In Chengwei, gender mattered. Even in the hinterlands, where women were essential to the survival of a household or village, they had no legal standing or rights. They could not own or inherit property. They had no identity beyond their father’s house, or their husband’s. Education was denied them, as was an apprenticeship in any of the multitude of craft guilds. They didn’t even have the escape of religion, though the occasional convent could be found; neither order nor community had official standing. They existed at the sufferance and whim of the local lord and could be wiped away just as easily.
As a consequence, theatrical roles regardless of sex were played by men. The great paradox in Chengwei society was that an actor could win for himself a tremendous reputation and acclaim for his ability to masquerade as a woman, whereas a woman in the same role would be considered the functional equivalent of a street-walking whore, and be treated as such. To the audience, and the public at large, Elora would present herself as a man pretending to be a woman; no one would think to look beneath the surface of that deception to discover that she was really a woman pretending to be a man, pretending to be a woman.
In Khory’s case, since her figure was comparatively lean to begin with, and her carriage wholly that of a warrior, disguising her was mainly a matter of hiding the distinctive raptor tattoo that covered the left side of her face. That turned out to be Elora’s responsibility, as she drew on the skills learned during her own apprenticeship in the forges and foundries of the Rock Nelwyns to craft a steel mask to hide them. It was wafer thin, molded to match the precise contours of Khory’s features and so artfully constructed that it fit quite comfortably, accommodating any gesture or expression. When he saw it in place, Luc-Jon laughed aloud in appreciation, predicting that it would most likely become the season’s fashion accessory of choice for those of the nobility who wished to emulate the style of the warrior castes. A shame, he mused, they couldn’t go into business for themselves; this line of adornments would probably make their fortune.
Elora hit him before Khory could, but she had to concede his point.
“When I’m done saving the world,” she commented wryly, “it’s nice to know I have a profession to fall back on.”
“Saving the world’s just the first step,” Luc-Jon said gaily. “When that’s done, you’ve still got to run it.”
Elora stared at him, aghast, as if he’d just transformed into the most venomous of serpents. She had no riposte for him; just the contemplation of his words left her speechless and shaken.
“No,” she said at last, and mainly to herself. “Never!”
The night before they parted, as Elora helped Khory make some final adjustments to her disguise, a uniform appropriated from one of the Chengwei officers at Tregare, she told them what she’d learned from Giles Horvath.
“The timing of events is no accident,” she said. “We’re on a clock, approaching a significant confluence in the patterns of energy and force that comprise the cosmos. For want of a better term, think of it as a celestial Magus Point. That’s the moment of change, when the Circles of existence realign themselves.”
“Suppose we let it pass?” Luc-Jon mused, which made Elora smile a little ruefully as she recalled how passionately Giles had argued the same position.
“Then the world as you see it is the one we’re stuck with, for an Age to come. The Deceiver won’t go away, Luc-Jon. Existence will continue as she defined it, a place of unending chaos and warfare between the peoples of each Realm, between the Realms themselves. Nothing will change, because without a new generation of dragons to bring life to the Realm of Dreams, no one will imagine a life that’s any different. Things may not get better, ever. This could be our future, till the end of time.
“Giles and the others, their conclusion was that the crucial moment would come at solstice,” Elora continued. “But the more I think about it, the less sense it makes. Solstice is the turning of the year, and the longest night—but only for us in the northern hemisphere. In the southlands, it’s the longest day. Regardless, it doesn’t matter.
“What we’re talking about is a balance. That’s the equinox, the moment when a day throughout the globe is neither short nor long. It doesn’t matter where you are, the moment applies equally throughout the Realms.”
“If you’re right—!” Luc-Jon began.
“Time is at a premium,” Khory finished, nodding in agreement. “Not months to act, but barely weeks.”
“If that’s so,” Elora hurried on, “if the Deceiver truly is some future incarnation of me, then she’s already lived through a version of this moment. That’s the whole reason for her being here, to make the outcome different. The thing is, if the Chengwei follow Horvath’s analysis, they’re aiming for solstice. If the Deceiver strikes at equinox, three months early, they won’t be ready.”
“Strikes at whom?” Luc-Jon asked. “I dinna ken what part the Chengwei play in this, how great a threat that device of theirs truly represents—but from all I’ve heard, Elora Danan, you’re the one she absolutely has to have. Strikes me, lass, she’ll move heaven an’ earth t’ lay her claim once an’ f’r all.”
Elora nodded, turtling her head between her shoulders and poking idly at the embers of their campfire with a stick. It was a realization that stalked her every hour, awake or asleep, alongside the fear that when the confrontation came between them it would be Elora who was found wanting.
“Can you be in Ch’ang-ja by the dark of the moon?” she asked Khory.
“A fortnight hence,” the warrior said. “I’ll be there.”
At the very last, as they said their good nights and so suddenly it seemed she acted on a whim, Elora unclipped one of her traveling pouches from her belt and handed it across to Khory. The warrior made no obvious outward reaction but their horses noticed the dramatic rise in tension and began to skibble on their toes, registering their own distress and anxiety by flaring their nostrils and flicking their ears back and forth in a frantic, futile attempt to pinpoint any possible threat. Khory started to rise from the fire to the picket line, but Elora beat her to it, waving back the others as she took it upon herself alone to gentle the animals. A few calming words, a stroke of the hand along their muzzle, a treat of some carrots from a farm they’d passed, and the horses gradually relaxed. Elora wished she could do the same.
When she turned back to the fire, Khory was waiting. The warrior said nothing but searched Elora’s eyes with her own, to satisfy her own concerns about this unexpected decision. All Elora could offer in return was the shallowest of nods, as she stepped around her companion and snuggled into her bedroll. Surrendering even one of her pouches proved among the hardest things Elora had ever done. Her whole life, past and future, could be found within the enchanted confines of that bag. She felt like she’d just given away a piece of herself, she felt unbalanced without a bag settled on each hip, she felt strangely…naked. Vulnerable.
She thought better of it come morning, but Khory had removed that option. Only two horses remained on the tether; the warrior and all her gear were long gone. Elora did nothing at first; she sat wrapped in cloak and blanket, staring at the space where Khory’s horse had been, debating whether or not to give chase. She was tempted, but that was all.
She had a mission of her own to accomplish.
As she had in Sandeni, Elora applied her own makeup as if her naturally silver skin were but a base coat, painting her face in broad bands of contrasting colors, scarlet and black with cadmium yellow for highlights. The effect was vaguely feline, suggesting the patterning of a Highland snow tiger, but definitely predatory. This was a face that bespoke danger.
Their production built on that initial image, presenting a hero tale involving the conquest and subjugation of a demon queen. Luc-Jon played the hero, of course, stalwart and brave and seemingly doomed from the start, like all his predecessors. Elora was the personification of the wicked seductr
ess and it made her laugh aloud to first behold and then don the appliances designed to present her as the ultimate female body. She utilized that sense of humor in her performance, creating a villainess who seduced the audience as much as her foe. She gave them much to admire about her, and to desire, so that when the depth of her evil was ultimately revealed, the audience was truly shaken. When the hero at last triumphed, over seemingly unbeatable odds, the spectators shared that cathartic moment of victory with him.
It was a good little piece and it got better with each telling.
They started down by the harbor in Freemantle and spent their first days in Ch’ang-ja wandering through that lowlife district. The boat city was even more rowdy and independent than the metropolis itself; the language of choice there, among more different sizes and colors of Daikini than Elora thought possible, was the Cascani trading tongue, in deliberate defiance of the local language laws, which refused to officially acknowledge any other speech but Chengwei.
Before they parted, Khory had provided the lead that brought them to the port, though logic would also have sent them in this direction. Interrogation of the Chengwei prisoners, and information developed during Drumheller’s and the brownies’ reconnaissance of the Chengwei camp, indicated that the sorcerers accompanying the invading army all hailed from the Ch’ang-ja Chapter House of their orders.
On the face of it, that wasn’t so unusual. Magic was woven inextricably through the heart and soul of Imperial life. Every city of significance was patron to an order of wizards. However, during the decade and more since the Cataclysm, the finest occult minds in the Empire had been gathering in Ch’ang-ja. Magical sects that had been at each other’s throats for generations set aside those differences and began pooling knowledge and resources toward a common goal so secret that it was death to mention it aloud. Even in Freemantle, where thumbing noses at authority was second nature, references were circumspect. The work had intensified tremendously over the years since Elora’s abortive Ascension; that expansion was the primary cause of the weakening of the security strictures. Too many people knew something was going on, and the more forbidden the topic, the greater the tendency to talk about it, even if only to repeat the most recent and outrageous rumor.
“A baker’s dozen chapter houses, thirteen in all, monasteries, abbeys, call ’em what’cha will,” grunted Baghwan Saltai, the rogue who was their patron for the evening. He guzzled another mug of grog, a rough-and-ready rum that he preferred topped off with a mix of heady island spices. Elora was in awe of the retired pirate’s capacity; one sip left the young woman gasping, the entire glassful turned her brain to mist. She believed she was in control of her wits but virtually everything he said, and she said in response, was accompanied by a bout of laughter, as if their conversation were a running succession of brilliantly funny jokes. He didn’t seem to mind. She prayed she wouldn’t be sick.
“That’s what’s been built here lately. Couple of ’em, belike to sprung up overnight an’ that’s no error.”
Hailing from the sea as he did, he was more comfortable speaking Cascani than his native tongue. That was one of the reasons Elora focused her attention on him, as opposed to the other Freemantle ganglords, since that trader’s language was the first she’d learned after leaving Angwyn. He controlled a fair stretch of territory along the waterfront, but she also noticed that his vessels appeared surprisingly seaworthy, compared with most of the other boats that comprised the floating city. To the casual glance, the untrained eye, Saltai’s ships were as derelict as the rest but they rode too well at anchor and their slovenly appearance didn’t seem to extend beneath the waterline. It made her wonder, in a pinch, how quickly they could clear the harbor. And also why Saltai felt the need to be ready to do so.
“Like attracts like,” Luc-Jon observed. He held his liquor much better than Elora but sounded far worse.
“Phauggh! Got two tigers, they look alike. Might even be related. You don’t bunk ’em in trees right next to one another. Each to their own range, that’s the way of things. Trespass at’cher own risk, fight to the death to protect it. Damnable wizards ain’t no different. Most cities, towns, whatever, they’re home to one house, pledged to one sect. Don’t tolerate rivals an’ interlopers, no way, nohow. Ch’ang-ja, it’s got the University, an’ the Gate of Peace t’ keep folks polite, got by with as I recall now three, it was. An’ they guarded this turf more fiercely than any tiger, I’ll tell you that straight! Twenty years back, maybe twenty-five, fourth house tried to open. Had the Khagan’s blessing an’ all, an’ our Khan’s tacit support in the bargain. Built themselves a lovely temple, they did. Dint even last the night. Come the sunrise, no sign of the building, no sign of the priests.”
“Now everybody’s friends,” Luc-Jon toasted with a hiccup that rolled into a basso burp.
“Wonders, they’ll never cease.”
Much later, after Saltai finally collapsed amidst the detritus of a truly sumptuous feast—for all his rough-and-tumble ways he served a most excellent table, again reminding Elora of the difference between perception and reality, in others as much as herself—Elora made her way to the forepeak of his ship. She’d taken time to make the chieftain more comfortable on his pillows, avoiding a beery embrace in the process, and then tidy up the remains of dinner.
Most of the bigger ships in Freemantle were built for cargo, favoring capacity over speed. Saltai’s craft was much sleeker. It could carry a decent load but its strengths were in its swiftness and maneuverability. Ideal, she thought, for a pirate. Moreover, the others were mainly coastal cruisers, who in their working lives would never venture out of sight of land. Saltai’s ship was designed to only visit harbors; her home was the deep blue of the open ocean, and there was a roguish solidity in the vessel that would likely see her safely through any storm.
The view from the bow was dominated by the nearest of the twelve barrier islands, Sagat, rising like a pillar straight up from the water, with only a modest leeward beach to provide access. There were structures visible on the island, perched on ledges with the daring tenacity of mountain goats and just as little means of obvious support. It had been home to a merchant of the city, until he and his family were summarily evicted some months back by the latest of the sorcerer sects to come to town. To hear Saltai tell it, in the time since, buildings grew on those impossible slopes like warts and were about as attractive to his eye. The merchant appealed his case to the Khan and was imprisoned for his trouble. The fortunate members of his family disappeared into Freemantle, given refuge by the merchant’s customers and business partners. The rest found themselves on the auction block, sold into slavery to pay off debts and fines that popped up out of nowhere. It was a clear and unmistakable message. The wizards had the full support of the Khan, and beyond him the Khagan; what they wanted, they got.
“Another object lesson,” Elora muttered when the story was done.
“Might makes right,” agreed Luc-Jon. “There is a rule of law in Chengwei, but the law that ultimately rules is the Khagan’s will. Not so bad a thing, I’ll wager most folks argue, when the Emperor knows his business. Mercy save them from one that doesn’t.”
A flash of emerald light rolled along the base of a mass of clouds that had stalled a little ways inland. A minute later, a similar flash lit them again, only this time the light was golden. This was the Bayan beacon, its lenses making a complete revolution every two stately minutes, with unvarying precision. Green, then gold; green, then gold, so mariners and travelers could tell it from a purely natural phenomenon.
“You have to admire their skill with machines,” Luc-Jon noted.
“Coming from a citizen of Sandeni, that’s rare praise.”
“We’re pretty good ourselves, in our way, dinna get me wrong. But no one in the world—I’d say no one in the Great Realms entire, on either side of the Veil—can match their ability with clockwork gears. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase
true as a Chengwei timepiece?”
“As trusted as the word of a Cascani trader,” she concurred, for the latter was considered coin of the realm throughout the Daikini Realm and in many Domains beyond the Veil as well.
“It’s a big city.”
“Can’t argue that. I’ve never seen the like.”
“We’ve been here nearly a week, Elora, we’ve barely scratched the surface. We c’d be forever tryin’ to find Drumheller. I mean, it’s no’ as if we can walk up to the wee doors of the various chapter houses and ask if they’re the ones holding him prisoner.”
“Won’t have to.”
“You’re sure o’ that.”
“Actually, yes.”
“You can track him?”
“I could use my InSight, yes. I’ve considered it, melding my awareness with some bird or animal or insect or other and go scouting. Or reach out to Thorn himself.” She drew up her legs and hugged them close, wedging herself into the fork of the bow as if she suddenly didn’t trust the solidity of the deck beneath her or the calm anchorage that supported the boat.
“But there’s something about this place, this city. I know you see wonders, Luc-Jon, but to me…it’s like claws scraping down a chalkboard. It’s all fragments, held together by I don’t know what, as if the very fabric of the buildings—the stones and mortar themselves—actively hate the structures they composed. How is it Thorn described me? As a beacon? Magically, I shine more brightly than the Bayan lighthouse; that’s partly why the firedrakes come when I call. I’m the only mortal form they’ve ever encountered they can perceive on a par with themselves. My energy’s a match for theirs. Worse, I’m unique. If I use any of my talents, if I call on any of the powers I’ve befriended, every adept in the city will know it.”
Shadow Star Page 34
