--an excerpt from the journal of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey
***
The space beside him was cold and he opened his eyes. In the light of the high window, Ursa was dressing, slipping into the many layers of undyed fabrics that were her clothing. A linen shift and woolen yukata tied off at her narrow waist. Wide silk trousers wrapped to the knees with strips of leather. A sable coat rolled at the neck, her cloak of winter bear, long and white and almost as glorious as her own pelt. He watched her tuck the knives, daggers and throwing stars into every slip and fold, watched her cinch her leather obi and slide the dual swords home.
“Where are you going?” he asked from the floor. Their presence at the battle tower of Shen’foxhindi had been unexpected. No arrangements had been made for sleeping but blankets and bedrolls had been provided. A private corner was a precious thing.
She turned her pale eyes on him as she bound her hair high over her head.
“Captain Oldsmith-Pak has agreed to have me fitted.”
“Fitted?”
“For a uniform. There’s a commissary outside the gates with a seamstress on duty.”
“For a uniform. I see.” He pushed up to sitting, pulled the blankets up on his shoulders. She had been angry last night and his body was still aching from the bruising. Her lovemaking was rarely tender. Lately, her temper made it violent. “Perhaps I could accompany you?”
“No,” she said. “It is a military thing. You are not military.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will get you a bo.”
“I don’t want a bo.”
“You are Kenshi. You should have a sword.”
“I don’t want a sword.”
“A dagger, then. I will get you a dagger.”
“You are my steel.”
“I will get you a dagger.”
He sighed as she paused at the door.
“Did you see him?”
“Him?”
“The Captain—” She shook her head and her tail lashed behind her. “The Shogun-General. Did you see that he would be here?”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“It always remains as to how things play out. I never saw it in detail, just that we would meet when we found the dogs.”
“You should have told me.”
“Perhaps.”
He could see the muscles in her jaw ripple and twitch.
“He wanted to kill them.”
“Yes.”
“He should have.”
“Perhaps.” He cocked his head like a falcon. “What would you have done?”
She stared at him a long moment.
“Helped him.”
She whirled and was gone and he sighed. The stone was cold behind his back. He could hear Mi-Hahn’s thoughts as she swept in to the aerie at the highest point of the tower. There were many falcons and kestrels in the keep – army birds all—and they did not mind sharing. He could hear the songs of the Oracle inside his head, felt her young but strong heart beating like a drum. Not a war drum, however. A dancer’s drum, a beat of timing and rhythm. He could feel the elements swirl and dance around the grey coat, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey, could feel them waiting for his commands and he wondered if the lion had finally accepted his gifting, if he could master them the way he was born to. He could feel the touches of Yahn Nevye’s mind as the man struggled with his privacy, wanting to understand and yet terrified of being understood. He could feel the magic of the Alchemist as she too danced around the edges of his mind, defiant and proud and so very dangerous.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the Captain—no, Shogun-General. His wife had been quite correct. Could see him standing by a tall window, watching the sun rise over the Lower Kingdom, could see the bolt of mane fall like molten gold down his armoured back. The lion wore much armour now, more so than before and he wondered at that. “I prefer to keep the world out,” Yahn Nevye had said so long ago. He wondered if Kirin might now say the same.
Ten thousand enemies were coming from the north. A world of enemies were waking in the west. There were only nine of them here, ten including the Chi’Chen ambassador and he could not see the end of it. Eye of the Needle, Eye of the Storm. Death and fire, bones and eyes.
And that would only be the beginning.
He closed his eyes and was gone.
***
Her eyes were gold.
Gold like a field of western wheat.
Gold like the sun gleaming over the wasteland of Gobay.
Gold like the manes of lions braided into the Khargan’s hair.
Her eyes were not the eyes of the People and she pushed him down with long, strong hands.
The first pink streaks of moondown in the sky, slashes of blood in the cold flesh of the night. Long-Swift sat up quickly, glancing around at the sea of sleepers stretched out beyond the horizon. Their backs were rounded and dark and covered with a dusting of fine snow. Some were waking but most were still asleep, sentries stood and breathed the wind for scents of yak or goat or cat. He threw a quick glance at the tent where the Khargan slept alone for once, no wives or Oracles to keep him entertained.
He shook his head and swallowed.
He had dreamed of the woman last night, the singer of the songs that had been in his head for days now. She was a witch, a wraith, a spirit dancer, slipping through his mind like memory but one he did not, could not, remember for she was also the Enemy and while he had killed his share of the spotted and striped men who guarded the borders, he had never in all his years killed a feline woman. Indeed, he had never even seen one.
Her hands had been strong, her magic stronger. He had been captivated first by her singing, then by her eyes, more powerful than the army, more intoxicating than their wotchka. She was hypnotic and therefore dangerous.
But he didn’t dare tell the Khargan. Not this. He could tell no one this. The Bear would wring out his life with his massive hands for dreaming of the Enemy in this way.
It had been a very good dream.
He grinned, shook his head one last time and rolled to his feet.
***
When Jeffery Solomon awoke, he knew he was dreaming.
He opened his eyes, waited as his pupils sought to focus. The lights were dim, the white noise a comforting drone and the air was warm and smelled of ozone. His limbs were still heavy from the pulse, fingers and toes tingling and he was surprised to see the hairs on his chest standing up with static charge. He wondered if it had been a Dazzler that had taken him down. Consistent, he thought, with the MAIDEN technology of the fence and he wondered if the ‘bones’ that had chased them were in fact people in carbon-fiber armor.
As his unfocused eyes drifted upwards to the ceiling, he realized two things. Firstly, that the ceiling was a mirror and he could see himself reflected in its concave surface and secondly, the fact that he was laying on a cot, naked.
He couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh.
It was understandable, really. He had survived a privileged childhood in an underprivileged world and then survived the mercenary institutions of higher learning that had led to his many degrees and doctorates; he had survived the many plagues that that stricken the populace before he went under as Supervisor 7 of SleepLab 1 in Kandersteg Switzerland; had survived hundreds of years (if not thousands) in a state of disambiguation and had survived the subsequent waking that had killed six others; he had survived on vitamin squares and protein powder and ice and had survived the raising of the Humlander and swarming of the rats and the crossing of an entire continent; had survived several months living in forests with cat people and on seashores with cat people and on the ocean with cat people, had even survived a ship-to-shore missile that had blown his ship out of the water and here he was after all that miraculous survival, laying on a bed, naked.
It was - he had to admit - obscenely funny.
When he could move, he waved at the ceiling. It was an Arc en Ciel or ArcEye, a surveillanc
e system that had been ‘state-of-the-art’ when he went under. ArcEyes had thousands of tiny mirrored sensor-screens that would transmit images to and from the concave surface, recording the activities in the room while projecting blue skies or gently-moving clouds or stars at twilight. This ArcEye was old – only the mirror remained, and from this angle, he could see the bronzing of the screens. He wondered if he was actually being observed or if this were now merely a ceiling, nothing more than a distorted relic of a distant age.
Slowly, carefully, he swung his bare legs over the side of the bed and sat, waiting for the vertigo to end.
“Hello,” he called out to the empty room. “Hey, can I get some clothes, please? I’m not modest, but honestly, folks. We haven’t even met.”
There was a sound, a faint ping from behind the wall and soon, a door swung open. Ramshackle, he thought. With an ArcEye system, doors should slide to form a seamless part of the wall but this gave him a world of information about the level of technology about to walk through that swinging door.
Two figures came in, soldiers obvious by their black uniforms and face shields. They had very large, imposing weapons and flanked the door as a team of others came through, wheeling a cart with them. It was carrying a variety of instruments, some he recognized, others he didn’t, and his eyes flicked from the cart to the people moving it. They paused as a woman in black fatigues and goggled cap pushed past to stand in front of them, folded her hands behind her back.
To a man who had not seen another living example of his species in five thousand years, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Shi Main nin,” she said. “Por qué the hell shi nin zhe monstruos?”
“What?” he said.
“Zhe Monstruos. Estaban tamen de yaoming shesi’er?”
“Chinese and Spanish?” Solomon frowned. “What the hell?”
“Zhegin hell.”
He blinked slowly. It was a dream. It had to be.
The people with the cart moved forward, began to poke at his arms, his throat, his chest. Drawing blood, scraping skin, plucking hair. An older man with a shaved head and filthy white jumpsuit tugged on the wire at the back of his skull.
“Hey,” Solomon growled. “Paws off the wire.”
“Wire?” said the woman. “Ni, Feed.”
“Yah, the Feed into Satcom. Hey, can I get some clothes? Anything. Just not one of those ugly jumpsuits.”
The woman jerked her head and a bolt of grimy fabric was presented. He grinned.
“A jumpsuit. Whaddayou know…”
“¿quién the hell shi shui?”
“Ah, one sec…” He stepped one foot then the other into the suit, pulled it up over his shoulders, then ran his finger over the tabs. They did not close easily and he could see how they had fabricated clasps with twine and bits of metal. Fascinating. He stood up tall, thrust out his hand. “Doctor Jeffery Solomon, Supervisor Seven, SleepLab 1.”
There was silence for a moment in the room.
“Slabwun?”
“SleepLab 1, yeah.”
“Slabwun es SleepLab 1, Doctor.”
She turned to the bald man – “Jiǎnchá the archivos por Supervisor Solomon, Jeffery, Slabwun hé dédào jìyì memoria, Version san”— but took the hand he offered her. She did not seem to know what to do but for his part, Jeffery Solomon held it for a long moment, surprised at the tightening in his throat.
She arched an eyebrow. She had nice eyebrows. He had never seen such nice eyebrows. Not in five thousand years.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to do this, just to touch another human being? Just like this?” He swallowed back the tears that had sprung into his eyes. “It’s a miracle.”
She cocked her head at him, made a puzzled but slightly amused face. He took a deep breath.
“Kay, yeah, sorry. And you? What is your name? Where am I, how many people are left and what have you done with my friends? You know, all the typical questions a guy in my position would ask.”
“Wǒ de míngzì es Damaris Ward, Jiān d’Area CeeDee.”
“Damaris Ward.”
“Si.”
“Jiān? Uh…” He searched his memory, trying to find the word. “Hah! Supervisor! Like me! Uh, CeeDee…”
“Si, Area CeeDee.”
“Columbia District. Got it. Makes sense. East Coast. Maryland.”
“Mai-land,” she corrected and looked down. He was still holding her hand. He let go just as the bald man returned. He spoke too quickly for Solomon to understand but he passed something to her. Damaris Ward held it up to the light.
“Damn,” said Solomon. “A Plug.”
“Bug, si. Por nin de Feed.” She passed it into his hand. “Zuò down first.”
He studied the Plug. It was a receptor designed to fit on the end of the wire, giving him access to selected programs or archives. He was hoping it was a translation program. Of all things, that would be the most helpful.
He reached around to slide it onto the wire at the base of his skull.
“So, Damaris, where are my friends? Mis amigos? Wǒ d péngyǒu?”
“Guàiwù?” she said. “Los matamos. Tāmen dōu sǐle. Zuò down.”
He was not prepared for the sensations as wave upon wave of information poured directly into his brain and his knees buckled beneath him.
“The monsters?” the Plug translated inside his head as he went down. “We have killed them. They are dead. Sit down.”
It was the last thing he remembered and they caught him as he hit the floor.
***
He could understand why people loved the Sun Salute of Chai’Yogath. Dawn over the mountains was a beautiful thing. He never did it himself, the Sun Salute. It seemed a perfectly good waste of time. The sun wasn’t alive. She didn’t have golden brooms or a sister the moon or any of the things people ascribed to her. No the sun was a welcomed thing, a good thing, an enjoyable thing but she was not alive. Kerris knew this because she never spoke to him. Not the way everything else did.
The earth was very angry here. It told him of the indignities of being robbed, of having its flesh rent by greedy cats for ore and gold and bits of metals. The snow told him of its plans to stay long this year, past the New Year’s festival while the Year of the Rabbit prepared to leap off the Celestial stage as the Dragon roared in. The trees dreamed under blankets of snow, their blood cold and hard inside their branches. The wind was strong this morning, chasing the clouds until they grew heavy and wept their contents to the ground somewhere else for a change. The skies would stay clear for days now, they told him. The skies would be clear, the sun would be out and the cold would descend like a hammer.
Even the Wall was more alive than the sun. Each stone had a story and if he had the inkling, he could discover every one. Where they came from, how they had been taken from the earth and brought here by cats. The Wall was a community now, of slate and rock, gravel and clay, very much like a town or a city, only without the barter.
He sighed. He could move any or all of it if he tried.
“Kaidan,” came a voice from behind and he turned to see Bo Fujihara walking towards him along the Wall. The man had a pipe in his mouth and he was smiling. He was always smiling, but then again, monkeys had smiles built into their faces. Their eyes were always bright, their steps always springy. Their tails were a marvel and he found himself envious. He wished he had a tail like that.
“Morning, Bo,” he called back. “Are you up to perform your ki?”
“Not this morning, Kaidan. Although after last night, my chi could use a little ki I think.”
“It was dramatic, I’ll grant you,” Kerris said, grinning. “But cats are, after all, a dramatic people.”
“I have learned this. That woman, the cheetah—is that the one you told me about?”
“Yes, and what she’s doing here, now, has me very nervous.”
“I can understand.” He puffed a few times and the smell of the tobacco was strong and
sharp. “Your brother reacted strangely to her.”
“He always did.”
They stood for a while, side by side, watching the sun rise over the peaks, turning them from purple to blue. All around them, soldiers moved about the Wall and at the top of all the battle towers, cauldrons still burned with orange and white flame.
“Do we have enough cats?”
Kerris sighed and looked down at the man. “Nowhere near enough, Bo. I don’t know if I can ask anyone to do this with me.”
“Kaidan…”
“I’ve never had an army. It’s always been just me and I’ve always landed on my feet. But this, this doesn’t feel easy or clear to me. None of it does. Not any more.”
“Was it ever easy or clear?”
Kerris grinned. “No, you’re right. Never. Never ever. I suppose I’m just not used to it, then?”
“Most likely not. Have you pulled the sticks?”
“Was about to when you showed up.”
And the grey lion reached deep into his pocket, pulled out a tangle of carved sticks, wrapped with red thread. He frowned, tried to separate them but the threads were fully entwined.
Fujihara narrowed his eyes. “Do they usually stick together like that?”
“Never,” and he carefully pried them apart to read the words painted along their narrow surfaces.
“Red, Yellow and Blue.” He looked up at the ambassador. “That’s very strange. The odds of pulling only colours…”
“Red,” said Bo. “Could that be your brother?”
“Perhaps.”
“But the yellow and the blue?”
“No clue.”
He shoved the sticks back into his pocket and together the pair turned back to watch the sun climb over the crest of their mother, the Great Mountains.
***
The door creaked open and emerald eyes peered in.
“Hi,” said Fallon Waterford-Grey as she poked her head into the room where the dogs were being kept. “Can I come in?”
Setse rolled out from under her reindeer coat and sprang to her feet, light as a leaf on the breeze. For his part, her brother slid up the stone wall to stand, hands falling to the bow and quiver almost of their own accord. He growled, flattened his ears but did not show his teeth.
The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom Page 92
