In the Lion's Mouth

by Michael Flynn

  Ravn dipps her head. “Such was the plan.”

  “Your plan!” says Graceful Bintsaif. “You might have been killed. Had Donovan held back, you would have been.”

  Teeth flash. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Tell me, Ravn…” Bridget ban straightens, “who gave you the scars? Ekadrina? Did she vanquish the old man as she vanquished you; then hold you afterward for kaowèn? Or did Oschous lash you, for losing him the Padaborn card in his play for power?”

  “No one gave me the scars, Red Hound. I earned them. They are most seemly wounds, and well acquired beside; for principle might merit lash, and wear such welts with pride.”

  IX. YUTS’GA: THE MAIN ARGUMENT

  What words may capture combat grim

  Whose course evades narration’s ken?

  Surprise holds hesitant bold Ekadrina;

  The scarred man’s passion recks no such pause

  Nor ’tis shackled by single thought. First shot is his!

  And Ekadrina falls! But falling, rolls; and so evades

  The fatal blow, and vanishes misdt swaying grass.

  The parking lot becomes a hiding place. She finds

  Still forms there who once had followed her,

  Gazeless eyes on golden sky affixed, weapons all a-scatter.

  Those hands that lately clutched them clutch at naught,

  As if they seize at things unseen. Or else were seizèd by them.

  Shadows never more, they are become but shades,

  To plow a vague existence shorn of fleshly joys.

  They fade as holograms from aging substrate plucked.

  “How sweeter than the king of all the dead,”

  Achilles once proclaimed, “it is to slop my father’s swine alive.”

  But who can fight when fueled by thoughts like these?

  And failing fight, could hope the gods to please?

  Ah, what blows were struck, what feats performed! Only a portion of the combat passed before the receptacles of Olafsdottr’s shenmat, to be recorded, pondered, honored in later leisure. Despite the shock of Padaborn’s unexpected advent, Ekadrina survived his first onslaught, and from stealthy and ever-shifting positions took potshots at her foe.

  But Padaborn’s psyche had been split for just such affairs as this. He could consider options with half a mind while the remainder focused on the task at hand. No such fool as to trust his first shot fatal, he had winkled straightaway to a new position, one concealed, from which he might take his second.

  Had he been in more constant practice, he would have prevailed. And had she been uninjured, she would have prevailed. As it was, the fell combat joined an equity of impairments, so that while victory might elude them both, defeat could fall to either. Around them, as companion stars do orbit a bright primary, the remnants of the taiji, the trident, and the black horse battled in contests lesser to any but those whose lives depended on them. The flames of the warehouse had already spread to the underbrush, sought out nearby dwellings, overleapt the Endicott River at the Narrows, and even then stalked the skirts of Cambertown herself. Several magpies struggling in the nearby woods must have found their deadliest enemy not in one another, but in the encroaching flames.

  But much of this befell beyond the Ravn’s ken. Prone as she was, her shenmat’s view was limited and from an odd perspective. Padaborn showed himself briefly to draw fire and performed the Play of the Bundled Sticks. Ekadrina, from some location unseen, wafted a glider grenade, a spinning saucer that sailed across the grass tops before exploding. Only such fragments as these were recorded of this most celebrated struggle.

  But the Long Tall One was badly wounded. Earlier, she had battled Big Jacques to a draw—no mean feat in itself—and the brief, but intense combat with the masquerading Ravn and the encloaked Domino Tight, though it had ended improbably in her victory, had not been exactly a restful entr’acte. The passages had taken their toll, and when at one point she limped directly by Ravn’s unconscious form, the seeping blood on her left side glistened against the flat black of her garment.

  But Padaborn was little better off. Some of Ekadrina’s shots had told. The glider grenade had perforated his right leg and only the shenmat’s self-knitting powers had firmed up and staunched the wounds. And he had not fought a man à outrance since he had retired Billy Chins from the service nearly two years since.

  In the end, the Play of the Spider was his winning play, or should have been. Fortuitously near Olafsdottr’s body ran a depression in the ground, and into this depression Padaborn insinuated himself by inches, bringing himself to lie as one dead in its concealing embrace. He scattered crispies not about his own position but farther off, to his left. Then he waited, as still and patient as Death. The wind, excited by the growing fire, whispered through the grasses and weeds and through the more distant trees and carried with it the occasional snap of weapons.

  Betimes, the best stalk is to remain still and wait for the prey to come. It is a play oft used in extremity by those whose woundings hobble them. Stillness vanishes into the backdrop of the world. It is motion that catches the eye.

  And soon enough came Ekadrina creeping. Soundless, rustling not the grasses, she seemed to flow through the landscape, embracing it, making it her own. Not for her the snap of the crispies. She spied them sparkling in the even-grown sun and, smiling just a little, sidled to her left to avoid them.

  Padaborn erupted from the ground, seizing her by the ankles and toppling her like a caber. Her pistol went a-fling and she fell upon her back with a great whoof of breath, momentarily stunned.

  Padaborn—or perhaps one should say the Brute—seized hold of her ankles and dragged her, intending perhaps to swing her by the heels against the broken wall of the old guardhouse. But at that juncture a spaceship’s lander screeched across the skies above, and distracted even the multifaceted Padaborn, if only for an instant. But in that instant Ekadrina Sèanmazy hurled a chance-snatched stone at Donovan’s head while she scrabbled for her dropped gun.

  The Brute rolled, the stone missed, and the scarred man came to his feet with his own gun once more in hand, and …

  … And there they stood, panting, gun arms extended, at point-blank range, both of them dead but for a moment of mutual hesitation.

  Into the hiatus, Ekadrina inserted a grin. “You look like shit.”

  “You, too. You’ve never been prettier.”

  The lander canted and circled above them. Neither combatant spared it so much as a second glance; nor did they speculate on the allegiance of its owner. It fired impartially on all sides, but only to encourage evacuation of the battle space, and the remaining magpies melted away. Neither Donovan’s weapon nor his enemy’s wavered in the slightest. Each waited for the moment when a flicker of inattention would allow murder without effecting suicide.

  “Why not shoot?” the loyalist asked, perhaps from genuine curiosity. “When will you ever in your soon-to-be-foreshortened life have a bedder chance?”

  “I’d ask you the same, but I don’t want to put ideas in your pretty little head. This is what Terrans call a ‘Mexican Standoff.’”

  “Mexican. Ack. And how do dese ‘standoffs’ end?”

  “Badly, usually.”

  Each remained poised, each pondering the purposes of the approaching lander. Reinforcements, perhaps—but for which side? Peacekeepers sent by the Riff? The boots, goaded finally beyond endurance by the destruction wrought by the Deadly Ones? Perhaps the neutral Shadows had joined the fray at last, “against all flags”?

  And still Ekadrina did not fire. A wager, perhaps, that the lander brought assistance. But perhaps also prudence. A Padaborn mutually slain in glorious combat with the loyalist champion would be almost as great a coup for the rebels as one that lived and fought. Greater, perhaps, since a dead Padaborn could never go on to tarnish his mon with mistakes. She would much prefer to kill him without being killed herself.

  There was a slight wobble in the Tall One’
s stance. Her blood gleamed in the long sun of evening when she swayed. The Taiji was weakening.

  And not to split hairs, but the scarred man was not so steady on his feet, either. There is only so much adrenaline to go around. But neither did he pull the trigger, despite Ravn Olafsdottr lying motionless nearby.

  The lander settled onto the old parking apron and the ship’s guns took aim at both combatants.

  Ekadrina Sèanmazy might be loath to create a martyr, but if she thought herself about to die anyway, she might as well take that martyr along to man the ferryboat.

  But the Fudir forestalled her. “Had he wanted to kill you,” he cried, holding his left hand palm out, “he would have done that from the air already.”

  Calculation arose in the eyes of Ekadrina. She skipped over the motivations of the newcomer and went straight to those of her foe. “And why would you zee me liff?” Her ’Zarmayan accent emerged more strongly when stress had stripped it bare.

  “I would see you dead,” he answered, “to avenge the Ravn. But there are things you and I must speak of first, matters that lie only between us. Afterward is time enough to die.”

  Ekadrina blinked. “Shall it be a pasdarm, den? One of dose old traditions you and your ilk would o’ert’row?”

  “No, I will stalk you and kill you from ambush. Or hire it done.”

  “Dat is a hard t’ing. But what a pasdarm it would be! Da banquets, da entertainment. T’ink on da Shadows dat would gadder for da honor to watch. T’ink of dose who would offer demselves for prelim bouts! To be a prelim to da meeting of ’Kadrina and Gesh would win more glory dan top billing in any lesser contest. An ambush? A hired assassin?” She spat on the ground. “Where is da glory in dat?”

  Donovan stared at her. She was dead serious. He could almost see the skull emerge from underneath her skin. He could almost smell the smoke of her burning corpse. She was already dead, and only the details of time and place remained yet unsettled. “There is something more than a little mad in your ‘traditions.’ By the Fates! I had thought the Hounds tightly wound, but beside you they are lackaday, de’il-may-care Peacockers. The Hounds may flirt with Death, but you are in love with Him, all of you. You kiss Him on His rotting lips.”

  “Evert’ing is relative,” his enemy agreed. “Our lives are short, and fleet in a universe dat does not care. Dey are an insignificant blip in da march of time. So what matter if dey be shortened a tiny bit more? Dat is why we will win da Long Game. Da man who does not care too greatly for his life has da advantage over da man who might hesitate for love of it.”

  “The problem with the love of death,” the scarred man told her, “is that it is never unrequited. Tell me, Ekadrina…” And he tapped the side of his head with his free hand. “Did you do this to me?”

  The loyalist understood. “I oversaw da work. It was willed by Dose whose will is done.”

  “And were there others like me?”

  “What do you t’ink? Practice makes perfect.”

  “Another day, then?” Donovan returned his dazer to his holster.

  Ekadrina glanced at the lander, whose nose-gun twitched suggestively. Then she laughed. “Anodder day, den,” and holstered her own weapon. “And where,” she cried in affected indifference, pointedly looking about the field, “did I leaf my staff of office?”

  Donovan sagged against the low stone wall, the air draining out of him.

  Doors opened on the sides of the lander and a flock of magpies emerged and took up security positions. That both combatants were battered, injured, and had downed arms did not diminish their caution in the least.

  “Comets,” said Ekadrina. “Da old fool, Gidula, shows himself at last. I wonder if he will show da forbearance you have shown.” There was something in her voice that sounded like, If I go down beneath Gidula’s guns, I will not die before I can draw and burn you through.

  “I give you my word,” the Silky Voice said through Donovan’s lips. “If Gidula breaks our tacit truce, I will fight at your side.”

  Ekadrina looked at him sharply, as if she had heard the shift in personality. “Your word…” she hazarded with a shrug and began pulling first-aid kits from her bandolier and applying them to her hurts. “Tell me dis, Geshler Padaborn,” she added without looking up from her task. “Why are so many of your newfound allies dose who fought against you da first time?”

  SĪDÁO ZHWÌ: THE FINAL INTERROGATORY

  “When I awook,” the Ravn says, “Gidula’s lander was beside me, and I was soon aboard his ship, tubed and wired in the autoclinic, for Gidula wished me hale.”

  Bridget ban considers her for a long moment. “Yeees…” she says, drawing out the syllable. “I’m sure he did.”

  The Ravn’s face grows impassive. “I believe Donovan knows long-first this truth, and keep pretense for that sake. For that I forgive him his last betrayal.”

  Méarana plucks a question mark from the strings of her harp. “What the de’il are ye twa randering on aboot?”

  “We are alike,” the Shadow tells her, “your mother and I, in so many ways.”

  “In too many ways, I think,” Bridget ban adds, low. She turns to Méarana. “Ravn was concealing from Gidula the fact that Donovan had recovered his faculties. Donovan betrayed her by stepping forward as Padaborn to challenge Ekadrina. That, she could not conceal.”

  “Ah,” says Graceful Bintsaif. “That explains her scars.”

  Olafsdottr runs a hand along her right shoulder and down her arm, and cranes her head to study Graceful Bintsaif. She smiles wanly. “Scars far too easily won to merit honor.”

  Méarana frowns. “And Gidula had to be deceived because…” She pauses, and cocks her head. How alike is daughter to mother, not only in that gesture, but in the powers of imagination that the cock betokens. “Ah. He wanted a damaged Padaborn.”

  “Yes. He fetch Geshler because his mind destroyed. Billy Chins tell him so. Rebels rally round Gesh, but lose heart when ruined old man falter and fail.”

  “A subtle play,” says Graceful Bintsaif.

  “Disappointment subtle knife,” says the Ravn. “But subtlety his life’s blood.”

  “Was he subverting the Revolution, then?” says Bridget ban.

  “Gidula not want Revolution, only Rebellion. The stables must be cleaned, he told me; but not burned down.”

  “And in all that,” Bridget ban continues, “you were his willing instrument.”

  The Ravn shrugs. “What concern you which side I fight? Not your fight! Rebels tear apart Lion’s Mouth, despoil all what is loved. Abrogate ancient traditions; pull down revered ancestors; extinguish trust and bond among us. And for what? So these Names rule instead of those? Bother!”

  The outburst provokes a moment’s silence. “You must be,” says Bridget ban, “the one last patriot in the Lion’s Mouth.”

  The Shadow ponders that accolade in silence, wrings her hands together, stares at the floor. “No,” she says quietly. “Others, too. Poder Stoop. But … aye, few enough. Very sad thing, when brothers fight, sisters fight; old comradeships forgot.”

  “And all along it has been a power struggle among the Names,” says Méarana.

  “Obvious now, no? No noble rebels with freedom in teary eye. No stalwart defenders of ancient ways standing firm in doorway. Dawshoo and Ekadrina both puppets, dance to strings.”

  “And Gidula?”

  “A string. Oschous, I think, suspects much, but also thinks he maneuver powers to himself, so even clever men may be fools.”

  “But you turned against Gidula,” the Hound points out. “Otherwise, ye’d nae have advised the Donovan tae conceal his health.”

  “Donovan dead man if Gidula know.”

  Méarana’s hands close hard on the frame of her lap harp, but she fears to ask. She will not ask, though the words press hard against her teeth. Because Ravn had said only a moment ago that Gidula had finally learned.

  “An’ wha’s that tae ye,” Bridget ban asks, “if Donovan be a dead man?
Why should ye care?”

  Olafsdottr cocks her head so deeply that it seems to lie on her shoulder. “Is it soo soorprising, then,” she asks the Hound, “that soomeone might?”

  Bridget ban peers at her intently, then looks away. She rises from her chair and walks to the bay window. Already, the Dōngodair Hills lie in shadows. A few pinpoint lights mark old Clanthompson watchtowers, now in this more enlightened age mere beacons for travelers. She thinks about Donovan. Dead, now? Or sucked wholly into that unholy civil war amongst the Names. In either case, lost to the League; lost to Méarana. Lost even to herself, who never really had him. The long uncertainty now resolved. She need no more expect his unexpectedness: his knock at the door, his tread upon the carpets, his arms … She need no longer look for the unlooked-for return.

  It ought to relieve her.

  She remembers how Donovan had gone with Méarana into the Wild to search for her, despite his belief that to do so was death. She remembers that he was the first thing she had seen when she had awoken from that death-in-sleep into which the guardians of the Commonwealth Ark had placed her. She remembers too that he had been coming to Dangchao at last when Olafsdottr snatched him up on Jehovah. Should she condemn the Shadow for that, or thank her?

  She knows at last what the Shadow has come to ask and it grieves her sore that she cannot grant it.