by Unknown
“First, it was a request, not a command. Second, I Serve.” He drew a short silver knife from his belt and held it in front of his heart, balanced on his open palms.
At the sight of the knife the Archer’s eyes opened wide, and he hurried across the room to bow deeply. “Your pardon, O Fist of Heaven! I beg you to forgive my ignorance.”
“Granted. Now, what can you tell us?”
“Very little, I fear.” The Archer dropped to one knee and sat on his heel with the air of one who had spent much of his life in that position. “I catch the image of a woman performing some rite, and after that I cannot reach them.”
“A woman?” asked the Fist, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh, no!” Laurel exclaimed. She and the Fist exchanged glances. “She wasn’t in Albion—”
“For the Power and Glory Exhibit? So someone told her—inaccurately—what you did there.”
“What?” The Archer was obviously confused. “And who?”
“Lady anything-that-stupid-round-eyes-can-do-I-can-do-better is a member of the Emperor’s court, and the Power and Glory Exhibit was a collection of lesser treasures sent to Albion, where I grew up. One of the terracotta warriors was in it, and I pretended to bring him to life. It was an illusion. The real warrior was in his place the entire time.”
“Unfortunately, there is a sorceress here at court who...”
“She’s jealous,” Laurel said. “If they had offered her the Scholar’s Pin she’d have accepted it on the spot.”
“Which is why it would never have been offered to her.” The Fist frowned. “If she animated the warriors, can she control them?”
“That would be the purpose of such dark magic,” the Archer said, “but if she can control them, why is she not doing so?”
“She probably botched whatever spell she used,” Laurel said in disgust. “This won’t be the first time we’ve had to deal with her mistakes.”
“If we can prove she did this,” the Fist of Heaven said grimly, “it will be the last time. The Son of Heaven will have her executed for this. We’ll have to find a way to prove what she did, though.”
“Will the Son of Heaven not execute her on your word?” the Archer asked in astonishment.
I guess the stories of how ruthless the First Emperor was are true. “It’s not that simple these days,” Laurel explained. “The Son of Heaven dispenses justice, and justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done.” She turned to the Fist and added, “You’re being pessimistic. We don’t have to prove she did it; all we have to do is give her an opportunity to brag about having done it.”
“Very well,” said the Archer. “But we must still find them. That is why I have come to you. I do not know this city, and it is larger than any I have seen.”
Laurel went over to a cabinet standing along one wall, and opened a door to reveal a mirror. “What can you tell us about these soldiers, Arch— do you have a name?”
“Indeed, O Daughter. I am Zhan.”
“Thank you, Zhan. If these were men, we might have some clearer ideas about—”
“But they are men, my lady!” said Zhan. “I am a man. We are baked-earth for my Emperor’s purpose, but I assure you, we are true men. Yun-peng is the cavalryman, Li-qing is the charioteer, and Song is the infantryman.”
The Fist chuckled. “Knowing that makes it somewhat easier. What do soldiers most want to do when they’re not in battle?”
He and Laurel looked at each other. “We check the taverns.”
Zhan nodded. “That makes sense. Song always said that if we wanted to find him, we should look anywhere there are wine and women to be found.”
“Really?” said Laurel. I am not telling Stephen about this.
~o0o~
When the Daughter of Heaven and the Fist of Heaven walked into the Hall of Supreme Harmony for Court that night, the archer Zhan walked silently behind them.
“I see you’ve finally managed to raise one of them,” a scornful female voice said into the silence. “I raised three of them. Weeks ago.”
“Really?” Laurel forced herself to sound skeptical. “Why should we believe you? I don’t see them with you.”
“How did you encompass such a feat,” the Fist of Heaven asked, “if indeed you did?” He didn’t sound as though he believed it either.
“I admit it took some research,” Lady Mei-ying said as she strode forward into the circle of lamplight, her tone of voice clearly adding, since that’s what true scholars do. “And I found it: the Vintage of Life!” From the sleeve of her robe she took a small bottle filled with a purple fluid. “With this we can bring all the statues to life to serve you, my Emperor!”
Zhan stepped forward. When he spoke, everyone but Laurel and the Fist gasped. This was clearly not something the other figures had done. “If I may beg the Son of Heaven’s indulgence, may I examine this Wine of Life?”
From his throne the Emperor nodded, and extended his hand, palm upward, to Lady Mei-ying. Powerless to refuse, she placed the bottle in his hand, and he held it out to Zhan. The archer took the bottle, held it up to the nearest lamp to judge its translucency, and then unstoppered the bottle and held it under his nose—which surprised Laurel, who would have sworn he did not breathe, nor need to. Then he replaced the stopper, and made as if to dash the bottle to the floor, holding himself back barely in time. Clutching the bottle, he did something that made the courtiers fall to the ground in horror.
He howled. It was the howl of a savage battle’s last survivor; of a man who has discovered the burning ruin of his village. It froze the blood in Laurel’s veins—or at least she would have sworn it had.
“O Blessed Son of Heaven!” the clay warrior shouted, in the voice of one who spoke to an emperor but not to his Emperor—the resonance within him turning his voice into thunder. “Believe not her who speaks! I know this liquid. Whatever she may call it, it is the wine of death!”
“Lady Mei-ying,” said Laurel, who with the Fist had remained standing, “how is this used to animate a...statue?”
Hesitantly the other rose to her feet. “It is a ritual that climaxes in touching the liquid to the lips of the warrior,” she said, trying to recapture the proud voice she had used earlier. “It drinks the liquid, and then it can move.”
Again Zhan howled. “Son of Heaven! Let me tell you what your most worthy predecessor—my Emperor—has done! These warriors you have pulled from their station are not lifeless statues, as this woman supposes. They are an army—an army of thousands, preserved against the day of the Crisis that is coming! They are not dead, no—they never died. Their breath has been almost completely taken away and stored elsewhere by his wizards—but not fully away. It remains connected to them by the thinnest of threads, to be called back when the Crisis comes. Until then, the body without the breath is but clay—such clay, treated with the arts of my Emperor’s wizards, that it is preserved until that time. When the time comes, then at my Emperor’s command their breath shall return to them, and they shall be fully restored, in the fullness of their youth, at the peak of their training, ready to do battle in his service!
“And this woman...” —he swept his arm aside, finger pointing toward Mei-ying— “this woman has cut the thread! She has not brought my fellow warriors back to life, no! She has murdered them!”
While he spoke, servants quietly brought the clay warriors into the hall on litters. Seeing them, Zhan fell to his knees. “All you here, bear witness! This was Song, the infantryman, who cheered his fellows in their dark times. This was Yun-peng, the best horseman in his unit. And this was Li-qing, from whose chariot attacks were mounted. I had the pleasure of riding with him myself, and let me tell you, his technique was the smoothest and yet fastest I have ever known. And now...” he gazed sadly at them, “now they are gone. These bodies bear the imprint of their spirits, but those spirits are no longer here.
“Goodbye, my companions. I shall miss you.” He rose to his feet, looked the Emperor wordlessly in th
e eye, and then for the first time turned to face Lady Mei-ying directly.
“MURDERER!”
~o0o~
Silence, like that following a thunderstorm, lasted several minutes. “Supreme harmony,” always a wishful goal, was for the moment banished.
“‘Thou hast showed thy people heavy things: thou hast given us a drink of deadly wine,’” Laurel murmured. At the Fist’s inquisitive glance she said, “It’s a sacred text in Albion. I’ll explain later.”
The Emperor did not clear his throat. He did not need to. At his slight movement the court sprang to attention. “Injustice has been done. Is that your conclusion as well?” he said, looking at Laurel and the Fist.
“It is, O Son of Heaven,” said Laurel. The Emperor seemed satisfied with the Fist’s nod. Laurel put her hand on Zhan’s arm. The terracotta felt cool to the touch, but she could feel the energy and turmoil within. Zhan turned to her and smiled weakly.
The stunned Mei-ying, who had not attempted to escape, appeared not even to notice as guardsmen restrained her. “It now remains,” said the Emperor, “for justice to be administered. In this case, which I trust will remain unique in this lifetime, I invite suggestions.”
The Fist stepped forward. “Although it is an inadequate restitution,” he said, “it may be possible for Lady Mei-ying to take the place of one of these warriors and serve in his stead.” The Emperor glanced at several of the court’s wizards, one of whom said, “Theoretically it is possible, O Son of Heaven. Indeed, we have proof standing before us.” He bowed to Zhan, who returned the bow.
The Emperor turned to Zhan. “Would that be agreeable?”
Zhan bowed slightly to him, and to the Fist said, “I see what you are offering, and I appreciate it. But if you are the soldier I believe you are, you know the answer.” The Fist nodded. Of course.
“I do have a suggestion,” said Laurel. “May I have two cups, please?” A servant brought them, and she took the bottle from Zhan and divided its contents between the two containers. She set one aside and held the other one up before the Emperor. “Even though they no longer suit the First Emperor’s plan, I believe we can reactivate these figures for service to the present Empire, as Lady Mei-ying proposed. We must have your decision, however. One procedure would make them servants of the truth, whatever it might be. The other procedure would make them your personal servants, to do your will and your will alone, whatever it might be. Which do you select?”
The hubbub that followed this question was considerable. Where is the choice? The truth is what the Son of Heaven says it is! Who would dare to say him nay? The Emperor himself was about to speak, no doubt along similar lines, when his eyes met Laurel’s. An eyebrow lifted, as if to say, Are you challenging me? That would be most unwise.
Laurel attempted to appear as innocent and affirming as possible. No challenge whatever, my lord! I am on your side. But I need to hear your answer.
If the courtiers were surprised to see the Emperor pause before answering, they were stunned when he stood before replying. In a clear but gentle voice he announced, “The Daughter of Heaven is most wise. In all the land there is no power above mine...and yet power for its own sake is a trap, one into which I have watched too many fall. My divinely-bestowed power is worthless unless it is directed toward noble ends. I choose to accept the phrasing presented by the Daughter: ‘servant of the truth.’ As much as I have ability to do, I cannot turn black into white, day into night, or winter snow into spring rain. The world is what it is, and I must rule within that reality. I serve the truth, and were it otherwise I should not be worthy of this throne. In accord with this fact,” he said to Laurel, “I choose your first procedure. They are to serve the truth.”
As the hubbub momentarily returned, the Fist whispered to Laurel, “I strongly suspect that very few will venture to argue with him as to whose vision of the truth is the correct one.”
She hoped that was true. At the same time, as the Emperor reseated himself and glanced at her, she gave him an encouraging nod. I would very much like to introduce you to Lord Logas sometime.
To Zhan she whispered, “Are you comfortable with this?”
He replied, “They are now simply clay statues, as the Lady has believed all along. There is nothing for me to say about them. Do as you wish.”
To Weng-xiou, standing at the far end of the hall, she called, “Master Calligrapher! I have some language that must be inscribed on the foreheads of these warriors. Please assist us.”
The master made his way forward. When he reached Laurel, however, he said softly, “I would be most willing to help—but if it is magic you have in mind, I should remind you that yours is the mind, the vision to be expressed here. My work would be of little effect, no?”
She bowed to him. “Forgive me, master. You are wise.”
“I believe that word has already been claimed for today.” Smiling, he offered her his kit and stepped back into the throng.
Laurel selected a brush and, using the purple liquid as ink, drew three symbols on the forehead of each of the three clay figures. Then she beckoned to the Fist of Heaven, who used his silver knife to extract something from behind the lips of each figure. His incisions resealed themselves, as they had done previously. “Command them,” Laurel told him. “They are yours.”
They did indeed respond to his command. The courtiers fell back as he led the warriors away to stand well behind the throne.
Taking the second cup, Laurel presented it to the Emperor. “As for Mei-ying, I can only propose that the punishment fit the crime.”
The Emperor shot an enquiring glance at Zhan, who with some surprise nodded. He then commanded the chief of his guardsmen, who took the cup over to where they held the sorceress. As the chief held out the cup to her, the Emperor said, “You will drink every drop.”
Mei-ying’s eyes remained wide open, as they had been for the last few minutes, but she could not disobey the Son of Heaven. She drained the cup.
For a moment nothing happened. Mei-ying, relieved, began to breathe in a deep sigh of relief, when suddenly her body convulsed in huge spasms. The guards held her arms tightly; she did not even have time to look over at Laurel before the last convulsion hit her, she shrieked in terror, and fell lifeless in their grip.
Nothing else would be accomplished that evening. The Emperor left the throne room for his residence, and everyone else followed in order of rank. The only exception was Laurel, who did not move throughout all the proceedings. When everyone else was gone she stood in the center of the Hall of Supreme Harmony, staring toward the corner where the Fist of Heaven had stationed the three terracotta soldiers before he and Zhan took them to their new resting place.
Mei-ying’s shriek continued to resound through her thoughts. It troubled her, as doubtless it would trouble everyone who had watched the sorceress die. But it bothered Laurel especially, because she was certain she had heard the shriek come from more than one direction—accompanied by familiar echoes.
Clay sculptures couldn’t shriek. Of course they couldn’t.
“It’s eating at me now,” she told Stephen’s image in the mirror back in her rooms. “Could she somehow be trapped inside them? Unable to move, unable to talk, unable to do anything about what she sees?”
Stephen, in his workroom at the College, considered. “As one of your wizards said, theoretically I suppose it’s possible. If so, it’s her own doing; she shouldn’t have gotten so attached to her work.” When Laura glared at him, he put up his hands and said, “I’m serious! The way you describe her, Mei-ying was obsessed with one-upping you—okay, three-upping you in this case. She invested not only her time, but her will and her passion and her mind in this project. She truly put herself into the magic she worked on those figures. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were still there.”
“So what can I do?”
“What need you do? Nothing. As Lord Logas would say, that’s a crisis for another era.”
That reminded her. “T
he suspended soldiers are going back to Xi’an, all of them—except the three, of course. I don’t know what this Crisis is that they’re to be ready for, and neither does Zhan. But he’s told us he will respond to visits from time to time—as long as we allow him to wake up properly.”
Stephen chuckled. “Bring coffee. So tell me: how did you know the golem rituals would work in this situation?”
Laurel laughed weakly. “I didn’t, at first. When we went to try to capture the three, I thought, clay men, why not? Maybe they were enough like the medieval golems that would it work…. We saw that when the Fist broke or cut the soldiers with the Knife they healed themselves automatically, so I had him poke a hole in each one’s cheek and I shot this inside.” She held up a crumpled piece of paper, torn from her calligraphy practice.
“A spitball?” he said incredulously.
“Close. Anyway, it worked. Weng-xiou asked if he could see one after he saw us remove them. He was impressed. ‘Congratulations, Daughter,’ he said. ‘You have mastered the command for STOP. I commend you.’” She chuckled. “As if everything else hadn’t already made my day, that topped it.
“So after that, yes, I was sure the rest of the lore would apply. I wrote aleph-mem-taw on their foreheads, emet, ‘truth’—see, I remembered, which is much easier with a language that has only twenty-two characters, and when I commanded them to rise and obey Li—uh, the Fist of Heaven, they did.”
Stephen nodded. “And if the Emperor had made the other choice...”
“I would have done the very same thing, but within a few days that aleph would’ve been erased, and emet would become met—‘dead.’ Oh, the magic didn’t last? What a pity. And I would still have learned something I needed to know about the Emperor.”
“Logas will be proud. And just think, I can now tell everyone here at the University that you’re making head-lines!”
Her hand was halfway to a jade paperweight before she remembered there was a mirror between them.