Tonight, in this beginning of all nights, she would become kunoichi.
Another long cleansing breath and she pulled her knees to her chest, bent her neck low to stretch the muscles along her back. They protested but she silenced them with a thought and cast her golden eyes over the Lake of Blue Herons and the Shimhali Valley stretched out far below her. It was late and only a few lights could be seen – hearths from distant windows, lanterns from distant sills. It was a summer town for noble families, a day’s travel from Dharamshallah and renowned for its deep waters and elegant villas. It was said that even the sisters of the Empress holidayed here. The Empress never did. The Empress never left Pol’Lhasa, would never leave until she died. Sherhanna could not imagine such a life, lived entirely in a golden cage. She would die before she would ever agree to a cage. She would kill before that.
And that was why she was here, on this particular mountain over the Shimhali Valley. Her first kill. Yes, Sun Ghanem would be very proud.
She had never taken a life before. People had died under her hand because of a failed healing but never had she killed. When her parents had taken her to the al-Khem Monastery in Hashna, they were only too happy to leave her there, although they would never have admitted such a thing. Perhaps they had feared her. She never really knew, but Sun Ghanem never feared her. He had been her prefect during her years in Hashna, then later her lover and the father of her first child. He had been a brilliant teacher, always leaving her with the thirst for more knowledge, more skills, more craft. He had also said that she could find more answers in life if she traded in Necromancy and the Art of Death. But she had seen no more than fourteen summers when he sent her away to study under Jet barraDunne, the First Mage of Agaratha. She never returned to Hashna or to Sun Ghanem.
Odd how she thought of them now.
She flexed her gloved hands. They were strong, as strong as her heart, and so she reached up around the crevasse to continue the climb. Fingers sought, found, gripped, pressed. The spiked toes of her jika-tabi stabbed the rock, the soft soles molding into the mountainside and her thighs forced her higher. Her face and throat were bound tightly, her hair slicked to her skull in a very tight braid under the wraps. Hand and foot, breath; hand and foot, breath; she climbed, her long tail acting as rudder in the wind. Only tail and eyes were exposed, her golden eyes that turned men upside down with the want of her. Desire was her weapon, her body the blade.
Hand and foot, breath; hand and foot, breath.
The night was dark, with only a sliver of moon to light the rock, but her world was not the dark nor the moon nor the rock. Her world was the climb - hand and foot, breath; hand and foot, breath. Once, shale gave way beneath her tabi, disappearing down the sheer cliff face like a pebble in a well. She froze as it fell to bounce off stone and scrub, grateful for the wind now. The mercenaries were far away, still guarding the steep road that led to the summerhouse. She couldn’t see them, and with her mantle of black, it was unlikely that they could see her. Still, she could not make a mistake. It would be better to release hold and let the mountain take her, than to make a mistake.
It wasn’t a matter of honour. For Sherhanna al Shaer, it wasn’t even a matter of pride. It was a matter of the will.
Her world had become the climb. Hand and foot, breath. Hand and foot, breath. It was single-minded and transcendent in its purity, like ChiYogath or prayer. If she succeeded tonight, Farsight and Vision and the realms of the Gifts would be hers. And if she were honest, it was the lure of the Gifts that drew her higher, the promise of more than potions and powders, crystals and jewels. She had been promised higher instruction and she intended to claim it a prize.
But first, tonight.
A soft, uneven plucking from a wooden windchime floated down on the breeze, a light organic accompaniment the beating of her heart.
The summerhouse was close now and she could see the teak verandah that jutted out over the gorge. With stone pillars and blackened cedar beams, the Moon Lily was a beautiful villa, a paradise built into the mountain itself with only the distant road as access. It was owned by the Hannamansingh family and leased to their daughter Asmit and her husband. He had not been named for he was highly placed in the government and reportedly never visited the Moon Lily because of his work. Asmit Hannamansingh – the name on the slip of parchment delivered by the Black Council and the legion of ninjahs known as the Shadow. Asmit Hannamansingh would be her initiation into the Shadow and for Sherhanna, the world would change tonight because of her. Alchemy was the study of change. The Shadow was the force that initiated it.
Hand and foot, breath; hand and foot, breath.
There were many ways she could do it and she ran them over in her mind as she climbed. She would slip onto the roof and find a gap in the clay tiles to lower herself down and slip through the rooms like a vapour. The prick of a tiny needle, dipped in Dragon Tea would be the swiftest, most efficient method, bringing death within a matter of heartbeats. Failing that, her picks, her daggers, her firepowder and then the xiàn, a razor thin wire of hammered steel that would effectively take a head from its shoulders. That would be a last resort. Sherhanna had no desire to use wire when the needles were so clean.
Hand and foot, breath; hand and foot, breath.
Wisps of coal smoke carried down from the verandah and soon, she pulled herself level to the railing. There was a gap between decking and mountain and she was grateful for the lantern on the far side, throwing just enough light for her to see her way across. She clung with her fingers, shifted her weight and stretched one long leg across the gap. The soft sole of her jika-tabi flexed and gripped, and slowly, ever so slowly, Sherhanna began to ease herself across.
The verandah door slid aside, spilling warmth and firelight as a woman stepped out onto the deck.
Sherhanna froze – one foot on the railing, one foot on the rock.
The woman was a tigress in her middle years, soft and sagging but a picture of grace as she moved across the deck. Her striped hair was pulled back in a simple knot and she was wearing a kimonoh of green sateen, embroidered with hummingbirds. She paused at the railing, leaned over the side and Sherhanna could see her breathe deeply the night air. She breathed again and stiffened, turned slowly to face the mountain on her left and the shadow hovering there.
“An hassasan?” she whispered. “But, but why?”
Sherhanna did not move. In fact she did not breathe.
“Of course. One of his kunoichi. I can smell the incense on you.”
The woman, Asmit Hannamansingh, slipped her arms into her sleeves and Sherhanna wondered briefly if there was a mongoose in them. First line of defense for noble women.
“What did he tell you?” asked the tigress. “That I was no longer young, attractive or a worthy bedfellow? I would believe that if he did. And it would be true, yes. It would be true. But, in fact, I believe you were told nothing save my name and this house.”
Move back to the mountain, she thought to herself. This is a sign, an omen of bad luck and fatal alchemy.
“Have you bedded him yet?” the tigress asked. “I may be old and worth little to a man such as him but let me tell you something, woman to woman. Don’t.”
Her outstretched leg was beginning to tremble as it held position between the railing and the rock. Heat was building up in her belly as she fought to keep her balance.
“Oh, we women are foolish creatures. We struggle and strive for respectability but throw it all away the moment a man crooks his finger. It is our only power over them, my young friend. Use it. Wield it like a sword, twist it like a dagger but do not lay it down so lightly.”
Desire was her weapon.
The tigress turned back to the railing, peered over at the Shimhali Valley far below, the moonlight shining on the Lake of Blue Herons, the flickering lanterns from distant homes.
Her body the blade.
“But it doesn’t matter. You are kunoichi, bought and sold for a loaf of bread. You kill for those w
ho are too cowardly to do it themselves. He has no honour and neither do you.”
Her words were a dagger to the heart. Sherhanna felt it twist inside her.
“But I do and neither you nor he can take it from me. I am the mistress of my fate and you, my dear kunoichi, will go hungry tonight.”
And with that, Asmit Hannamansingh held wide her arms and fell forward, bumping off the railing and making no sound in her plunge to the bottom of the gorge.
***
They had left her in the care of no one. Simply ridden up on their khamels to the mouth of the Hashna gorge, swung her from the high saddle and dropped her into the sand. Her father waited for her to stand before tossing her a sack containing all her belongings – two shifts, a stone pendant, an extra pair of sandals and a brush for her hair, as black as a panther’s pelt.
“alKhem,” said her father. “This is your life now.”
She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun and the blowing sand. The monastery was rumoured be hewn into the mountain but all she could see was rock. A mountain of sandstone surrounded by more sand. No trees, no water, no people. Dry and desolate like her heart.
“There is shade in the gorge,” said her mother. “And monks.”
“But how will I find them?” she asked. She was so very young.
“That is not your concern,” said her father. “They will find you.”
“Or you will die,” said her mother. “It is the Way of Things.”
“Never come home,” said her father, and he wheeled his mount, jerking in his saddle in the awkward gait of khamels.
“Make your village proud, Sherhanna,” said her mother. “It is all you can do.”
And with a flip of the cords, she too wheeled her khamel and followed her husband into the desert.
Sherhanna stood until they were specks, swallowed by the waves of heat rising from the desert floor. Her eyes stung, her chin quivered and she had never felt her throat so tight. She picked up the sack, shook the sand from it and turned, casting her eyes up and down the stony mouth of the gorge. It made her feel very small and she wondered if the rocks would fall if she spoke.
“Home?” she whispered.
There was nothing, no sound, no temples, no monks. Only a long, high, sandstone gorge that led somewhere.
She blinked away the sand and the tears, clutched the sack to her chest, and began to pick her way over the rocks.
***
There was nothing. No birds, no alarm, no cries from the mercenaries. Just the hollow echo of the windchimes in the breeze.
And for the first time in a very long time, Sherhanna had no idea what to do. Continue in to the villa, turn and make her way back down. Both were possible, neither acceptable. So she remained motionless, frozen between deck and mountain as the night to end all nights disappeared along with the green silk kimonoh.
“That,” came a voice from the villa, “Was perfection.”
A man’s voice, smooth and rich and accented in the tongue of the middle courts.
Tiger.
“Come in,” he said. “Let me see you.”
She slowed her heartbeat, sharpened her senses as she shifted her body, moving from the mountain to drop into a crouch on the verandah’s deck. Instinctively, her hands slipped to the daggers at her shins, flipped them to face tip out in the darkness.
“Oh really now. It’s late and I wish to go to sleep. Come in and slide the door behind you.”
She glanced up at the high road, not seeing the mercenaries but not surprised. She looked to the left. She looked to the right. Inside, there was light, warmth, a small fire glowing in a chimnea near a far wall, flickering shadows and light across the villa’s walls. She rose to move, slowly, stealthily, under the threshold and into the room. Not on her life would she slide the door.
It was well decorated, this Moon Lily summerhouse, with black-lacquered cabinets, red-stained chairs and high white walls, all dark and dancing with only the fire for light. Quickly, efficiently, she mapped it with her eyes – tall ceiling beamed with ebony; sitting and eating room in one space; a short hall leading to kitchen and beds. And the man.
The floor creaked under her weight and she hissed.
“Hummingbird floors,” purred the man. “To dissuade ninjahs, kunoichi and other miscreants who might attempt to broach my sanctuary. But it is My Sanctuary, now so I thank you for that, Sherhanna. The Moon Lily is a remarkable place.”
He reclined by the fire on a settee of jeweled cushions, holding a tiny ceramic sakeh pot to his lips. His feet clad in split-toed sandals, white-striped legs bare, the tip of his white tiger’s tail twitching in the firelight. He did not look at her, merely stared into the leaping flame.
“Asmit Hannamansingh,” she said. “She was your wife.”
“Of course.” He sipped his sakeh. “Quite lovely in her day. Fresh, without guile. Uncomplicated.”
He sighed.
“I miss the complications.”
Now he did look at her. His eyes were as white as the moon.
“Remove the silks from your face.”
Cautiously, she did as told, lifting one blade to her chin and slicing. The silks fell away to reveal her face, smooth as churned cream and dotted with black, the ribbons of khol that traced her nose and curled up her cheek like serpents.
“By far, the most beautiful thing in this villa.”
He rose to his feet, his lean white body clothed only by the black dragon kinonoh and white sash. His long silver braid reached to the middle of his back, the top of his head roached like a horse’s mane.
Jet barraDunne, First Mage of Agaratha.
He smiled at her, his moon-white eyes gleaming over the sakeh pot.
“Welcome to my new home, Sherhanna. Would you care for sakeh? Tea? Opium?”
“No,” she said, circling him as one would a snake.
“Surely you should celebrate your first kill. That was as remarkable as any I’ve seen and I have seen many.”
“It does not count,” she growled. “I didn’t kill her.”
“She is dead. That is all that matters.” His tail curled about his legs. He was relaxed in her presence. Enjoying it. “And think, you killed her without killing her. A flash of your golden eyes was all it took.”
He stepped closer, raised the sakeh pot to his lips.
“Imagine that. A killer who kills without killing. The stuff of legend.”
“It was honourless.”
“Of course. All killing is honourless when you’re kunoichi, Sherhanna.” The firelight caused his stripes to waiver and bend. “Welcome to the Shadow.”
She kept moving just out of his reach, the tips of her daggers flashing like silver.
“You must die as well, Sherhanna,” he purred. “If you are to be one of us.”
“I am not dead,” she said. “I have not died as I ought. I didn’t kill her so I didn’t die. I am still Sherhanna al Shaer.”
“I can help with that,” he said. He tossed the sakeh down his throat before smashing the tiny pot into the chimnea. The rice wine hissed against the clay.
And suddenly, with no creak of the hummingbird floor, six figures appeared in the black of the hall.
“Qi Yi Jun mercenaries,” said the First Mage and he began to step away. “Not Shadow, but still.”
He turned to them.
“Kill her.”
As one, they moved into the light, toward her.
***
There was only a candle between them.
“There is not much to know,” Sun Ghanem had said, “Of the differences between men and women.”
“But I want to know,” she told him. “I want to know everything.”
“You are barely a woman yourself. How many summers? Thirteen?”
“It is enough,” and she lowered her thick black lashes, knowing he would not resist. “Teach me.”
He smiled at her.
“Women are all the Kingdoms,” purred the prefect. “Innocent as
doves. Cunning as serpents. Soft as butterflies. Strong as eagles. But men? Men are oxen – strong, bullheaded…”
He blew out the candle.
“And easily led.”
***
Hand foot breath.
Six jaguars stepped into the flickering light thrown by the chimnea. Grinning, one moved forward, swinging his sword like a scythe. Sherhanna stepped back with her foot and covered her mouth with her hand.
Her weapon was Desire.
“No,” she breathed. “Please, sidi. Have mercy.”
“I’ll be merciful, luv,” the man moved closer. “As merciful as a monk.”
He pushed her dagger aside with his blade. She let it drop to the floor.
Hand foot breath.
He was close now, so close that she could see the rings in one ear, the scars on his chin, the yellow of his eyes. She was vulnerable. He had the power over her, could kill her with one thrust.
Her weapon was Desire. Hand foot breath.
Her tail curled around his leg.
“I beg your forgiveness, most holy monk.”
He lifted the sword, caressed her cheek with the edge, slid it down her throat to nick the silk between her breasts.
“Beg,” he said.
Slowly, she raised her hand and bit her glove, pulled it one by one from her fingers with her perfect teeth. Her weapon was Desire. She reached long, strong hands to the man’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, pressing her body into his. Hand foot breath.
His tail slapped from side to side and his moan caused the others to laugh wickedly. Soon, the slapping turned to silence and the moan became a groan and then a muffled wail before she released him. He staggered back, eyes shot with blood, mouth gaping wide. A tiny needle was sticking out of the thick of his tongue.
Swallowtail & Sword: The Scholar's Book of Story & Song (Tails from the Upper Kingdom 4) Page 9
