To Walk in the Way of Lions

by H. Leighton Dickson

  He pushed himself away, sheathed his blades and stepped toward the Scholar. She gaped at him. “That was…that was…”

  “Immaterial to you, sidala. The Alchemist? Does she live?”

  “Um…” Fallon looked back at the cheetah, unmoving and bloodied but breathing. “I think she’ll be fine. It hit her pretty hard…”

  The Captain bent down and gathered the woman into his arms, straightened himself. He turned to his people.

  “We leave now. Is that understood?”

  “Um, shouldn’t we bury—“

  “Now.”

  “Okay…”

  And he carried the Alchemist to his horse and mounted with her, spurring alMassay ahead down the high mountain path in these not-so-big mountains. And the sun rose a little higher in the sky over these this last of the Dry Provinces, which had indeed proved their reputation true yet again. The Great Mountains, it seemed, were not the only things that died here.

  Shiryia

  It is impossible to believe that people do not need to talk to each other.

  For three days, the party rode, sleeping little, eating less, rationing the last of the water until the falcon returned, followed by a troupe of soldiers sent by the Magistrate of Sharan’yurthah. As requested, the Magistrate had sent supplies, food, water, fresh clothes, and all of this was used up without a single word shared between the six that now traveled to the Edge of the World.

  Not a single word.

  Now, perhaps you might say that after so many months in each other’s company, they simply knew each other too well to need words. Or perhaps you might say that they needed to conserve their strength for the ordeal that still awaited them. And you might be right, to a certain extent, but perhaps you might also know that these would only be excuses for what was really happening, and what was really happening was not a pleasant or honorable thing. Although in reality it might have been a good thing.

  You see they were broken beyond belief but too stubborn to admit it.

  The Alchemist can be excused from this particular sin, as she slipped in and out of sleep for the majority of the trip into Sharan’yurthah. She had many sins, this particular cheetah, and was as stubborn as the all others, if not more so, but for this particular stretch of obstinate silence and the reasons behind it, she was innocent.

  The Scholar was shocked and horrified and seriously revisiting her decision to hate the Captain, and refused to talk to him because of his actions toward the Seer and of course, Kerris.

  The Seer was shocked at himself, at how he had not seen the attack, and the words of the Captain had struck him to the very heart. He had slipped into a melancholic mood and had spent most of this last leg of the journey riding his horse with eyes closed, meditating.

  The Major was furious with her Captain for his harsh words, with the Seer for accepting them, with the Scholar for being unhelpful and girlish, with the Alchemist for being wounded and therefore drawing the Captain deeper into her dark world of secrets, and with Oded, for not simply dying like the others and needing her help in many small things.

  The Captain was, as you might know by now, a complicated individual, but to put it simply, he was undone. He had been pushed far beyond his boundaries in both the physical and emotional realms, and the revolutionary idea of ‘his own glass’ had turned his controlled and orderly world upside down. You see, the very nature of polishing anything necessitates friction. Without friction, nothing is worn away and nothing can become smooth or clear. Sometimes, just the simple act of recognizing that one is wrong is the first painful step to correcting it.

  First is luck, second is destiny. (Third is feng shui, fourth virtues and fifth education but these are immaterial to our story.) And yet the Captain had spent his life as if he lived in the reverse, as if his was the destiny and not his brother’s. He sat now, on this the second night since their arrival in Sharan’yurthah, on the very edge of the known World, he wrestled with himself, his fears, his values, his righteousness and he realized that for the first time in months, he was very, utterly and completely alone.

  He sighed and looked around the dark, beautifully appointed room. The walls were cedar, intricately carved and stained so that they shone in the lamplight, and through the arched window, he could see the lights of the city. It reminded him of his chamber in the Palace of Pol’Lhasa. This was no palace however, and not even a Governor’s mansion. The capital was Damath’cashand that was farther to the south, safer and more insular than Sharan’yurthah, with more amenities than this northern stronghold border town. But still, the Magistrate lived well here in his high-walled estate, with color painted upon color and arched doorways and fine rugs everywhere. For the first time since TheRhan he had taken tea from a porcelainecup, eaten meat roasted from an ox, slept on a mattress stuffed with down from native geese. And yet, he couldn’t remember a time in all his life that he felt more miserable than he did now, and he knew is his heart of hearts why.

  He had lost himself.

  It had been coming, he’d known it from the start, from the moment he hesitated with the elder ocelots on the road to Sha’Hadin. Something about this journey sought to master him, to make him abandon his honor in favor of another prize, and it was a desperate, hollow thing. There was an ache inside, for his heart was being pulled in too many directions and he was missing much. Usually, it was acceptable but now, with so many dead and those alive left so broken, he wrestled with the cost.

  There was one small thing he could do, however, so he rose from the floor, snuffed out the lamp and headed out into the hall to do it.

  ***

  The corridors in this fine house were all the same, high-walled and stained cedar, but he found the Seer’s room easily by the presence of the snow leopard sleeping at the foot of the door.

  When she opened her eyes, the look she gave him froze his blood. He had caused that, he knew, had turned her heart away just as he had the Scholar’s. He made it a point to make it up to her at a later date.

  “Major, you have your own room.” The first words spoken in days.

  “My duty is to protect the Seer.”

  “Major,” and with an unexpected rush of tenderness, or perhaps it was guilt, he knelt down beside her. His katanah clattered against the coolness of the tile floor. “You need to sleep. I need you rested and sharp when we leave this place.”

  She said nothing.

  “I need to speak with the Seer.”

  Her eyes flashed at him, but still she said nothing.

  “So if you will allow me to take this watch from your shoulders, I would very much like for you to go to the room appointed you and sleep until dawn. He will be safe.”

  Her chin rose, ever so slightly, and he knew what she was thinking. It pained him because he himself had authored it.

  “You do not believe me.”

  “No. I do not.”

  His hand fell to the hilt of the long sword, and he pulled it from its sheath. He offered her the handle. She eyed it, then him, before taking it. She held out her hand for the short, which he also gave up. Without them, he felt unclothed, defenseless. Tucking each under her arms, she held out her hand for the last, not sword but dagger, the tanto. He slipped it from his boot and again hilt first, offered it to her.

  She grunted. “You still have your claws.”

  He tried to smile, and flexed them to their fullest, long and sharp and dark, dark gold. “I cannot surrender these. I’m afraid you’ll simply have to trust me.”

  She grit her teeth. “If you kill him, it will dishonor me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you dishonor me, I will kill myself to restore honor.”

  “I will not kill him.”

  “You should not have said what you said.”

  “I know.”

  “You should not have wiped the blood on him. That was dishonorable.”

  “I know.”

  “Sometimes…” she cut her words short, looked away, wrestling with his rank an
d her fury. But when she looked back at him, there was something in her eyes, a cold, sharp blade of its own. “Sometimes, you are wrong.”

  Now it was his turn to look away, and the muscles in his jaw rippled as he worked to control his responses. The Bushido never took offense. There was no dishonor in being wrong, only in the handling of it.

  There is only desire and the sorrow that it brings.

  He nodded.

  “Sometimes I am wrong.”

  And she rose to her feet, a tiny silver shadow wrapped with so many weapons – her own and now his - and marched off down the hall, her precariously high boot heels making sharp angry clacking sounds as she went.

  He sighed, pulled himself together, and pushed into the room of the last Seer of Sha’Hadin.

  ***

  His back is stiff and his legs ache from too much time in the trees, but he has a good load today, both of husks and canes, and the curved mashettee bumps lightly against his thigh as he walks. At least the rattan isn’t heavy, not as heavy as bricks or wood or bodies or any of the other loads he has carried in his lifetime, and this way, he can choose his own canes for the chairs. He can control the length, diameter and quality, and it feels good to have this much control over any area of his life.

  The forest is thick and dense and hot, but he loves it all. He loves the mangroves and Sundari trees, whose stumps can easily be made into play forts for kittens. He loves the vines that reach down from the overhead canopy, which can easily swing a kitten for hours and hours on end. He loves the mangoes and papyuahs and bananas, especially the bananas which his father-in-law has taught him to roast in sugar-cane and honey, which can keep a kitten happy and sticky for hours.

  And most of all, he loves a certain kitten, a little girl kitten with great golden eyes and long black hair in many braids with a pelt liberally sprayed with tiger stripes and cheetah spots, a kitten who calls him ‘daddy.’

  He pauses at the edge of the forest when his home comes into view, a very small kachkah house that he is gradually changing over to a pukka, with more stable stones and clay tiles. Up on stilts to weather the rainy season and occasional flood, it is still mostly wood, bamboo and thatch, but it keeps them warm and dry and together. It is about a two day walk from Shathkira, just close enough to be profitable but far enough to be safe.

  He sees her dark shape split from the shadow of the doorway and she steps out onto the verandah, Soladad perched on one hip. He can tell immediately that something is wrong. Carefully, he lays down his bundle and crosses the clearing towards the house.

  Shakuri smiles at him, but her eyes do not.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she says. “He says his name is Nemeth. He says he is your brother.”

  And a man with the uniform of a soldier and the face of a lion steps out of the doorway and into the light…

  “Sidi, no!” but it was too fast and he was unprepared as the Seer grabbed his throat and rushed him into the far wall. Kirin was stunned, amazed in fact, at the strength of the man. Now, with a flip of an arm, he was sent flying through the air to hit the floor with a thud. Naturally, he rolled with it, coming up in a crouch, prepared for the next attack but none came. benAramis stood stock still, breathing heavily, taut as an over-wound spring.

  “You?”

  “Yes, sidi,” Kirin said from his crouch on the floor. He did not know if he should move yet. “Just me.”

  “Not that,” the man snarled and punched a finger at him. “Not that!”

  “Not what?” Kirin frowned, not certain now whether the man was himself again or not. “I do not understand.”

  “I have let you take everything, Captain. But I will not let you take that.”

  Slowly, Kirin rose to his feet. The odd, one-eyed gaze followed him, almost a challenge.“I was not trying to ‘take’ anything, sidi. You were meditating. I tried to rouse you, but you were not… answering.”

  “So? You felt free to intrude on my meditations?”

  “I merely touched your hand.”

  “Do not do it again.”

  Just like the days back at the monastery, before battles had been fought, won and lost, at each other’s side.

  “I wish to speak with you.”

  Sireth snorted, a sound more likely to come from the Major than him, and he drew himself up to his full height. “Oh, so we are speaking now, are we, Captain? Your Bushido is a capricious master. Have you had enough of silence?”

  “I have had enough of death, sidi. Which is why I wish…no, I need to speak with you.”

  The man folded his arms across his chest. “If you are insisting we continue this journey, then I can assure you that you have not seen the last of death.”

  Kirin sighed, nodded, looked at his feet. He was a soldier weary of fighting. He was weary of death. He was very, very weary.

  One did not need to be a Seer to sense this. “Very well. If you wish to speak with me, then you must find me, for I am going drinking. Stop me as Captain or join me as friend. Your choice.” And he paused only to blow out the lone candle in the room and stormed past, his long legs taking him out of the room in a heartbeat.

  Kirin shook his head, but followed.

  ***

  It was very dark in the streets of Sharan’yurthah, for the curfew gong had been sounded hours ago, and the gates of the city drawn tight. There were regular patrols however, pairs and trios of soldiers going about their business, whether on or off duty or a combination of both. Several stopped to rebuke them, to send them back to their abodes for the night, but once they spied the flash of Imperial gold, all left them well enough alone.

  Kirin followed only a pace or two behind, again finding himself surprised at the length of the Seer’s strides. He felt like a kitten trying to keep up. The man did not seem to know where he was going, or if in fact he was going anywhere at all, for he kept his head down and simply walked as if working something through. But suddenly, he stopped, and the Captain had to backpedal so as not to run into him. The Seer looked left, down a long dark clay-tiled street and continued to stare for several moments. It housed an Inn a good ways down. It was obviously an Inn by the lantern perched above a sign – the Yellow Scorpion. He turned and marched toward it, the Captain lengthening his own stride to keep up.

  It was an Inn indeed, a very unusual one. It looked like a mongrel itself, a blend of all elements of the Upper Kingdom, with red walls, black chairs and low tables, but it had cushions everywhere, so that the tables and chairs were not required. It had beaded curtains and golden shrines, incense pots and water pipes. Cats of all races reclined in a riot of color, and even in the low lantern light, it was obvious that the Yellow Scorpion was a popular place. People lounged, laughed and drank in every corner of the building, men and women both, although Kirin was certain that there were very few wives present. In fact, along the many sides of the entrance hall, there were rooms with rice paper partitions, lit up from the inside so that all activities within were clearly viewed from the bar, in silhouette.

  Kirin made it a point to keep his eyes off the rice paper partitions as he moved through the tables and cushions and bodies to the bar.

  The Seer had already finished his first bowl of sakeh, was waving his hand in the air to the tiger behind the bar for a second. There were stools so he grabbed one and sat, most uncomfortably, studying the barkeep and the flasks of drink, anything to avoid the rice paper. The smells were overpowering, incense and sakeh, beef and cat, licorice, one scent in particular that he could not identify but could guess well enough, all mingling together and fighting for dominance. There was music here too, playing from somewhere on the balconied second level, and again he could see cats moving around upstairs, dancing girls lost in their craft, men lost in the art of them. It was not his sort of place. He did not feel welcome here.

  He looked at the Seer, who was staring into the clear depths of his sakeh bowl.

  “She was very beautiful,” the Captain said finally.

  The Seer lo
oked at him out of the corner of his good eye. “Another bowl, please,” he said to the tiger and soon, a third was placed in front of him.

  “Do you think that is wise?” asked Kirin.

  “It’s not for me,” and he slid the bowl over with the tip of a black claw.

  “Ah,” said Kirin. “I don’t drink sakeh.”

  “I gave you the choice of stopping me or joining me. You are doing neither. Besides,” he swiveled on his stool, propped his elbows on the bar to watch the activities going on behind one of the particular partitions. “You will need it.”

  Kirin shook his head. From the silhouettes, a man had just enjoyed the company of two women, and the women were pulling up him from a wealth of cushions on the floor. Somehow, Kirin was certain the women were not his wives.

  “I wish to leave the day after tomorrow, before dawn,” he said as he watched the shadowy trio dig round the floor in attempts to find their clothing.

  “I know.”

  “I wish to leave the Scholar and the Alchemist behind.” One woman was slipping into loose hareem pants, another into several layers of skirting.

  “I know.”

  “We have met death at every turn. I do not wish to see them injured more than they have been already.” The cholis next, short-cropped and tight-fitting to enhance their rather remarkable shapes. He knew he should not be watching this. It was not helpful.

  “I know.”

  “Now I need only to ask you what you would have me do about the Major.” Fully dressed now the women showered the man with kisses, made a game out of hunting for his clothes. All of this in silhouette. All of this a kabuki. He shook his head again.

  “The Major?” Now the Seer was looking at him, bowl of sakeh balanced in one hand. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Do you wish her to come with us, sidi? Or should we leave her as well?”

  He pursed his lips, turned back to watch the trio. “Why would you ask me?”