He spoke softly, calmly. Yet under his words the voice of the earthquake shivered in its sleep. Julana squeezed closer to her sister, fur prickling. “Grass King could get angry. Man must not make him angry.”
“Man is not stupid. Hush.” Yelena nipped at her ear.
Marcellan bowed again, deeper this time. He said, “I’m honored by your trust. I will abide by your rules. My word on it.”
“So be it.” The Grass King tossed the tally stick to Marcellan, who caught it one-handed. “Mo-Shirai!”
“Sire?” Shirai had stood with his head bowed; now he looked up.
“I leave it to you to make arrangements for escorts. That’s all.”
“Yes, Sire.”
The Grass King waved his hand, and the chamberlain once more unrolled the scroll before him. Shirai bowed again and gestured to Marcellan to follow him from the room.
“Grass King didn’t see us.” But Julana was not sure. The Grass King saw everything. “Didn’t choose to see us.”
“No.” Yelena’s voice was thoughtful as she hurried after Marcellan.
“So? Grass King is happy with us?”
“Maybe.” Yelena stopped and looked back down the corridor. “I don’t know.”
“He isn’t angry.” That was easy to tell. The whole palace quivered when the Grass King was displeased.
“I don’t know,” Yelena repeated. “Grass King is…waiting? Watching? Maybe he wants us to watch the man for him.”
“We can do that.” Julana nuzzled at her sister. “We like doing that.”
“Yes.” But even as they galloped to catch up with Shirai and Marcellan, some instinct of discomfort shivered through Yelena’s skin.
There had been a time, some misty distance ago, when the twins had not lived in the Rice Palace. It was an old, old memory, made up of earthy hollows and the raw scent of tree bark, of ice chill and summer heat, the hot taste of rabbit blood and the thrill of pursuit, the fear of fox musk and the lure of dusty cornfields. The Grass King had been there, in the scent of loam and rice plants, the solid feel of rock under paws, the howl and boom of wind around ridges and down valleys, the taste of grain and flesh and water. They did not remember the birth of the Rice Palace. That was a matter for the man-shaped creatures of WorldBelow. They knew only that somehow, somewhen, tree hollows and earth scrapes had given way to great warm granaries, full of rice to chew and mice to catch, then granaries to kitchens and pantries and huge wooden tables laden with already caught treats. The Rice Palace was their territory and their treasure, its lofts and corridors, halls and chambers and courtyards were theirs to explore and plunder as they wished, safe in the Grass King’s indulgence. For they were indulged, from the first moment he coaxed them out from behind a skirting board with a platter of shredded fowl. Courtiers and servants learned to curse quietly, when the twins gnawed a hole in a precious garment or stole and hid a pen, a jewel, a comb. The Grass King laughed when they tripped the footmen and bit through the harness of the bannermen, smiled when they raided his table, let them sleep on his cushions and under his chair. Others in the palace had duties and roles to fulfill. That meant nothing to the twins, except insofar as there was fresh bread to steal and inkpots to spill.
It had certainly never occurred to them to ask why others had duties, or what those might be. That was dull, irrelevant, other. Except, it transpired, to Marcellan. Qiaqia, polite and bored in her everyday uniform, offered to show him the gardens and the summer pavilions. Marcellan shook his head and asked instead to see the kitchens, where he helped the scullery boys to wash dishes, and carried trays for the cooks. Trailed by a scornful Sujien, he took tea with the clerks in the warren of the chancery courts, asking endless questions about the number-filled ledgers over which they labored day after day. Accompanied by Shirai, he played dice with the grooms of the Great Stable and the underfootmen, danced with the chambermaids and laundresses, told tales of WorldAbove to audiences of message boys and sewing girls. Waterfalls that roared from the height of the sky; deserts of sand so hot it burned flesh; men in scarlet robes over black armor with skins like his, the color of seasoned oak. Kings. “Not our king,” said Julana, wide-eyed. “Other kings, little human kings.” Tradesmen bartering dead metal for cloth or food or timber. Dwellings built of mud brick or wood or stone, shaped by hand, not called forth, clumped together in twos, in tens, in thousands. Men who walked at will in animal form, becoming deer or sparrows or dogs. “Human shapeshifters,” said Yelena, and felt the words shiver through her flesh. The twins looked at each other.
“Why,” Julana asked, “choose man shape? Blunt teeth and ears. No way to smell.”
Marcellan talked of objects, also: machines made by men to make other things. Some were familiar enough—waterwheels and sluices, carts and grain silos and wine presses. But others—presses to cut embossed discs or make marks on paper, furnaces to smelt metals, instruments to measure the sun. “But why not,” asked Yelena, “ask the Emperor of Air about the sun? Or the Fire Witch for liquid metal?” They could make no sense of it, and it fascinated them. Humankind saw the world so differently, made such complications out of simple things. When the Grass King wanted something, he spoke to the rock and the rock listened. His Cadre, with their gifts from the other domains, lent him when he needed it the skills of air and water, fire and darkness. “Humans are so solid,” said Julana, wondering. “So…so deaf to everything.”
WorldAbove was of little interest to most of the inhabitants of the Grass King’s domain. They had all they needed, here in his sphere; they were shaped to this life. Marcellan’s machines seemed like pointless toys. “And not,” said Sujien, quellingly, “even very amusing ones.” If the Grass King wanted multiple copies of something—a decree, a poem—his many scribes provided them, bent over their copy desks until the task was done.
“Scrolls are very beautiful,” Marcellan said. “But what if he wanted two thousand copies, not twenty? Twenty thousand?”
The numbers meant nothing to the twins. They looked at one another, puzzled.
“So many are not needed,” said Sujien. “The realm knows what the Grass King wants of it. We know. Writing is just for show.”
“It’s different, among my kind.”
“Naturally.” But Sujien was not interested. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned on the wall. He did this because the Grass King ordered it, but it bored him: that was clear. He did not like change in any form. It was not in his nature. “Air trapped by rock,” Liyan said, sometimes. “Always wanting to stagnate and be still.”
Liyan was almost as fascinated by Marcellan as the twins were, taking escort duty whenever he could. Liyan, called Firehand, leader of the Fire Banner, quick of hand and quicker of mind, maker of toys for the Grass King’s pleasure and of swords for the bannermen. He came to the Court of the Fallows late at night, or at breakfast, to ask questions about WorldAbove and its doings. He took Marcellan to the Grass King’s great halls full of curiosities, opening cabinets and chests to show him birds fashioned out of living metal by his own burning hands and gifted with sweet songs by Sujien’s breezes. His enthusiasm ruffled the twins’ fur, set them fluffing out and hostile. “Man is ours,” said Julana, spitting. “We chose him first. We came to him first.”
“Almost first,” said Yelena, more calmly. “Rice-tilling folk found him first and brought him to the palace.”
“And left him here.” Julana was not impressed. “We don’t leave him.”
That was true. They slept on his bed and ate from his plate, gamboled at his feet and stole lifts on his shoulders when they grew tired. And he smiled at them, fed them delectable tidbits, scratched their throats and bellies. He did not need Liyan, with his restless questions. He should not need Liyan.
They had no way of convincing him of that. Marcellan petted and fed them, but he did not hear their words, read nothing but the most straightforward emotions from their movements and postures. There was no way to urge him away from Liyan.
Liyan’s enthusiasms too often led to trouble. “He burned down the South Watchtower,” Julana remembered. “It scorched our fur.”
“He spoiled the harvest from the low plain district.”
“He had the Grass King make Qiaqia.” Both twins fell silent for a moment, contemplating that. Qiaqia and her Darkness Banner frightened them. There was death in her fingers, in the fall of her shadow. Qiaqia was impossible for them to predict.
“Liyan loves her,” Yelena said, slowly. “That’s why he had the Grass King make her.” The twins were not entirely sure what the inhabitants of the Rice Palace meant by “love.” It seemed to cause a great deal of amusement. And even more trouble, yet it could not be grasped or tasted or smelled.
“She isn’t happy.” Julana looked at Marcellan, asleep on his divan. “He didn’t ask her first.”
“Liyan never asks, except the Grass King. Never listens.”
“We could bite him.” But Julana was dubious. Liyan’s flesh was too hot. “We could chase him and tear his clothes.”
“He’d burn us.”
“We could upset things in his workshops.” Still, Julana was unsure. Liyan’s great workshops were full of fire and heat, of sharp things and heavy things, things that could harm them. They were full of the members of the Fire Banner, working alongside their leader on his many projects. Julana pressed close to her sister. “What can we do?”
“I don’t know,” Yelena said. “Watch. Stay with man. Wait. Maybe Liyan will lose interest.”
“Maybe.” Julana drooped. “He hasn’t lost interest in Qiaqia.”
“Qiaqia’s different,” Yelena said, as briskly as she could. But she, too, sagged. “Man is sensible,” she said. “Won’t take risks.”
“He came here,” said Julana.
Yelena had no answer for that.
“Your property.” Liyan spoke over his shoulder, coming into the room at an angle. A heavy set of saddlebags draped over his left arm. He turned, stepping into the room and let the door swing shut behind him. “There’s no reason for you not to have it. The Grass King has no objections.”
Marcellan rose from his seat before the loom. “Thank you.” He gestured toward the bed. “Perhaps there…”
Liyan ignored him, upending the bags in the center of the rug. Objects cascaded out, bounced and banged, thumped and clattered and rolled. Crouched beneath the loom, the twins leaped backward, fur on end. A quill landed under Yelena’s nose, making her sneeze. An inkcake followed it, splitting to powder the floor with brown speckles. A knot of garments landed with a thud. Julana twisted aside as a wooden frame skidded to a halt an inch or so from her tail. A chunk of gray stone bounced and rolled, coming to rest by Liyan’s feet. The air filled with new scents, wood gall and paper, old leather and road dust, salt and copper and old linen, and something more, something old and strong and hard. Marcellan, and yet not; Marcellan refined by this pattering rain of possessions. The twins looked at each other, extended cautious noses toward the nearest objects. Strange things, things from WorldAbove. Things that interested Liyan.
“I take it,” Marcellan said, “that you have questions.” His voice sounded amused. The long fringes around the edge of the loom stirred as he bent and began to pick up the objects. “Sit, then, and ask.” He pushed an armful of clothes under the loom and sat down where he had been before. The twins crept forward, fur puffing outward, flanks pressed to the soft, tangled pile of shirts and leggings. His scent deepened, and they calmed a little. Julana wormed her way under the pile and lay flat where she could see. Yelena slipped a little to the side, into the jumble of weaving wools. Ears twisted forward, whiskers curved, they settled in to listen.
Liyan pushed a crumple of scrolls aside and sat in turn. He reached forward and picked up a small dull object. “This,” he said. “You have many. What is their purpose?”
“What is it?” The object was hidden from the twins by the curve of his hand. Julana wriggled in frustration. “Bite him. Make him drop it.”
“Hush,” Yelena said. “Wait. Marcellan will tell.”
“Better to see,” Julana said, but she subsided.
Marcellan looked at the object and smiled. From the scatter of his belongings, he picked up a rattling leather bag, shook out a handful of its contents into his palm. Small dull blocks, metal scented…One or two bounced from his fingers to land beside the loom. Carefully, slowly, Yelena extended her nose toward one of them. It was a solid oblong, chipped away at one end to make a vague pattern. It smelled of lead and soot and gall, acrid and sour. She pulled back in distaste. Marcellan stirred his handful of blocks with his index finger, and said, “They’re letter blocks.”
Liyan rotated the one in his hand and looked at it. “Inverted letters. Not to be read directly.”
“Indeed. They’re for use in printing.”
“Explain.”
Marcellan reached for paper and ink. “It’s a method of creating books and documents. Like this.” His voice rose and fell as his hand passed over the page, making lines here, marks there. Liyan leaned forward to watch. In their warm good-smelling haven, the twins settled, listening more to tone than content. The creations of men held little interest for them, unless they were fun to play with or good to eat. This “printing,” with its dirty inks and lengths of flapping paper, sounded dull. They dozed, comforted by the rhythm of speech and the familiar scents.
Liyan said, “I don’t see the need for such things. Why books?” Something in his tone snarled in Yelena’s ears, ruffled her fur. Her eyes slitted open. Her tongue licked at her teeth, found them sharp and ready.
“Records are useful,” Marcellan said, mildly.
“Records, yes. But this duplication…What purpose does it have?”
“It allows information to spread more easily.”
Liyan put his head to one side, considering that. “Talking serves the same purpose.”
“But reaches fewer people.”
“There are messengers.”
“Indeed.” Marcellan leaned forward. “But consider: Messengers are sent to specific individuals. Their messages are limited, their audiences preselected. Whereas a printed text can carry that message to anyone who can read it. It makes sharing knowledge easier.”
Liyan frowned. “It’s good to learn new things. But it’s for the Grass King to decide what should be known.”
“Why?”
Yelena nipped her sister’s ear. Some questions were not to be asked. Especially not of the Cadre. Julana started, hissing. Yelena’s whiskers bespoke danger.
Liyan’s eyes widened. He said, “The Grass King decides. That’s how things are.”
“Yes, but why are they like that?”
Julana rose, shaking herself free of Marcellan’s shirt. All along her spine, her fur bristled. Marcellan did not understand; this was not his place.
Liyan said, calmly, “It is his nature.”
“Ah.” Marcellan rested his hands on his knees. “Well, perhaps that’s true, here. But among humans—in WorldAbove, as you call it—why should it be like that? There’s no real reason why some people decide and others don’t. It all depends on circumstances, on where someone is born, on wealth and access to things like food and water and resources. No one has more real right to knowledge than anyone else. It’s just chance.”
“WorldAbove isn’t my concern,” Liyan said. But his voice was interested. He went on, “So your printing is meant to share knowledge more widely.”
“Yes.”
“And you came here to learn…” There was a long moment of silence. Liyan sat quite still, eyes fixed on Marcellan, hands folded in his lap. Under the loom, the twins were poised, ready to spring. Liyan shook his head. Then he smiled. Then, all at once, he began to laugh. Through it, he said, “It’s all about change.” And then, more soberly, “Perhaps I might make one of these printing devices. Will you assist me?”
Marcellan nodded. “With pleasure.”
“Good.” Liyan started to rise,
hesitated, and picked up something else. “This is not a letter block.” He held it out: a lump of stone, half the size of his palm. “It feels…familiar.”
Marcellan looked at it. “I don’t know where that came from. It must have fallen into my bags when I came here. There was an earth tremor.”
“So it’s of WorldAbove?” Liyan considered the stone. “Interesting. Useful, perhaps. But it’s old.” He slipped it into his sleeve. “Perhaps I will ask Shirai. He understands such things better than I.” Rising, he nodded. “A printing press. I must start work. I’ll return in a while.”
The twins pressed close together. Liyan was planning. The consequences of that were seldom comfortable.
17
The Courtyard
of the Clepsydra
ON A PILE OF SOFT PILLOWS, AUDE RECLINED. At her right hand a brass pitcher full of clear water and a platter of oranges sat upon a low table. A small bowl held a selection of nuts and candied fruits. A warm light breeze played through the window lattices, scenting the air with citrus and spice. Her garments were silk, her cold-abused skin soothed and polished with oils and lotions, her hair—trimmed to new tidiness—hung shining and clean around her face and neck. She had dreamed for weeks of such comfort.
She was seething. Two days and nights had passed, insofar as she could judge in this place without sun or moons, and she was no nearer to finding a way of any kind out of the courtyard. Room by room, foot by foot, she had explored it all. She had opened every chest, every drawer, every cupboard, and found only clothes and embroidery frames, sherbet glasses and cosmetic sets and dust. Standing on stools, on chests, she had tested the strength of each filigree window and found them unshakable. Dragging the tallest chest she could move, she had attempted to scale the wall that closed off the fourth side of the courtyard, and found its plaster surface unclimbable. She had tapped walls, pressed bosses, lifted hangings and carpets and piles of cushions. She had found nothing.
The Grass King’s Concubine Page 20
