Before long, a wall of white stone blocked their way, suspended halfway above the pitted floor as if stuck. The Xióngmāo woman threw them a look before bending and slipping her way beneath the rough edge. Fallon looked to the young bear at her knees. He pointed.
“Under there?” she asked. “We go under?”
He put the stick of bamboo between its teeth, bending forward and sliding under almost on his belly. He held out his hand. Fallon glanced at both Alchemist and Stonelily but she took it, and scraped under the wall.
What she saw on the other side took her breath away.
***
He had just come from seeing the Empress. She was rested and alert and fully aware of what had happened in the War Room. She had not spoken of it, but she knew. She had given him permission to leave, and he found he couldn’t get back to his room fast enough. Agara’tha was calling. His thoughts had been crowded ever since setting foot in DharamShallah, and more so here in the Palace. A monastery far removed from such chaos sounded perfect for Farsight and Vision, even though it be filled with incense.
“Sahidi,” came a voice and he turned. The corridor was wide and busy, but he could see Chancellor Ho flowing toward him, blue and silver robes sweeping the floors like brooms. People gave him a wide berth.
“Chancellor.”
“Do you have a moment, sahidi? I wish to speak with you.”
“I—”
“Here, in the Seven Candles.”
And the man gestured to the rice paper doors of an Imperial prayer room.
“Are people praying?” Sireth asked. “I’d hate to disturb them if they’re praying.”
“There will be no disturbance,” said the Chancellor and he turned, flowing through the doors like water. The Seven Candles was a prayer room with far more than seven candles. It was scarlet, with torches and incense pots and kettles and bells. Six ministers were present, some kneeling, some seated cross-legged, the rest moving from statue to statue, spinning prayer wheels and counting holy beads, writing on parchments only to burn them, their prayers rising up to the heavens on trails of smoke. It was a holy room but cats are, after all, a holy people.
“Ministers of Pol’Lhasa,” began Ho. “The Last Seer of Sha’Hadin is in need of the Seven Candles. Please leave now.”
As one, each man looked up and nodded, and within moments, the room was empty save the Chancellor and the Last Seer of Sha’Hadin.
“No disturbance?” asked Sireth.
“None at all. You are leaving for Agara’tha?”
“I am, yes.”
“Are you taking an Imperial palanquin?”
“I will walk.”
“It is a day’s journey by foot. Perhaps you could meditate while the palanquin carries you?”
“Walking suits me.”
And the Chancellor turned to face him.
“I know what you did.”
“Ah, the Room of Enlightened Shadows,” said the Seer. “I can explain—”
“You have such power,” said the Chancellor, “To make her sleep from across the room. You can do this with a thought?”
The Seer inclined his head.
“I am the Last Seer of Sha’Hadin. I live to serve the Empress.”
“Kill it.”
Sireth blinked.
“I said, kill it!” Inside his sleeves, Ho’s fingers curled into fists. “If you have such power, save our Empress and kill this child before it is born.”
“I cannot,” said the Seer. “I will not.”
“You must. Not all the sham’Rai in the world can protect her if the city knows what she has done.”
“The Great Golden Lion has given them a sign.”
“It will not save her,” said the Chancellor. “Our people are not fools.”
“But they are foolish,” he said. “And very superstitious, I’ve learned. They want to believe in magic, in legends, in things beyond their understanding.”
“You know nothing of our people.”
Ho stepped forward, white tail lashing beneath the blue robe. The Seer was tall, his cheetah heritage evident in the length of his legs. The Chancellor was Sacred, his face coming only to the mongrel’s chest.
“They gossip and grumble. They will be tickled by the idea of a miracle child, but once it is born, they will gossip and grumble.”
“If the people must grumble about a fatherless child, then their lives are too easy,” said Sireth. “The Ancestors are coming. No one will grumble when their dragons flash across the skies.”
Ho shook his head.
“You talk about Ancestors, but still there is no proof.”
“I am the Last Seer of Sha’Hadin,” said Sireth. “The people need more proof than that?”
“Only a small group of ministers was privy to that briefing,” said Ho. “And of those, an even smaller group believes.”
“Do you?”
“I do not,” he said. “It is a fantastical tale which cannot be proved or disproved, absolving the teller of legitimacy.”
Sireth stared at him for a long moment, before swinging his hands up to the sides of the man’s head.
Ho’s eyes grew round as the mongrel moved in.
“This,” said Sireth, “Is Jeffery Solomon. See him. See his peltless face, his clawless hands, his brown brown eyes…”
“No…”
“And there are more. Kerris Wynegarde-Grey says there are more. He has seen them. He and the Scholar have been where there are more. An Empress and her mongrel baby are nothing compared to Ancestors.”
Ho grabbed the Seer’s wrists with his hands, purest white against spots and stripes.
“I live to serve the Empress,” Ho gasped. “And I can assure you that she can face any threat if her honour is pure and uncompromised.”
“You speak of honour?” The Seer pressed his thumbs now into the lush temples. “Did you hire the hassassin to kill the Empress? I will know if you lie.”
“No!” snapped the man.
“Did you pay the Geisha in fuchsia silk to hire the hassassin? I will know if you lie.”
“No, I did not. I would die myself before I let my Empress die. I have served her since her twelfth summer.”
“Do you know who did hire them?”
“Again, no!”
“Hmm.” He spread wide his fingers, crushed them into the slick white hair. “One last question, then, on the subject of killing and honour. Was it so easy for you to order the death of Captain Wynegarde-Grey? You know I will know if you lie.”
The Chancellor released a long breath.
“Yes,” he hissed. “It was so easy. The Captain compromised the security of the Empire like no other individual. His death was necessary.”
Sireth grunted.
“And yet, he is not dead. Moreover, he is now the sire of an Imperial child, something he would never have dared before your clever plan.”
He released the man, took a step back as Ho sagged into his robes.
“Dharma is a cruel mistress, Chancellor,” he said. “You of all people should know this.”
“I do know this, sahidi,” Ho growled. “As do you. And I so ask you once again, for the sake of the Empire and for the love of our Empress, before you leave, kill the child within her. Please.”
Sireth whirled and strode past the Chancellor, but paused.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Arrange a palanquin for me. I leave at once.”
He left the Seven Candles and did not look back.
***
Twisting and pulling, the world in all its infinite darkness exploding in a big bang of light and colour and he is being pulled from within to the surface and he doesn’t want to go. The darkness is far better than the colour of the blood. Blood in the sac, blood in the Griffen, blood in the center of the world and as he rises from the dark, there is a sound that is almost as unsettling.
It is the sound of a man screaming.
Solomon opened his eyes as the quiet settled onto his bo
nes.
The room was white and brightly lit – disturbing for someone coming out of such a gut-wrenching, stomach-churning sleep and he lay very still as the room spun for several long moments. There was the hum of podlights, the sharp tang of ozone and he flexed one wrist, not surprised to find it fixed to the table where he lay.
He had been here before.
Dreamtime.
People don’t turn into animals, Persis
The conversation came crashing back into his memory, and, not for the first time, he wished life had gone differently.
Each and every one of us is carrying the very gene that would respond to the Chimera virus.
It was true. He knew it in his bones. They were all carrying the Chimera virus. The Kuri were people. Had been people. Six supers. Hopeful monsters, all of them, as the genetic theory had once suggested. Best to leave the world to the cats and be done with it.
Inhale deep, exhale slow. Inhale deep, exhale slow. Still, it took a long time before his breathing returned to normal, and finally, above his head, he heard the ping of a monitor. Like before, the MVS Ring rose out of the arms of the bed and he watched it curve gracefully before meeting in the middle with a seamless click. Its hum was as familiar as the Griffen’s engine, and it purred its way down his legs, then back up to his head, before returning to its default over his belly.
There was a sound.
A scrabbling, ticking, clicking sound. He didn’t remember it from his first waking.
“Jarrah?” he asked and immediately the sound stopped. “Romeo? Is that you?”
Nothing.
He waited, worked on keeping his breathing slow and silent. Maybe it was the Ring. Maybe he had just forgotten. Maybe he never really remembered.
He shook his head.
“The patient is awake and alert and ready for discharge,” he said.
“MDID?” said the Ring in its artificial voice.
“Solomon, Jeffery Anders. SLS7554b37Q.”
“Passcode?”
“Tango9931.”
“Version?”
“Seeker 4,” he said, grateful for the scrap of memory.
“MDID confirmed. Patient discharge confirmed. Welcome to Dreamtime, Dr. Solomon.”
And the Ring hummed again, retracting into the arms of the bed. The wrist braces clicked open and in his peripheral vision, something moved across the floor.
Tick, click and rattle, and he lay perfectly still as a dark shape bobbed into view. Sickle shaped and bulbous, it looked like a scorpion’s stinger and his heart froze in his chest.
A scorpion the size of a goat.
Dreamtime. He was in Dreamtime. Surely there couldn’t be scorpions in Dreamtime. If there were, he was in big trouble.
The tail bobbed forward toward the head of the cot, disappearing from view with a rattle and click on the cold, hard floor. He cast his eyes around the room, looking for anything that he might use against it.
It was the same room as before, empty and clean, with beds in neat, orderly rows. He lay perfectly still as the creature scrambled past his shoulder toward the plex wall overlooking the garden. Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head to get a better look.
Segemented and chitinous, its exoskeleton was the colour of dried blood and it rose up on six legs, scraping at the plex with claws large enough to take his head off. The tail bobbed behind it, the stinger barbed and deadly. He wondered if he could make it to the door before it caught up, or if Reedy had it orchestrated otherwise.
That was hard to imagine, but then again, Reedy had a wire while he did not.
Dreamtime.
He released a long breath as the cold settled into his bones. Dreamtime was not a place but a state of mind. Somehow, he was awake and conscious and only loosely connected to his body in the same way as when he’d awakened in cryo years ago. Dreamtime allowed one to move in a world that was entirely fabricated by another. That had not ever been a part of the Sandman program, and he wondered how long Reedy had been awake.
And it suddenly occurred to him that Reedy may never have gone to sleep.
The sound set his teeth on edge as the creature scraped its mandibles across the plex.
Reedy, aka Matthias Reitman, Super Seven, Sandman Three. Maybe Reedy wasn’t awake either.
“Restore my wire,” he whispered, praying the Ring would respond, dreading that it might.
“Passcode?” said the Ring.
At the sound, the creature froze, and a cold wave swept from his ears down to his toes.
Maybe Reedy was perpetually in Dreamtime.
“Passcode Tango9931.”
The podlights flickered and he reached a hand to the nape of his neck to find it there. The scorpion halted its attack on the plex, dropped down to the floor.
Slowly, Solomon rolled back. The creature ticked its way across the floor, disappearing from his peripheral vision, and he knew it was under the infirmary bed.
Maybe Reedy was Dreamtime.
Deep breath. Glance to the door. The ArcEye gleamed blue in its right corner. Four meters away. Four meters to freedom. If he could keep his heart rate and breathing steady. If he didn’t panic. If the creature didn’t kill him.
Maybe Reedy was the Qore.
He swallowed as the creature hissed, bobbed its awkward tail, snapped its massive claws beneath the bed.
If Reedy was the Qore, then he would control every aspect of life in Sandman 3.
But Solomon had a wire now. That meant he had a chance.
There was a sound above him and he looked up. There was a hole in the ceiling and the claws of a second scorpion pushing through.
***
“Apes,” said Kirin under his breath, rolling the word on his tongue and wondering when it would find a home there.
“Dead apes,” said Long-Swift.
“Solomon talked about them,” said Kerris quietly. “The ones that didn’t make it.”
“I remember,” said Kirin. “But why are they here?”
“Fallon would know,” said Kerris. “She pays attention to things like that.”
Kirin grunted, leaving the obvious unsaid.
He studied the living part of the gruesome pairing. As far as he could tell, the Capuchin Council was still alive, seated cross-legged atop the glass towers. He wondered if they ever left their perches or if they were permanently fixed to their long-dead companions. It would be possible with these monkeys. Truth be told, nothing surprised him any more.
Tomi Moto rose to his feet.
“Glory to the Rising Suns,” he said, and he waited as if expecting a response.
“Glorious is one word for it,” said Kerris.
“Remarkable and glorious,” said Moto. “They steer us on the path of enlightenment.”
“Do the Suns speak to the Council?” asked Kerris and Kirin’s heart thudded in his chest. One wrong word and arrows would fly. There were at least six Snow in the room. They guarded the Suns the way leopards guarded the Empress.
“The Capuchin Council and the Suns are one,” Moto said.
“For how long?”
“It matters not. The Suns have been waiting for a thousand years less a day to raise Shin Sekai to it’s former glory. With the Council, Restoration has begun.”
And he raised his hands, palms up.
“The Suns welcome you to a New World.”
High above him, the Capuchin Council did likewise, raising their hands and palms to the ceiling. They began to hum, a flat, reedy sound that came from the backs of their throats and echoed throughout the chamber.
“Oh, holy ones of Shin Sekai,” Moto began. “Nine of the Nine Peaks Mountain and Fate of the New World. Pride of the Ancestors and Hope of the Chi’Chen. We call upon you to indulge our presence and bless us with your council.”
One by one, the dead creatures in the cylinders beneath began to move.
Long-Swift stepped back.
“The Council are your eyes,” Moto went on, as one by one, dead hands began to raise
. “Your ears, your voice. The believers of Shin Sekai are your hands, your feet, your will.”
Dead eyes opened, mirroring those of their monkey hosts above. Eyeballs floating on the ends of tendons turned and Kirin felt the cold dread sweep down to his boots.
“Kirrriiiin,” moaned one of the Chi’Chen with grey face and blue robes. “Lord of House Wynegarde-Grey, sham’Rai of Pol’Lhasa and Shogun-General of the Upper Kingdom.”
“We welcome you,” they all hissed in unison.
“Swiiiiffft,” came another. “Of Sumalbayar, Wielder of ala’Asalan, Khan of Khans and Khargan of the North.”
“We welcome you.”
“And Kaiiiidan…”
Slowly, eighteen simian faces, some living, some dead, turned toward Kerris.
“Kaidan,” said another. “Of the Kingdoms.”
“Kaidan,” said another. “Of the Emperor.”
Hisses from the Council.
“The Emperor…”
Moans from the Council.
“The Emperor…”
And suddenly, the chamber erupted with shrieks and howls. Even the Snow and the Xióngmāo looked up at the chaos until eventually, the room fell silent once again.
“The Emperor betrays the Capuchin Council,” said one.
“The Emperor has sent an army,” hissed another.
“Why does the Emperor send an army?”
“We know why the Emperor sends an army.”
“Why do you?”
“Why do you?”
One by one, arms both living and dead raised. One by one, fingers pointed, eerie and unnatural.
Kirin fought to steady his heart. He had seen so many things these last years, but nothing like this.
“Our Army is not from the Emperor,” said Kerris, undaunted. “It is an Alliance of all the Empires.”
“An army to bring the New World into line,” said another.
“Our Army is a river of three streams,” said Kerris. “Forged by blood and will and hope.”
“You bring nine thousand,” said the first.
“Nine thousand as a gift,” said the second.
“A gift for the Rising Suns?” asked the third. “Or a weapon for the Setting?”
Snow in the Year of the Dragon Page 23