Snow in the Year of the Dragon

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “Because of the Shogun-General,” said the Empress.

  “Because of the Shogun-General,” echoed the Seer.

  “There is already an Imperial kitten,” said the Empress. “So the monarchy is secured. Ho could remove me and serve as regent.”

  “He could,” said Sireth. “But then we have a dishonoured throne for sixteen summers. Even then, your daughter would not truly emerge from the shadow of scandal.”

  She thought a long moment.

  “Are you certain it is Ho?”

  “No,” he said. “He is adept at muddying his thoughts. I suspect Jet barraDunne has taught him this, but the threads were there, begging to be pulled.”

  “And you pulled them.”

  “As best I could, given the circumstances.”

  “If I leave,” she turned now to face them, her hands hidden in the wide indigo sateen of her sleeves. “How would this keep honour on the throne? I would have put my life above that of the Kingdom. That itself is disgraceful.”

  “You join me on the road to Agara’tha, saying the time has come for unity on all fronts. How better to show your people that you believe this than putting your hand to the task yourself?”

  “How can I do this when I am not allowed to leave Pol’Lhasa?”

  “Laws can be changed.”

  “Not in a Dragon year.”

  “And killing an Empress in a Dragon year is better?”

  “Have you seen my death, Seer?”

  “I have seen a metal dragon landing on the streets of DharamShallah and Ancestors climbing the palace steps. Forgive me if I wish it to be you whom they meet and not Ho.”

  “How could they meet me if I am with you in Agara’tha?”

  He had no answer for her. She was as stubborn as he.

  “And so,” she continued. “My answer is still no. I understand your concern for my safety but an Empress is only as secure as the Council she has established. If my Council sees fit to remove me in this way, then I alone am to blame.”

  “That is not your destiny.”

  “There is fate without destiny, Seer. I have dishonoured the throne. Perhaps, it would be my yuanfen.”

  “I’m certain that will comfort your daughter when she’s older.”

  Those golden eyes flashed now.

  “You are bold to speak to me this way!” she snapped. “I have granted you freedom but you press my boundaries!”

  Women moved, wary but discreet, at the uncustomary outburst of their Empress. The Bushona Geisha, she had said. He wondered if they would kill him if she ordered. He wondered if Ursa would let them.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “You are right and I am bold. I am also selfish. You are an inspiring Empress and I do not wish to see you removed from the throne.”

  She turned to the window.

  “Leave, Seer,” she said. “I have much to consider.”

  “And I have Agara’tha to run.”

  He turned with the customary whirl of his robes and the women descended on her, enveloping her in a riot of colour and pattern. The Panther Elite held the door for him while Ursa fell in at his side.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” he grumbled as they marched down the hallway, guards lining the walls like ebony posts. “She thinks she is being stoic but she’s just being proud.”

  “And how does she differ from you?”

  “The fate of the Empire doesn’t ride on my shoulders,” he grunted.

  “Perhaps you underestimate yourself.”

  With a lash of his tail, he caught her hand, brought it up to his lips. She always knew what to say, how to diffuse his temper face wrapped in black linen high in the cedar beams

  He slowed.

  “What?” said Ursa.

  balance and pipe to lips Dragon Tea into the riot of women

  He glanced at his wife. She knew.

  Together they turned and bolted back to the door. The Panther Elite stepped in front but with a clap of his hands, the door burst open. Seer and Major rushed through.

  The cloud of silent women turned and looked up. In the very heart of them, brush in hand, painting mountains with masai ink, the Empress also looked up. There was nothing – no riot, no attack, no murder. There was no ninjah, no sorceror, no hassassin, sneaking down from the cedar beams. It was utterly serene, utterly peaceful, utterly calm.

  “There,” he snapped, pointing, and the Major stepped forward, sending one of her shir’khins slicing through the air into the darkness.

  “Aiya!”

  With a rustle of night black, a figure dropped to the floor. She was a small woman and thin, her ocelot’s tail swaying behind her like a rudder. She lifted a tiny pipe to her mouth but a flash of steel sent the needle pinging off across the mosaic tiles. The Bushona Geisha shrieked and rushed into a defensive circle around the Empress as slowly, the ninjah rose to her feet.

  She tugged the shir’khin from her arm, stared at it a long moment before pitching it sharply toward the Empress. A Geisha lunged and the star disappeared into a flapping sleeve of blue silk. The ninjah snarled and stepped back, reached back to slide twin sai from across her shoulders. They gleamed in the lantern light. Slowly, the Major slid first katanah, then kodai’chi, from sheaths at her hips, and charged.

  The Panther Elite flooded in, tried to usher the Empress from the room but she refused, drawn by the dance of silver before her. Clang, ting and hiss, steel met steel in a flurry of spark and limb as the two women fought in a circle of guards. The ninjah lunged but the Major sprang back, deflecting the needle-like blade with the short sword and swinging low with the long. Red sliced into the black-wrapped thigh and the ocelot growled. She lunged again but a blow of the katanah sent one of the sai sailing across the floor. A panther stepped on it, pinning it to the stone.

  The hassassin glanced around her.

  “You are dead,” said Ursa. “Tell us who hired you and you will meet the Last Road with honour.”

  “Kunoichi have no honour,” said the woman. “But neither does the Empress.”

  She spun and flung the remaining sai into the chest of a panther behind her, blowing a needle into the hand of a guard standing beside. Both staggered and she bolted between them, racing across the short distance to the window. The Major was at her heels in an instant but as she passed, she sliced the panther’s ebony hand with her kodai’chi. It dropped to the floor with a thud.

  Fast and resourceful, the ninjah leapt out the small open window, twisting as she did to catch a bolt of silk fastened to the latch. The frame snapped tight and the woman slid down the silk, disappearing into the darkness. Sireth watched his wife slide to the window and lean out, her hair lifting in the cold night air. She brought the kodai’chi down again, slicing the silk. There was a cry from below and then nothing.

  She sheathed her swords and turned only to find herself surrounded by the swords of the Panther Elite.

  “Hand or life,” she snapped. “None of you thought of the sacrifice. You live in a palace. You are soft.”

  “She is right,” gasped the panther, cradling the stump of his arm. “I owe her my life.”

  Ursa crossed the floor once again, stopping to lift the hand from the ground. Already its tendons were curled into a fist.

  “Dragon Tea,” she said and looked up at her husband.

  “When you’ve seen the battles that we’ve seen,” Sireth began, turning to the Empress. She was an indigo spot in a riot of colour. “When you’ve survived the wars we’ve survived, nothing is the same. There is no ‘Way of Things.’ That way simply doesn’t work any more.”

  Ursa plucked the needle from the hand, held it up in the lantern-light.

  “We may not be accustomed to court politics,” her husband continued. “And in fact, we may be exiled or killed for our actions today but we will finish this, at least.”

  Ursa stepped over to the Bushona Geisha, to the clouded leopard in fuchsia silk, brought the needle close to her face.

  “You opene
d the window,” said Sireth. “Why?”

  The woman glanced from Major to Empress.

  “The Excellency needed air,” she said quickly. “I live to serve the Empress.”

  “I did not need air,” said the Empress.

  “Forgive please forgive, Excellency,” and the woman dropped to her knees.

  “You opened it for the ninjah,” said Sireth.

  “No.”

  “You are working for whom?”

  “The Empress knows all!”

  “And you live in the company of the Empress. What do you know, oh Bushona Geisha clouded leopard?”

  Slowly, the woman looked up. There was a fire in her yellow eyes.

  “The Empress has traded our Kingdom for the bed of a lion!”

  And she lunged forward, catching the needle in both hands and clasping it tight.

  “She has no honour and has forfeit the throne!”

  She began to rock and seethe.

  “She will tell us nothing,” said Ursa. “And losing both hands would kill her as surely as the poison.”

  “Let the poison have her,” said the Empress.

  “Shame comes to the House of Fangxieng! Shame sits on the old wooden seat!”

  But her words were little more than rasps and she fell forward, convulsions racking her body. The Empress looked up.

  “Prepare the Council,” she said to the Elite. “We are a kingdom at war. Seer and Major, please come with me.”

  And she left the Room of Yellow Hummingbirds, stepping over the body of the clouded leopard in fuchsia silk.

  ***

  I was certain that I would not enjoy the bubbling water.

  The Stonelilies noticed the wound on my back the first night as I stripped before them. Normally, I would have never disrobed before a group of women, but I was tired and after these last years, I have realized there is no dishonor in nakedness. The dogs removed my mane, my tail and my claws – that was a more profound nakedness than the loss of any clothing. Armor protects the shell. Nothing, I’ve found, can protect what lies within.

  Besides, Ling has told me that I have a pleasing body and it warms me to know that this body, as broken as it is, has made love to an Empress. Perhaps I should feel pride instead of shame, but I feel nothing at all in its regard so that, I suppose, is progress. It allows for the higher state to reign, and in this very dangerous place of bubbling water and simmering politics, I need to remain alert and aware.

  So, the water.

  The Stonelilies could see the wound caused by the Khargan’s kushagamak – the hook and cable weapon that almost lost the battle for me. It had closed up but was festering and I know that if left untreated, that it could certainly still bring my battles to an end. Many a man has died from a minor wound left untended.

  They spun me around to hover and fuss, but it was too late that night and I was content to merely slip on the rough linen robe, nibble a few handfuls of dates before wrapping myself in the coat of a bear and disappearing into the dark and dream-filled world of sleep. There were no gars, but there were dogs. I fear my dreams may never be free of monsters.

  The next morning, however, the Stonelilies woke me with butter tea, apricots, dried figs and something that looked like seaweed soup. I have only had seaweed soup once, never liked it, and I wondered how they would get seaweed all the way up into these mountains. Then again, if this was truly a New World, then it easily could be a major commercial center as well as a political one. I couldn’t see it, however, not with their tents and their kilns and their seeming lack of social order.

  Regardless, the seaweed soup was said to have healing properties so I had two bowls because I was hungry. Then, they made me kneel so that they could examine the wound. They noticed the wince of the knee too, weakened by rats and then by the Khargan. One day, it would be my undoing. It is said that a soldier is only as strong as his belly. I say he is only as strong as his knees.

  They dragged what looked to be a wooden stump towards me. I was surprised to see it was a stool, skillfully carved to look like a stump. They told me they were going to open the wound and needed me to hold the stump in my arms for they were afraid I would hurt them with my claws. I wouldn’t. I was far too disciplined (and had no claws), but in order to avoid dishonor, I obeyed. There was tugging from the wound and heat but soon, there was release and I felt liquids drain down my back. They surprised me by pouring the remaining soup into the wound, and then stuffing the seaweed into it as packing.

  Then, they said, the water.

  I am not a friend of water. No cat is, unless he is a tiger or Kerris, but they insisted. Three days of ritual cleaning if we are to see the Rising Suns of the Capuchin Council. It would have been pointless to refuse and, as I stepped into the bubbling, foul-smelling liquid, I tried to take my mind off the sensations. Perhaps it was truly an illustration of the turmoil going on in the world. Perhaps the elements knew something we didn’t. There was clearly a departure from Chi’Chen politics in the wind and I wondered which side we would be expected to fall on and why. The road to unification might not be smooth, given this new development, and I wondered if the Ancestors ever had this trouble.

  But soon, the water was all around me, buffeting my body like a Shiah’Tsu, and I instantly understood what the Stonelilies meant regarding healing and cleansing. I closed my eyes, hoping they would keep me from drowning as I slipped off once again to sleep. This time, I dreamt of Ancestors. I feared them more than the dogs.

  - an excerpt from the journals of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey

  ***

  They watched in awe as lightning flashed across the screens. Lightning and electricity and shattering plex and in the middle of it all, a grey lion that fought like a man.

  “Just a reminder,” said Celine Carr when the screens returned to the series of blue faces. “These creatures are dangerous and powerful and made by our enemies.”

  “Enemies?” asked Washington. “We’re not at war, Cece. Not anymore.”

  “Aren’t we? Are you comfortable with having creatures like this living and working with IAR tek?”

  Paolini studied the faces that belonged to the supervisors of Sandman 2. Carr, Portillo, Washington, Jorgenson, and Claire – closer than family, they charted the future of the EUS from bases across the continent known as NorAm.

  “Are they working with IAR tek, Cece?” Washington raised a brow. “Because I’m not seeing that in any of the grids.”

  “Yes,” said Claire. “Your report mentioned a Japanese style sword, not tek.”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” said Carr.

  “These are the same creatures that Jeffery Solomon insisted saved him, yes?” said Jorgenson.

  “Jeffery’s been compromised,” said Carr. “He’s the sole survivor of Sandman 1.”

  “Have the drones turned up any evidence that the IAR is back?” asked Claire.

  “No evidence of humans, no,” said Paolini. “But these humanoid creations are apparently thriving.”

  “Including a settlement on the site of the NPM,” added Carr.

  There was silence in the room for a long moment.

  “Is it still underground?” asked Portillo.

  “Yuh,” said the director.

  Paolini sat back.

  “Now, I’m not suggesting we pick up where we left off—”

  “But,” said Carr.

  “But,” he said. “If we were to require preemptive action, we need to know what we’re working with on our end. I’m asking you all to make lists of your assets. We can review them next comm charge, which should be…”

  He checked the window at his station.

  “…26 hours, 32 minutes. We’re good for that, folks?”

  Affirmatives all around, and quickly the screens folded up on themselves, leaving only the grey face of Cece Carr.

  “So,” she said, after a moment.

  “So,” he said.

  “Can we do a flight over the NPM, Maiden the settlement, an
d leave it barren?”

  “We could,” he murmured. “But that doesn’t get rid of the threat inside. Others might just move in later.”

  She grunted.

  “We could override the ion desorption levels,” she said. “Take out the entire compound in a few concentrated bursts.”

  “If it were above ground, I’d agree with you,” he said. “But underground, I’m not sure anything can touch it.”

  “Well, as long as it remains underground, we’re safe.”

  “For now, yes.”

  She nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line.

  “Well, I’ve sent you my list and my recommendations. But I’m the one dealing with the fallout of that creature, Tony. Not you, not Claire, certainly not Washington. And I can tell you that my people are terrified. I won’t let this happen again.”

  And her face disappeared, leaving the supervisor alone in the shadows.

  A place that was beginning to feel like home.

  ***

  It was late when Ursa returned to the Room of Enlightened Shadow. Originally a meditation room for high-ranking officials, it had been ‘reassigned’ to the Last Seer of Sha’Hadin and his wife. There was no bed, rather a set of wide cushions on the floor but Sireth didn’t mind. Compared to the straw mattresses of Sha’Hadin, and the icy ground of ShiBeth, it was opulent. Two leopards guarded the corridor, to protect him or to obstruct him, he wasn’t certain. Now, as his wife entered and the light streamed in, he pushed up to his elbows.

  “Well?” he asked. “How is she?”

  “Furious,” she said and she closed the door, sliding the katanah in between the latches as a lock. “No one knows anything.”

  “Naturally.”

  He watched her pull the silver doh from her shoulders, heard the soft thud as it hit the floor.

  “They are suspiscous of us.”

  The obi next, along with the short sword, greaves, sode and kote. Boots last, always last. Sometimes not at all.

  “Also, naturally.” He held up his great brown robe and she’d slipped under, warm and cold at the same time. “Was Ho there?”

  “He thinks we are dangerous.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her chin on his shoulder. Protecting yet controlling. It was her way. “He hates you.”