Swallowtail & Sword: The Scholar's Book of Story & Song (Tails from the Upper Kingdom 4)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  The compound was quiet and he looked around for a glimpse of parrot or crow, smiled again at the thought. She had chased them all away, his Na’rang. She was a fierce hunter but more than that, she was bossy and hated sharing her sky with others. There would be no bird larger than a bee-eater in the skies above Sri’kirath while she was there.

  As he made his way down the steps, he spied a jaguar tied to a stake in the middle of the compound. The lynx Tiberius was kneeling next to him, holding a cup to the parched mouth and Petrus could see water spill out the sides. That did not deter the lynx and Petrus could hear him speaking softly in Hanyin. A good man, he thought. He would make sure there was a future for him at Sha’Hadin.

  He crossed the compound to the hut with the yellow roof. Once again, a soldier met him at the door, this time a panther. The golden eyes flicked to the tray and back again.

  “Sahidi,” said the panther. “Is there something I may help you with?”

  “I wish to visit my friend in the quiet cell,” he said.

  “The Major has left instructions not to let anyone in. Governor Dasgupta-Carr is expected later today.”

  “All the more reason to visit him now.”

  And he moved forward but the panther blocked him.

  “Forgive me, sahidi, but I must follow my orders.”

  “Young brother,” said Petrus. “Is your concern for this food? I intend to eat it in the cell but later in the morning. I am old and my stomach is small. I have no intention of sharing it with the prisoner.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “And if Governor Dasgupta-Carr is indeed arriving today, I would like to take this last chance to say goodbye to my friend. My my, your eyes are the same colour as the Empress’ new kitten. And your pelt as well. She is as black as a winter night and so beautiful. I was there last year when she was born. I call her Lyn-ling. A pet name but it has stuck like honey.”

  And he smiled but without his eyes.

  The panther swallowed, naturally stepped aside.

  Petrus took the tray, and the fireflies, inside and the silence hit him like a fist.

  The cell was exactly as he had left it. He stepped down onto the straw floor, folded his knees and sat back on his heels, laying the tray carefully at his side. He took the lantern with its fireflies, shook it and once again, the room was bathed in starlight.

  “One died,” he said quietly. “They don’t live long, these fireflies. In fact, they don’t eat while they have wings. They live to lay eggs. Not even to mate. A strange and sad life, to be sure, but they don’t complain. Or perhaps they do. I just don’t speak firefly.”

  He reached down, took a wonton, nipped a corner with his front teeth.

  “These are not good wontons,” he said. “But I don’t complain. I am not a firefly. I brought you water. It is in this metal cup on this tray, also metal.”

  He pushed the tray across the straw, not nearly close enough to the man but he knew the man would not touch it, even if he could.

  “Grief is a powerful enemy,” and then he said nothing further, merely sat in the cell with the dancing light until evening when there was a rap at the door.

  He rose to his feet.

  “I will return tomorrow. Perhaps I will have only three fireflies.”

  And he left the cell and the mongrel to the darkness.

  And the tray.

  ***

  He awoke the next morning to find three fireflies crawling on the glass, with a second having joined its fellow on the bottom. He took a little water, performed the Sun Salute and took the tea that was brought for him. On the tray this morning, there were oranges. He smiled. Sometimes Kharma was a beautiful mistress.

  It was raining when he stepped out onto the verandah and he could see the lynx moving from post to post, covering all prisoners with canvas to shelter them from the weather. He knew little about the man, only that he had been a tax collector in the western village of Rhanpurr. He had been betrothed to a woman but she had left him for a soldier in Old Delhi and so, he had sought solace at Sha’Hadin. Petrus didn’t mind. Women were complicated creatures, more so than falcons.

  He tucked a pair of oranges into his robes and crossed the compound to the hut with the yellow thatched roof.

  ***

  “Forgive me, sahidi,” said the Major. “But the Governor wishes to speak with you before you see the prisoner.”

  Petrus smiled. The man did not look to have had a comfortable two nights in the village.

  “Is he alive?”

  The lion blinked. “The Governor?”

  “No, Major. The prisoner.”

  “Yes sahidi. Unless he died overnight.”

  “Well, that would be a shame. Please excuse me—”

  “No, sahidi, the Governor—”

  “Will enjoy a lovely day in Sri’kiriath with soldiers and the dying. Let him know I look forward to dining with him in your quarters tonight. Any meal but pork will do. Nor beef. Not beef or pork. No fish either. I do love seafood. Or a goat. Yes, a happy male goat with black patches on his hide.”

  He smiled at the Major, showing most of his teeth.

  “They are sacred in Sha’Hadin,” he lied.

  And he ducked past the lion and stepped up into the hut.

  ***

  “I have brought oranges today,” he said as he knelt down on his heels in the straw and the mud. “They are likely from the local groves, but you would know that more than I. You would know every mountain and every glade in this region. Gypsies are good that way. They are one with the earth.”

  He could have sworn there was something this time, just a whap of a charred tail. Tufted, he noticed. Like a lion.

  He began to peel the orange.

  “I have lost another firefly. Only three left. Do you think fireflies mourn their dead? I don’t, but then, I’m not a firefly.”

  He broke the first orange into three, placed all three pieces at the mongrel’s feet.

  “Three is a holy number. Man, woman, child. From earth they come, to earth they return. But we have them alive inside us forever like blood, like bone.”

  And this time, a release of long held breath and rattle of chains as the mongrel pulled his hands over his head.

  And they sat that way until evening when the Major rapped on the door. Petrus rose to his feet.

  “Love is a wilting bloom.”

  He gathered the lantern, left the oranges and rose to his feet, leaving the room to the darkness once more.

  ***

  The rain began to come down in sheets and Petrus was grateful to be inside this cold, wet night. Even still, the wind howled against the weathered glass, rattled the rattan pane. He wondered at the level of storms here, if the rainy season was anything like winter in the Great Mountains. One could layer against the cold. Water was much, much worse.

  Governor Dasgupta-Carr was a brown tabbeh with white splashes around his eyes and chin. Rather than celebrate his glorious patterns, however, he chose to hide them under layers of cream silk and a turabahn of red sateen. The four of them sat on cushions around a small table laden with candles and food. Curried goat, in fact, and he was certain that it would have had black patches. Men were funny that way.

  While it smelled very good, Petrus did little more than nibble the grapes.

  “Sidalord Mercouri, I understand that we are distantly related,” said the Governor over his surah.

  Oh?” asked Petrus. ““How so?”

  “My mother’s sister is married to a man who is brother to the wife of Chancellor Ho. I understand you are also related to the Chancellor.”

  Petrus smiled. “Distantly.”

  “It is a small empire.”

  “All the world is carried in the Arms of Our Mother,” said the Major.

  “Her arms are the Wall,” said the Governor.

  “Even so.”

  “There is a world outside the Mother’s arms,” said Petrus.

  “No world that I’d care live i
n,” grunted the Major. He tore his na’an bread into tiny strips. “Dogs and rats, bears and dragons. Monsters all.”

  Petrus glanced at Tiberius. The man had pushed aside his plate and was staring into his water glass.

  “Have you had enough, Brother?” he asked.

  “Yes, Brother Petrus,” said the lynx. “I cannot eat more when so many in this compound have nothing in their bellies tonight.”

  “It is fitting punishment, don’t you think?” asked the Governor. “Losing a few meals as payment for taking a few lives?”

  “Are all murderers?” asked Petrus.

  “Not all,” said the Major. “But stealing bread from a poor man can mean the death of his child. Most punishments here at Sri’kiriath do actually fit the crimes.”

  Tiberius looked into his water once again.

  “Perhaps your man might wish to be excused,” said the Governor. “We have important matters to discus and he is obviously of tender sensibilities.”

  Petrus looked at the lynx.

  “Brother?”

  “Might I be permitted to bring some of this na’an to Veejay?”

  “Veejay?” asked the Governor but the Major cleared his throat, dropped his napkhin to the table.

  “Has Veejay told you what he has done, sidalord Lynx? I doubt very much that he has told you anything of his past life. That he was a gambler. That he stole a goat from his neighbor who had only one goat, to pay off a debt. That the neighbor tried to take it back because he needed that goat for the milk that he made into cheese that he sold to feed his family. That your Veejay refused and killed the man with a brick.”

  The Major sat back, lifted his surah.

  “Did he tell you that he hid the body in his hen house for days until the local hogs broke in and tore it to pieces, along with all the chickens. Then he killed the hogs. He was found selling hog meat in the market instead of eggs and the story unraveled from there. Now there are two families trying to survive in Shathkira without husbands and fathers, without goats or chickens, all because of your friend Veejay and his love of the dice. Did he tell you any of that, sidalord lynx?”

  He reached forward with a golden hand, pushed the plate toward the monk.

  “By all means. Take him some grapes. Perhaps he will feel full while his family starves.”

  There was silence in the room for a long moment before Tiberius rose to his feet and left the table. The door made a soft creak as it closed behind him.

  The Governor had watched everything with keen yellow eyes and now, they settled on Petrus.

  “I am sorry, sahidi,” he said. “But the mongrel will be executed in the morning, according to Imperial law.”

  Petrus breathed out a long, cleansing breath. He folded his hands in his lap and smiled at the men.

  “Two weeks ago, every man in Sha’Hadin was awakened by a cry that tore all our souls in two. It was the cry of a very powerful mind and none of us had heard it before or since, but the echoes are still ringing in my bones. As High Elder of the Council of Seven, I myself petitioned Empress Prarthana Thereza Markova Wu for leave to investigate and if I deemed the cause fitting, to bring the originator back to Sha’Hadin for training. She, of course, agreed.”

  The Governor opened his mouth to respond but Petrus held up a hand.

  “Excuse me, sidi, but I am not finished. The cry we all felt was not a cry of anger. It was not the rage of a furious man or the bloodlust of a man on a killing spree. It was a cry of pain, of horror and despair and loss as befitting a man having his very heart torn out at the death of a beloved wife and child. We all felt it as if it were our own families, so in that regard, I hesitate to agree with you that his punishment has fit his crime. In fact, I question whether he has committed any crime or been the victim of one. Has there been an investigation into the lion who was killed? Into his background, his record or his conduct? Why would he have been sent to investigate? Who reported the murders? Have they been questioned? Why would this mongrel have waited for the lion to show up before he attempted to burn down his pukka? I have many questions that, after observing the treatment of prisoners here at Sri’kiriath, have less than satisfactory answers for me, an officer of the Imperial Court.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “The decision to execute him does not rest with you, good sidalord Governor, nor with our esteemed Major, nor does it rest with me. His fate rests with him and him alone. As do all of our fates. Thank you for the most enjoyable meal.”

  He removed a scroll from his corded obi at his waist. Carefully, he placed it on the table. It was sealed with Imperial wax and stamped with twin dragons. It smelled vaguely of lotus.

  “Her Most Esteemed Majesty has agreed to pay for all expenses of this particular venture and I believe that she would be honoured to provide those families of Shathkira in need of goats or chickens. I trust you will see to it, Major?”

  The man said nothing and Petrus bowed, hand to cupped fist, before glancing up.

  “Please understand, my friends, that not all monsters live outside the Wall.”

  He smiled, turned and followed Tiberius into the night.

  ***

  The next morning Petrus rose, took his tea and performed the Sun Salute to the drumming of torrential rain on the roof. Na’rang had chosen to spend the night inside the sleeping room, perched atop the lantern of fireflies. Wisely, the beetles did not light up during the night, but there was one more added on the lantern floor in the morning.

  The falcon chirruped and hopped to his shoulder. He stroked her downy breast and she mouthed his fingers with her sharp beak. Picking up the lantern, he headed out onto the verandah and the downpour that awaited.

  The rain was so heavy that was almost impossible to see the huts. He did see the closest prisoner – Veejay, his name was, lover of dice and killer of a goat-keeper – under his canvas tent. He was now up on a box to avoid sitting in the swirling mud and Petrus knew where the box came from. He smiled to himself, knowing that while he was an early riser, Tiberius was earlier still.

  Na’rang unfurled her wings, leapt from his shoulder and the rainy sky erupted in the sound of parrots scattering for cover. As he crossed the compound, he paused to pick up a set of feathers. He wiped the mud from them, smiled when he saw that they were red. Dharma. She was remarkable.

  The panther today but there was no conversation. The man merely nodded and stepped aside as Petrus entered the low hut. He was now used to the wall of sensation that hit him day after day. It was like the rain – shocking at first but soon forming to one’s body as with a heavy blanket or a cloak. He rolled aside the door, stepped down and took his position in the straw.

  “I spoke with the Governor last night,” he said as he shook the lantern. The light of only two fireflies was faltering, like lightning over a distant river. “He is still asking for your death but I told him he must wait.”

  A rustle of limb and chain. A hiss of breath.

  “Why?” came the voice of a lion.

  “Ah, you can speak,” said Petrus. “I am vindicated. I thought they might have taken your tongue.”

  Now, the man looked up at him. In the firefly light, Petrus could see one side of his face swollen, opened as if by a blade. Only one eye gleamed.

  “Would you like some water?” he went on. “Or one of the oranges? I hesitate to say the juice would be helpful now, not today. I’m not certain it would be.”

  He raised the feathers, laid them in the straw at the man’s feet.

  “It is odd that fire and blood are the same colour. Perhaps not. I never had much use for red.”

  “Why?” the man croaked. “Why do you not let me die?”

  “You should have asked that on the first day. That was the day for Death. I have turned the wheel backwards for you and now have only two fireflies left.”

  The mongrel shook his head and they fell into silence once again. It was very late when the Major rapped on the door.

  “Happiness is a deceitf
ul spirit.” He rose to his feet. “There is only desire and the sorrow that it brings.”

  He paused at the door.

  “Tomorrow, you must decide your fate.” He looked at the water, the tray, the oranges, the feathers. “You have everything you need.”

  And he left the cell to the blackness once again.

  ***

  There was no dinner, no debate with Governors or Majors or panthers or any other man in the compound of Sri’kiriath. It was a quiet night and Na’rang returned with a snake. She ate it while he slept.

  He awoke the next morning, the last morning in the compound. Even though the sun was out bright and strong, he did not perform the Sun Salute. Everything was backwards now. It was Day One, although it should have been Day Five. He had changed things so radically but it was the only way to keep the mongrel alive. The mongrel. He didn’t even know the man’s name. He shook his head, knowing if nothing else, that would change this morning.

  He took his tea then held the door for Na’rang. She blinked shiny black eyes and stretched her wings before lifting from the lantern and swooping out into the morning sky. She was a speck in moments.

  And as expected, there was only one firefly crawling across the glass.

  From the verandah, he saw Tiberius kneeling by the post where Veejay had been tethered for days. The prisoner was gone. Tiberius was praying.

  Petrus’ heart sank.

  No matter how hard he had tried, Day Five was the Day of Death. The Cycle of the Elements, the Wu-Zhing, was unstoppable. Dharma had teased him with her little hints – the water, the oranges, the red feathers. It was as if she had flipped for him, allowed him to bend the laws of the Universe. He had been presumptuous. Neither the Universe nor Dharma would bend for anyone.

  His sandals felt like stones as he crossed the compound to the hut with the yellow roof. The panther was there again, guarding the door but he moved aside as Petrus walked through. The despair, the pain, the agony and the fury, they were mountains now, insurmountable and stony. He released a deep, cleansing breath, waiting for the mountain to rise with his breath to the ceiling. Out of his fingertips, out of the tips of his ears. Out of his mouth and nose and eyes, he willed it and it went. Of course it would. He was the Ancient of Sha’Hadin.