Bone had already concluded angry guards weren’t the worst thing in his life, and he popped the seal on another dagger, holding it ready. “I have good aim,” he warned.
“I can see that,” said the pale foe.
Another sword-wielder snapped commands in a language Bone did not know. That one, and one other jumped into the improbably deep chest after the tall treasure hunter.
Meanwhile the bearded man proved himself a fellow student of Gaunt’s school of tactics, for he snatched up a clutch of burning papers and flung them into his unlucky foe’s face. With a power belying his portly frame, he kicked the desk over, jabbing the pale sword-wielder with the desk’s legs.
“Run, fools!” the bearded man barked in Roil.
Bone immediately revised his estimation of the bearded man upward. To facilitate this wise suggestion, Bone flung his uncut watermelon at the wobbly sword-wielder’s head.
With an angry flourish the sword-wielder ended the fruit’s uncut status. Red melon-meat splashed the walls, but Bone and Gaunt were already backing out, the bearded man scrambling toward them.
They passed three burly-looking ruffians, the biggest of which said, “Money?” Under other circumstances, Bone would have considered them a serious threat.
Gaunt tossed him the coin-belt, pointed, turned, and ran. Bone and the bearded man were close on her heels. There was considerable shouting and hooting behind them, and much thudding against walls.
“Name’s Quilldrake,” the bearded man said as they gasped their way into the Market square. “Much obliged.”
“Are you hurt?” exclaimed Gaunt, for Quilldrake was covered in gory-looking red pulp.
Quilldrake licked at his beard, smacked his lips. “Don’t think so. Not bad. From Madzeu, I’d reckon.”
“I would reckon we should run like hell,” Bone said.
“Quite. Have you a hidey-hole? Ours is otherwise engaged.”
“Across the Market,” Gaunt said, “but only if we can shake them. Let’s move!”
Luck was with them in that the boisterous throng accompanying Washing Day was still lively, and as they plunged into the square’s heart there were many people to weave among.
Luck was not with them in that two black-clad assailants, as Bone verified with a quick look back, had already emerged from between the literature god’s shrine and the Inn of Infinite Options.
He hoped the stains on the leader’s sword were all from melon.
Bone had expected anyone dressed head-to-toe in black would be loath to eviscerate them in public, but fresh doubts chilled his neck.
These doubts were confirmed as screams and shouts of outrage erupted behind them.
“They really want you,” Bone noted to Quilldrake.
“You too, by now.”
“Wonderful. Gaunt, I don’t want to lead them to Snow Pine.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Do we leave a hot trail or cold?”
“Hot, I should think.”
“Agreed.”
“What do you mean, ‘hot trail . . . ?’” said Quilldrake, voice trailing off, as Bone grabbed his arm and dragged him into the midst of a group of entertainers.
They ran between the wooden legs of stilt-walkers and dove past a human pyramid, making those acts suddenly more challenging. Angry stage magicians threw knives, and angry sorcerers threw fire.
“I thought tricksters and true magi hated each other!” Bone protested under his breath as he dodged steel and flame.
The crowd cheered, especially when a swordsman caught up to Gaunt, Bone, and Quilldrake, waving the blade in a triumphant squiggle in the air.
Bone bowed, then shoved his companions beneath the stomach of the monstrously large camel who supported a batch of musicians, still bravely playing overhead.
Alas, the other assailant-in-black, now with sword drawn, was already on the other side.
Bone, Gaunt, and Quilldrake shifted and dodged and jostled beneath the camel, as the pair of flanking enemies jabbed at them. The camel snorted and stomped. The air went out of the flutes and voices, though the fiddlers played on, their tune growing ominously creaky.
Bone saw his chance, though the angle was poor. He threw his dagger at one sword-wielder.
The foe swatted his blade out of the air.
The dagger sank into the camel’s flank.
With a bellow the beast abandoned its training, perhaps for good, and charged toward the Market gate.
“Grab on!” Bone’s experience with the xiezhi had been instructive. He clutched the straps on the camel’s underside, and Gaunt and Quilldrake did the same. Soon they left their foes behind. But while Bone and Gaunt were acrobatic enough to cling tight to the huge beast, Quilldrake was dragging.
“Oof—oof—oof,” Quilldrake said, or perhaps something more colorful, until he at last let go, and the camel left him behind on the stones of the square, their foes rushing toward him.
Bone responded first; he let go, dropped, rolled, and threw a dagger at the faster enemy. That one also deflected the attack, but it forced a halt, at least. Bone got Quilldrake to his feet with a yank.
“In here!” came the voice of Snow Pine.
Bone and Quilldrake ran to the doorway she’d peered from, and in his grateful rush Bone did not at first realize this wasn’t the Inn of the Bright Future. Rather it was a temple of the Undetermined.
Bone didn’t have the background to judge which of the three huge seated statues represented the Undetermined himself, as opposed to the Thresholders, though his bets were on the beatific gold-plated one in the middle. Left was a jolly-looking, big-bellied statue of lacquered wood that had Bone’s immediate sympathy; right was a kindly looking figure of bronze, shown pouring out a libation. Candles and basins of water were everywhere. There was a thick smell of candle smoke and incense.
The washers and devotees were shouting at the newcomers, and emerging from amid the hundreds of candles and dozens of basins loomed a man of an ethnicity unknown to Bone. He boasted a wide face and black hair woven into braids sticking out like ox-horns. His clothing was bright blue, but the metal of his raised sword reflected orange in the candlelight. His teeth glinted, as he favored the newcomers with a battle-ready grin.
“A Karvak,” Quilldrake muttered. “They had to guard their temple with a Karvak.”
“I thought followers of the Undetermined were pacifists,” protested Bone.
“Karvaks aren’t,” Snow Pine said. She sheathed her blade and raised her hands, palms out. “Sanctuary!” she called. “We’re fleeing marauders.”
Bone sheathed his own blades. “They’re coming fast,” he said.
“Very well,” said an elderly officiant in an orange robe. His body was stooped, but his voice rang through the candlelit temple. “Nine Thunderbolts, stand ready.”
At once the Karvak, with a last contemptuous look at the newcomers, strode to the door.
He immediately found himself in combat with one of the swordsmen in black. Metal clashed in the interface of sunlight and candlelight. The Karvak, Nine Thunderbolts, found himself pushed back, knocking over a basin of ceremonial water that smelled of incense and sandalwood.
Sword-swipes chopped candles in twain. Far from looking worried, Bone thought he saw a look of wild joy on Nine Thunderbolts’ face. He reminded himself never to tangle with Karvaks. His hand strayed to a sheathed dagger.
“No,” Snow Pine cautioned him. “If you draw your weapon again we lose our right of sanctuary.”
Nine Thunderbolts heard her. Though he never looked away from his enemy, the Karvak boomed, “This one is mine! Not since I crossed the Desert of Wise Vultures have I had such a worthy foe!”
“He’s got a friend,” Snow Pine called out.
“Excellent.”
Not excellent, Bone thought, looking this way and that. That is surely translation trouble. Where is he? Or she. . . . The devotees had cleared out, which suggested another doorway. Bone asked the old priest, “Is there a way out through
the roof?”
“I’ve offered you sanctuary,” said the priest, “not the deed to the temple.”
Quilldrake broke in. “Do you not recognize me, Yuan Da? Geshou Pi and I have donated to your temple.”
“Long Bi,” the priest said, eyes narrowing. “Yes, I remember you. You donate to everyone from whom you might need favors.”
“But we are very generous about it.”
“Come,” snapped the priest, not exactly agreeing, but leading them upstairs nonetheless.
The temple was a three-level pagoda, the third level capped with a bell loft. Bone, Snow Pine, and Quilldrake scrambled out onto the third-story roof. From here Bone had a good view of the Market and, because the temple rose beside the Market wall, of the neighboring ward with its peony garden.
He also saw guards on that wall, and guards in the Market square, all shouting and waving weapons. Persimmon Gaunt was with the Market group. Good idea, that, he thought, summoning guards. He wasn’t used to that approach. Her response to his jaunty wave was to aim her bow at the roof.
“Wait!” Bone said, holding up his hands, “wait! It’s us!”
Gaunt fired.
A shape Bone had been unaware of leapt from beneath the bell. The arrow hit the bell instead of the shape, raising sparks and a deep hum.
Embarrassed to be caught flat-footed, Bone saluted Gaunt and faced the black-clad foe. The enemy had fallen hard in escaping Gaunt’s shot, and a sword lay fallen nearby. Bone tossed it to Snow Pine, who yelped with surprise—but caught it.
“I did it!” she said, drawing her own sword so that now she waved two. “Don’t ever do that again,” she added.
“Ah, you lack confidence—urk—”
The foe was demonstrating an indifference to disarmament by grabbing Bone’s throat with a grip that would shame a blacksmith. The world began turning purple around the edges. He grabbed at the arm, but it was like trying to uproot bamboo. He kicked wickedly between the foe’s legs, but the enemy merely grunted.
Snow Pine was suddenly there, threatening Crazy Grip with two swords. Bone found himself dragged around the roof like a potato sack as the maniac-in-black dodged. Snow Pine managed to draw blood from an arm; it was the wrong arm, naturally, but Bone still approved. He would approve even more of air.
Suddenly Snow Pine had other problems. Another black-clad lunatic burst from the bell-loft. It was all Snow Pine could do to maintain her guard against the newcomer. Where is a Karvak horde when you need one? Bone imagined nomadic archers on horseback; they were colored purple-black and were filled with shimmering multicolored stars . . .
His opponent shrieked and let go.
The arm in front of Bone now had an arrow stuck through its biceps.
Bless you, Persimmon Gaunt, were the words of his mind; “Hhhhhgggggglllllllaaaa . . .” was the word of his mouth. He and air wanted to strike up a passionate new relationship, but at that moment the foe’s other fist connected with his nose. “Gllrrk!” was the new word of his mouth. It occurred to him Quilldrake had yet to engage, which annoyed Bone, given their efforts to protect the man. And one would think a fellow with a neck that repelled sword-strokes might find ways to be useful.
As if hearing Bone’s thoughts, Quilldrake acted. He grabbed a roof-tile loosened in the battle and chucked it at Bone’s opponent.
“Hello!” called Quilldrake. “Yes, you! I’m the one you want. Remember? The one with the Silk Map. See you in another century!”
With that Quilldrake leapt off the roof and onto the ward wall. He did not pause to acknowledge the guards but leapt again, landing amongst the peony bushes.
Bone didn’t recognize the language in which Snow Pine’s opponent spoke, but he knew a curse when he heard it. That one broke off from her and jumped to follow Quilldrake.
Bone’s own foe tried to follow, but Snow Pine was in the way.
For the first time, his disarmed enemy had a back turned.
He launched himself onto his opponent and together they sprawled to the tiles. For the second time Crazy Grip’s face kissed the temple. Bone was no religious scholar, but he doubted this would produce enlightenment. He knew a thing or two about choking, however, even if he wasn’t Crazy Grip. He pressed hard on two arteries.
Crazy Grip proved good at breaking grips too. Bone found himself shoved backwards. His fingers clawed at something and held, and he rose to his feet with Crazy Grip’s hood in his hands.
Bone and Snow Pine confronted the assailant and stared.
This was the pale woman from the Alley of the Scholars of Life, as Bone had begun to guess. He had not guessed she would be maimed.
She stood defiantly with a freed tangle of brown hair whipping in the wind, revealing that her right ear had been cut away. The scar was neat, as though she’d subjected herself willingly to the knife. She met their stares of wonder and pity with one of disdain.
“You’ve unmasked me,” the woman said, “but it will avail you nothing. If your fates are tied to the treasure hunters, you will fall. We’ll do whatever it takes to protect what we love. Even in the palaces of Riverclaw or Archaeopolis you cannot hide.”
Although she spoke of Eldshore’s capital she didn’t look like most Eldshorens, who tended toward somewhat lighter skin. She had the darker look of the Contrariwise Coast.
Like him.
“Talk is easy,” Bone said, in the dialect of that faraway place. “Bring that bone to some other dog.”
The woman blinked, as if hearing that lingo for the first time in decades.
“You are far from home,” he added more gently.
“Home is in the clouds now,” she answered in the Tongue of the Tortoise Shell.
“Fight another day,” suggested Snow Pine. “There’s only one of you up here.”
“You don’t know everything,” the woman said. She pulled forth an irregularly shaped piece of gray-black pockmarked stone that hung from a silver chain around her neck. “None of us is alone.”
As she crushed the stone into smoky pumice, his keen ears heard her whisper, “Not anymore.”
The dust erupted into a cloud looming over the rooftop. Dark as a thunderhead, it emitted a gentle rain of ash. Three fiery spheres appeared within its form, and Bone had the sensation of hate-filled eyes staring down at him. It was not the hate, he sensed, which one man might feel for another. It was more the hate with which a man might regard a biting insect.
“The mortals will try to follow me, Charstalker,” the one-eared woman said. “Prevent them.”
An arrow shot through one of the fiery eyes. Gaunt must have swiftly sized up the situation. Bone felt a swell of pride in his chest.
The smoke quivered and the eye transformed briefly into a blazing squiggle, drawing the character that meant Burn in the Tongue of the Tortoise Shell.
Bone felt a quite different emotion in his gut. On instinct he shouted, “Look out!”
Each eye belched forth flame. One bolt lashed at Bone, a second at Snow Pine, a third at Gaunt and the guards in the square.
Bone evaded, and in such a way that he was there to grab Snow Pine’s hand when her own dodge threw her off the roof.
As he helped her climb back up, he had a clear view of Gaunt, who’d dived out of the blast’s path. Others were not so lucky, and one man rolled to snuff his blazing clothing.
Bone also had a good view of the one-eared woman leaping to the ward wall and then the peony garden. He felt a gaze on his neck as he yelled to both Snow Pine and Gaunt, “Go! Help Quilldrake!”
“But you—” Snow Pine objected, staring at the smoke-thing.
“I’ve been dealing with magical lunacy since before you were born. Go!”
His wife, accompanied by guards, was already running toward the ward gate. Snow Pine jumped to the ward wall. His companions cared about him, and that pleased Bone; but they trusted his judgment, and that pleased him more.
He ran past the smoke-thing and into the bell loft, as three blazing eyes formed the
three characters for the idiom A clawless tiger.
“Indeed!” Bone called out, his voice echoing through the loft. “Come inside and say that!”
He checked the pulse of the unconscious priest beside the bell-rope. He was relieved to find the man alive.
Eschewing the stairs, Bone slid down the rope into the shaft as the sky darkened with smoke. Clanging announced his return to the temple.
In the nearly empty room of the statues, candlelight flickered upon basins of water. The Karvak lay against the jolliest-looking statue, a bloody hand pressed against a bloodier stomach. Nevertheless the warrior managed a weak smile. “I suggest you draw a weapon after all,” he said.
“Are you a follower of this faith?” Bone asked as he looked around at the chamber’s layout.
The Karvak shook his head. “But they are good employers . . . I respect them.”
“Do you believe them devout? My question has a practical thrust.”
“They are as fervent as any, and kinder than most.”
“Then,” Bone said, while an ashen cloud flowed downstairs like the stuff of a tipped-over volcano, “I will take a risk.”
The triple-eyes of the Charstalker shone with three fiery words. This time they were not in the Tongue of the Tortoise Shell, but in Roil.
TIME TO DIE
“You are wrong,” said Bone, snatching up a basin. “It is bath time.”
Bone muttered a prayer to the Swan Goddess for insurance and splashed upon the Charstalker what he hoped qualified as holy water.
The smoky entity tried to evade, but there was no missing those fiery eyes.
There was a sound like water dousing a campfire, and a shriek filled the chamber as the Charstalker twisted and coiled. One of its eyes was sputtering.
The two other eyes shot blazing lances at Bone, and he barely managed to take cover behind the bronze statue of the holy being offering a libation. The metal did not melt, but candles did, and bowls of ritual water steamed.
Under other circumstances Bone would have fled such a fight. But he’d been provided a chamber filled with weapons! He ran to the gold-plated statue, grabbed a wooden bucket, and drenched the Charstalker again. Smoke whirled like a cyclone, and a second eye grew erratic. A single blast burned its way toward Bone, but he was running already, a jug in hand. His next shot was wild, but now the Charstalker seemed worried; if smoke clouds could flinch, this one did.
The Silk Map Page 11
