowing overhead, affording only a small glimpse of the clouds and the spasmodic light that had accompanied them thus far. The place was cold and unwelcoming with air that cut through their fingers. The horses’ hoof beats echoed as they moved and Nicholas looked back as it sounded as if they were followed.

  But nothing stepped on their heels and all else was silence.

  ‘I’m not happy, Nicholas,’ Poli dug into his belt where lay the silver dagger. Nicholas ran a hand back and forth at the side of his neck and Poli asked, ‘Welkin wind? I feel it too. I think we should back off out of here. It’s late in the day and I have a feeling we are on the road into the Vale. Now’s not the time. What think you?’

  Nicholas nodded and wheeled his horse about. Poli rode up next to him and whispered.

  ‘I say we get out fast.’

  He kicked his horse into a canter and with a scattering of crushed stone they pelted out of the pass, hissing and invective following close behind.

  *

  Back in the open they stared back at the apparently harmless entrance. Around them order was restored. The odd mountain finch chirruped, crickets whirred in clumps of dry rabbit brush, mountain broom and viburnum. High above, the ubiquitous kites of the Goti shrieked and swooped on the updrafts. The sky was wrapped in white gauze cloud, the edges of which were tinged with the pink of approaching dusk. The air smelt clear and smacked of cold but there was no sign of anything eldritch. Poli dismounted and held tight to his horse’s reins.

  Looking up at Nicholas who remained mounted, he spoke.

  ‘That pass is filled with malign glamour. What now?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Isabella.

  She paced back and forth, her boots clipping on the floor each time she stepped off the thick rug. Finally she stood at the window, staring at the view across the lake. Small lanterns bobbed in the trees and every now and then, she could hear the tinkling of a bell, realising that the Imperial Gardens held tree-song throughout. Thrusting aside impatience, she listened.

  It was indeed sublime.

  But there was something else.

  The sound of a muffled sob like a sigh on the wind, barely there.

  Again.

  She leaned out over the balcony and could see nothing in the dark, casting her gaze wider.

  There, under the elm. There is someone there…

  She hastened down the steps of the balcony and onto the white gravel of the path, moving quietly, ever conscious of that dictum: Step like a feather falling, breath like a zephyr.

  She moved behind a massive rhododendron, a scented one they called Fragrantissima in other places, and listened to the sobs; someone tried hard to conceal themselves and yet their plight reduced them to this.

  She peeked through the leaves and flowers and could make out a woman in dark robes. She sobbed into the quilting of her sleeves, her head bowed, her dark hair knotted above a slender white neck.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  Isabella stepped into the open and the woman sprang up, her head turning. She tried to take a step away, but lurched into the elm’s trunk.

  ‘Careful.’ Isabella took her arm. ‘We are not animals that can see in the dark.’

  The woman stood with her head bowed.

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘Come now; tell me why you cry. Can I help you?’

  The woman backed away, her hands falling behind as she reached for the trunk of the elm, feeling it, sliding her feet around it.

  ‘It is best you leave me, my lady.’

  ‘But why? I can see you are distressed. Come with me to where it is warm and I can help you…’

  Isabella…time ticks on.

  ‘My Lady Ibo, you have your own plans for which you must be ready. Leave me.’

  Isabella froze.

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though I have been in the palace for only a few hours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Isabella looked closely at the woman as she spoke – noticed her gaze was a little to the left of where Isabella stood.

  ‘You are blind.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how can you know I am the Lady Ibo.’

  The woman’s hands twisted together.
/>
  ‘Please Lady Ibo, leave me.’

  ‘No, I shall not. Something of this sounds awry and you must tell me.’

  The woman’s breath dragged in as if she stifled another sob and Isabella softened.

  ‘Come to my apartments, they are not far and we can speak privately. Give me your hand.’

  The woman reluctantly allowed her hand to be taken, a soft hand with long graceful fingers, not the kind of hand that would normally protrude from the sleeves of an indigo robe.

  ‘There are steps…’ Isabella slowed as the woman’s feet felt for each stair and then they were inside, the panels slid shut, and seats taken on the far side of the room away from the balcony where ears would not be able to hear nor eyes to see.

  The woman was beautiful; pure skin, evenly delicate features, ebony hair that glistened in its depths with all the colours of the world. Her eyes, even sightless, were a wonder – dark and almond shaped, framed by perfectly shaped arcs.

  ‘Lady Ibo,’ she said with diffidence. ‘You have two hours before dawn, less than two hours before you must meet the Son at the stables…’

  ‘Then we must get to the bottom of this immediately. Who are you and how do you know what I do?’

  This time there was no prevarication. The woman spoke quietly and without emotion.

  ‘I am Chi Nü. I am a weaver. The reason I know about you is that I am a Celestial…’

  Isabella’s breath sucked in, her mouth forming an ‘o’.

  ‘I have been cursed with blindness and have been relegated to the world of mortals because I neglected my tasks of weaving the Celestials’ robes, spending too much time watching mortals and how they lived their lives. My fascination caused vexation, which led to a punishment it was felt fitted my crime.’

  ‘But that’s barbarous…’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is what they did, my fellow Celestials.’ A bitter note crept into her soft voice. ‘I am placed in the Han as a blind woman where…’

  ‘Where anyone who is disabled in any way is disposed of.’

  ‘So it would seem…’