Portal of a Thousand Worlds

by Duncan, Dave

  Chapter 17

  The Firstborn laughed. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

  “No, Master,” Shard Gingko admitted. “My eyes are no longer what they were, and after seeing this, I don’t believe I can trust them at all.”

  “My eyes are as perfect as the stars,” Mouse said, “and they will never again see anything so wonderful.”

  For four days, they had been traveling south along the Great Valley, easing westward, closer to the Western Wall, a giant’s saw of rocky triangles divided by green canyons. The highest peaks were permanently ice-capped, and soon the snow line would start creeping down the slopes, for last night at sunset, Shard had glimpsed the slender crescent of Chrysanthemum Moon.

  The great march of mountains would have been impressive enough by itself, but they had arrived practically underneath the Portal of a Thousand Worlds. It had been visible for some time, but now they had just emerged from a sizable patch of forest, and it was noon, with sun striking diagonally along the front of the range. Legendary could never do it justice. It dominated the world. Shard Gingko’s whole experience rejected the thought that such a mass of rock could actually move, and even the carvings on it made him want to look away, for they were unlike any inscription or illustration he had ever seen.

  “Master?” he whispered. “What does the writing on it say?”

  For a long time, he received no reply. The Firstborn was staring up at the mountain with a worried frown. Eventually, he said, “I don’t know. I did once, I think, but I must have forgotten.”

  His companions looked at each other in astonishment. He had never used that word before.

  “Why don’t we rest the horses here, Master?” Mouse said.

  The Urfather dismounted without a word, barely taking his eyes off the Portal. He walked over to a fallen tree, and sat down without even inspecting it for ants. Shard was happy to do the same. More and more he was coming to realize that he had become a burden on the two youngsters. Thanks to Lady Cataract’s ministrations, the Firstborn was now as healthy as he could ever expect to be, and at sixteen was probably close to his adult stature. Mouse was a staunch young man, with squared shoulders and chin held high. It was old Shard who wearied first. He was showing his age, holding the others back.

  Fortunately, the Urfather was in no hurry, or so he claimed. He never said why he was so certain that the Bamboo Banner and the Imperial Army would meet somewhere close to the Portal of Worlds, but who would doubt his word on anything? He believed that it was his duty to make peace between the two sides, which seemed like a totally impossible job to Shard. The Firstborn said that he had done this before, although he admitted that he had failed much more often. If it came to battle, he would die in the ensuing massacre. Thousands of sparks might rise to the Fifth World, but his would remain here, in the Fourth. And once again he would be absent when the Portal opened next year.

  The Portal—clearly a doorway, with carvings all over its surface and the frame around it, but so gigantic that the inscriptions at the top glistened with frost, while those below did not. The base of the door was hidden in forest, so how could it open? The base of the Great Valley was not perfectly flat, and a ridge trended out from one side of the Portal. Shard wondered if it could have been created by previous openings, pushing trees and detritus aside. If that slab of mountain could move, he decided, then anything was possible.

  Having settled the horses, Mouse came to stand beside him. “We’re going to have company, Masters.” He was staring south. “Trader caravan, I think.” His earlier boast about his eyes had been quite justified. He could see a lark blink.

  Shard hoped they would have some food to offer. Pickings had been slim lately. Undoubtedly, Mouse would be thinking the same, for he ate more than the other two together. He squatted down.

  “This valley seems fertile. Why don’t more people live here, Master?”

  He had put the question to Shard, but it was really intended for the Firstborn, and he answered it.

  “Because it’s a no-man’s-land. The Emperors claim it, but they keep their army posts well back from it, behind the Fortress Hills, at places like Cherish. The mountain folk regard it as their winter grazing. Traders use it in summer, going north and south, east and west.”

  Mouse frowned and looked to the east, at the hills. Most were round and grassy, but the taller ones had flat tops. “Those are part of the Good Land, though?”

  “They belong to the strongest. Officially, their owners are of the Gentle people, but most of them are anything but gentle. We might go and call on some of them if there’s time. Let’s wait and hear what our visitors are going to tell us.”

  They did not have to wait long. They were sighted by a couple of horsemen, scouts for the caravan, who spotted them and came cantering up, armed with lances and swords. They reined in uncomfortably close, both large men, richly dressed in leathers and furs, and their faces disfigured by barbarian mustaches.

  “Declare yourselves!” demanded the elder, his lance aimed at them.

  The Firstborn rose. “My name is Sunlight—in this generation.”

  Enlightenment struck. Eyes widened. Both men slid off saddles and knelt.

  “Ancient One, forgive us!”

  “Nothing to forgive.” The Firstborn made a sign of blessing. “Who are you?”

  The spokesman gave his name in a strange tongue, and then translated it as meaning “Grassfire.”

  “You are obviously heading north,” the Firstborn said, adopting the same grating accent. “What news can you give us of the Bamboo Banner?”

  Grassfire spat. “Scum! Madmen! They claim to be immortal. They look very surprised on the end of a spear.”

  “Understandable! I know the feeling.”

  The warriors hesitated and then laughed.

  “Where is the Banner now, and which way is it going?”

  “It is in the Great Valley, following us, but we travel faster than they do. And eat better.” Grassfire smirked, showing heavily stained teeth.

  “The pickings are slim in the Valley,” the Firstborn said.

  Right on cue, Mouse’s stomach rumbled.

  Grassfire heard and raised his heavy eyebrows. “They are indeed, Ancient One. We tell everyone to leave until the locusts have passed.”

  “And when will the swarm arrive here, do you think?”

  “In a month, unless they turn off to loot elsewhere. They travel very slowly. The Bearer of Wisdom and his servants are most welcome to break bread with us today.”

  “We will gladly accept your hospitality, fierce Grassfire.”

  “It will be arranged!” The two barbarians sprang into their saddles, wheeled their horses, and took off at a showy gallop.

  “Your intervention was well timed, Mouse,” the Firstborn said.

  Mouse turned pink, but grinned anyway.

  “A month?” Shard said. “We still have time to starve if we wait here.”

  “Of course. But we also have time to make some new friends.” The Firstborn turned to regard the Fortress Hills. “And perhaps learn when the Imperial Army is due.”

  Chapter 18

  Emperor Absolute Purity needed only a couple of weeks aboard the Starlight Dream to find his lost army. It was strung out for several days’ march along the north bank of the river, plodding along like an endless herd of oxen, although the locals probably thought of it more as a plague of gigantic locusts. Iron Spur was almost speechless with contempt, swearing that the troops would all die of old age before they caught a glimpse of the enemy. Eventually, he spotted the banner of Supreme Guardian, safely located in the center of the host.

  The replacement Supreme Guardian went ashore at the nearest jetty, armed with the imperial rescript that appointed him. He also asked for—practically demanded—imperial permission for his predecessor to commit suicide. Butterfly Swo
rd was reluctant to provide this because the old man had dragged his feet for months before setting out to find and engage the Bamboo Banner; his reluctance had been close as he could dare go to asking to be relieved—which the Empress Mother would have regarded as treason. He had probably never wanted the title in the first place, but competent generals were dangerous and she had been an excellent judge of incompetence. In the end, Butterfly Sword agreed to seal the death warrant. If Iron Spur wanted to make failure in his new office a capital offense, then he should be encouraged.

  Once his appointment took effect, he proved to be a dragon of efficiency. Junks and more paddle boats were lined up, and the army hustled aboard, horses, cannons, ammunition, commissariat, and all. When the wind was unfavorable—and the junks could sail very close to the wind—then the paddleboats could tow them.

  Thereafter, the Imperial Army leaped ahead, traveling night and day. Stokers and sailors worked until they dropped, eager to serve their beloved Emperor. Even more impressive was the reaction of the locals, who flocked in their thousands to line the banks and cheer as the Emperor’s personal dragon banner journeyed past. They brought their children, even babes in arms, so they could tell their grandchildren what they had seen. That flag had not been flown outside Heart of the World in four or five reigns.

  The sight of all those people made Butterfly Sword feel very small and humble. He wondered if his ancestors—his personal herdsmen ancestors—were proud of him or ashamed. He could guess what the true Absolute Purity’s ancestors must think, but they no longer had a direct descendant to honor them, so perhaps they had lost interest in the Good Land on the Fourth World.

  Just before reaching Wedlock, the expedition sighted the huge upheaval of landscape that had dammed the river. Mighty dragons of the underworld must have raised it, but the river had stubbornly chewed through at the south end, refusing to be confined. The current was still so strong there that few junks could make it through unaided, but the paddle boats could, and great loads of coal were expended moving the fleet.

  Where that great city, Felicitous Wedlock of Waters, had so recently stood, there was now only a desolation of landslides and mud-buried ruins. Even the urgency of war could not allow the Emperor to ignore such misery, and Butterfly Sword spent a couple of days there, sacrificing to Heaven and his imperial ancestors, but also doing what little he could to speed relief.

  He had sent most of the army on ahead, up the Jade River, but he soon caught up with it. Iron Spur now assured him that they would reach the Great Valley in time to confront the Bamboo Banner and stop it in its tracks.

  Chapter 19

  A man can know true contentment only by complete submission to the will of his ancestors. So said the Courtly Teacher, more or less. And if it wasn’t him, it was another of the old bores.

  And Silky would gladly submit if he only knew what his ancestors wanted, or who they were. They were undoubtedly very mad at him because he did not sacrifice to them, and now they were punishing him most subtly. First they had bequeathed him everything he could ever dream of: his private kingdom at Goat Haven with more than two hundred subjects eager to do his bidding, a wife as scalding as a smelter and tough as steel, who had already given him one and eight-ninths children. Secondly, they had arranged—as Brother Archives had assured him—that both Jade Harmony and the Wedlock House of Joyful Departure itself had perished in the Fish Moon Earthquake, so Silky had been released from any obligation to share his hard-earned gains.

  But right after that, his nameless ancestors had snatched it all away again, by sending the former Brother Archives, now calling himself Pearl White 11, who had used Silky’s leash to enslave him. To have loved and lost was much more bitter than never to have loved at all, and the same went for wealth and power. How those ancestors must be cackling up there in the higher worlds!

  Oh, he was still Prince Silk Hand, and in the eyes of the inhabitants, he still ruled Goat Haven. But for the last month, Pearl White 11 had posed as an honored guest, one who showed no signs of ever wanting to continue his travels. He would wait and see the Portal open, he said, without any hint that he would then move on elsewhere. In fact, he ruled Goat Haven through Silky like a tyrannical Emperor. He had chosen a pretty girl and ordered Silky to order her into his, Pearl White 11’s, bed. Her parents had been very unhappy about that, and no doubt there would be more pretty girls in future.

  Thus Prince Silk Hand moped, standing on the edge of certain death. The small terrace outside the bedroom he shared with Verdant was a private and enchanting place to sit on an autumn evening, watching the sun set behind the Western Wall. The earthquake had not damaged the cliff at this point, but it had taken out the low stone wall that once had topped it. Having no fear of heights, Silky did not care, although Verdant stayed well back from the edge, especially lately as she neared term and her balance became uncertain.

  Silkworm must be almost ready to walk now, so one day soon he must be rescued and brought home. Before that, Silky would have the wall replaced, but Goat Haven needed many other repairs. Most urgent were the fortifications on the entrance trail. The Bamboo Banner was coming.

  The door from his bedroom opened to excrete the odious Brother Archives as Pearl White 11. One of the monster’s most infuriating habits was to violate Silky’s privacy by treating that room as a public thoroughfare and the private terrace as common property. He did it as a deliberate demonstration of his dominance. Silky would have loved to grab the old brute and throw him off, but his orders forbade it.

  “Silky, dear boy! Come and sit down. We must talk.”

  Silky obeyed without a word.

  Brother Archives settled himself on the second chair, the one that should be Verdant’s. “There is wine on the way.”

  And Silky knew who would have been told to bring it. In the last stages of her pregnancy, Verdant was so swollen that she had trouble being comfortable anywhere, but she had been resting on the bed when Silky left her a few minutes ago. It amused Brother Archives to use her as a lackey. He could not bind her as he had bound Silky, because it took years of “Outlandish poetry lessons” to break a person’s mind to the leash, but she had been present when Silky was enslaved, so she knew what was involved.

  The old man read Silky’s fury, and his eyes glinted with malicious amusement. “Repeat your orders.”

  Silky swallowed hard. “I will obey all your commands and serve you in every way. I will never seek to harm you or counter your wishes. If I ever learn that my wife has told anyone about this arrangement, I will kill her at once. And I will repeat these orders to her every night when we go to bed.”

  “Very good.”

  The door opened again, and Verdant emerged, moving with awkward care and carrying a tray bearing two golden beakers and a flask of rice wine. She set these down on the table between the two chairs, then filled the beakers.

  “Forgive me if I do not kowtow to you, Lord Pearl White 11. I am terrified of not being able to get up again after I get down.”

  Silky gave her an approving smile. She walked away, but her tiny show of insolence had amused the tyrant. He raised his beaker and waited for Silky to drink before tasting the wine. The sky beyond the mountains was turning red as blood.

  “We must discuss the Bamboo Banner, dear lad. And also the Imperial Army. You heard what we were told today by the carter from Cherish?”

  “That the Emperor himself is coming?”

  “Quite. Not just him, but his entire army, coming to deal with Bamboo.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Hard to say.” Archives frowned, as he did when he had to dig deep in his cavernous memory. “Emperors rarely lead armies unless they are certain of victory, but several have miscalculated when facing rebellions coming from the south—which is where such nonsense usually begins. Three Emperors have perished in or near the Portal of a Thousand Worlds.”

  “
We can withstand the Banner, we decided, because they will starve if they do not keep moving on. Can we refuse the Emperor?”

  “That is what we must discuss. An autocrat who has been pampered all his life must soon tire of campaign conditions. He will impose himself and his train on some wealthy local, and to refuse His Majesty hospitality would be treason. The legitimate inhabitants will be ejected to fend for themselves during his stay. … We could bury all our valuables and excess food supplies, except that the soil here on Goat Haven is extremely thin. He may take all our horses. He will certainly leave here before the Year of the Firebird in case the Portal opens and swallows him up, as it has been reported to do in the past. An opening is always a sign of a change of dynasty, remember.”

  “But like the Banner, his army cannot stay in one place for long.”

  “Especially in a year when harvests have been poor. Nevertheless, the Banner is the more urgent danger, which is why I have a small job for you.”

  Physically, Silky could choke him with one hand. Or pick him up and throw him over the cliff. But his hand would not obey him if he tried.

  Archives could see his slave’s anger, and took a long drink to enjoy it while watching him over the lip of the beaker. “If Bamboo dies, his rebellion must fall apart. That is why I am going to send you to advance him.”

  “What?!”

  To penetrate a mob of thousands of yang-crazy rebels and slaughter their chief? That was totally impossible. And certain suicide. Oh, how malicious could ancestors be? How they must be laughing now! “Why me? Why not Chariot Driver or Specter? Or both of them?”

  “Because you are the best, dear boy. I have reviewed the archives, and the Wedlock House has not seen one like you in three centuries. You will do it easily. And after that I will require you to dispose of the Emperor, also. Then Goat Haven will be left in peace.”

  Leave Verdant, about to bear his second child, one that he would never see? Leave Silkworm languishing in some peasant hovel, unaware of the glory that should be his as rightful heir to Goat Haven? Silky could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead as homicidal hatred battled with irresistible imposed loyalty.