by Duncan, Dave
“I certainly prefer the inhabitants. Knifeblade 5 is barbarous even by Outlandish standards.” And his minions were worse. Shard had enjoyed the last couple of weeks in Goat Haven more than any days since those months in Lady Cataract’s palace.
Mouse chuckled softly. “You know how long Prince Silk Hand has been ruling here?”
“You’ve been gossiping.”
“Um, yes Master. I humbly beg pardon for earning this justified rebuke.”
“How long?”
The subtle smile became a grin. “Since the day of the earthquake. The previous ruler was Sky Hammer 7. He and his son both perished. By the will of Heaven, Prince Silk Hand, who was actually the rightful owner anyway, happened to be visiting that day and—”
“I suspected something like that when the Firstborn excluded us from their meeting on the evening we arrived. It is apparently not our business.”
“No, Master. I humbly beg—”
“Mouse?”
“Master?”
“You must stop calling me that. I have taught you much. You have been an apt and dutiful pupil. I hope you will continue to study and learn for all of a long lifetime. I strongly advise you to continue to serve the Firstborn, but I cannot continue as your teacher. I am too frail to keep up with you and the Urfather. At present, Prince Silk Hand has no private secretary, and he has graciously accepted my offer of service.”
Shard Gingko could remain at Goat Haven and record the opening of the Portal next year. His account would be the only eyewitness report in history, and would bring great honor to his name. So would his report of two years on the road with the Firstborn. The pupil asked, “Which teacher was the greatest?” The Urfather replied, “The Humble Teacher, for he was the first. The others passed on much of his wisdom as their own.” The imperial schools would argue ferociously over that for centuries! Shard Gingko had disgraced his ancestors by failing the imperial examinations, but this would please them, and perhaps lead them to help him do better when he reached the Fifth World.
After a long pause, Mouse said, “It would please me greatly if you would allow me to continue addressing you as my master, honorable one, for as long as our lives may run together.”
“As you wish. But the Firstborn has warned me that he will be leaving soon.”
“That is why I am here, Master. He sent me to tell you that he will be riding out today. Lord Silk Hand has agreed to accompany him and provide an armed escort.”
“Armed? The Firstborn wants an armed escort?” That was surprising, even astonishing.
“Yes, Master. In this case, he does. He says that it is almost the only way to get attention. He is on his way to meet the Emperor, and if he goes alone, he will probably be put to work digging ditches around the camp, or worse. Armed escorts are noticed. He sent me to ask if you would like to come with us.”
For a moment, Shard Gingko was at a loss for words. The Urfather had surprised him many times, but this surpassed everything. This was suicide!
“You are certain? He was not joking? Does he not remember Four Mountains? There the Emperor chained him, and when that failed, ordered torture and death. He cannot be serious!”
“He seems so, Master. Prince Silk Hand tried to discourage him, but he would not listen.”
Shard Gingko wanted to weep. Every instinct told him to stay where he was, at Goat Haven, and try to be useful for the few years or moons left to him. But he knew he wouldn’t; he had to see the end of the story.
When he had been Postulant Tug in the House of Joyful Departure, Silky had several times experimented with some of the powerful drugs stored in the pharmacy. Inevitably, the results had been disastrous, and he had eventually realized that the labels were deliberately falsified. But even in the wild hallucinogenic nightmares that had racked him then, he had never imagined himself going to call on the Lord of Ten Thousand Years.
For that matter, he had never imagined himself playing host to the Urfather. At times, it was still hard to believe that the puny, weather-beaten youth with the wistful smile and an Outlandish cast to his features was anything more than a farm boy wandered in from the paddy fields. But when he glimpsed the wisdom of untold centuries blazing out of those eyes, his soul believed and his knees turned to jelly.
The Firstborn’s mere presence had transformed Goat Haven. It revolved around him. Everyone there was his lifelong slave. He knew them all by name, which was more than Silky did, and he would listen to all their troubles. Silky himself had been a distrusted newcomer until the Urfather came, but he had become a revered ruler as soon as the Firstborn had accepted him. Verdant had promptly discarded all the foolish names she had previously been suggesting for their daughter, who became Sunlight from the moment of her birth. Her father had been happy to agree.
And so Prince Silk Hand, King of Goat Haven, rode out with the Urfather at his side, followed by the boy’s two companions and ten armed men. Going to call on His Imperial Majesty, Lord of the High and the Low.
The Fortress Hills had changed from green to brown since Silky had ridden in, back in the spring, which now seemed a lifetime ago. Many white bones lay in the brown fall grass along the Wilderness Road, and sometimes pans, pots, and other discarded household items. Heaven had laid harsh judgment on the people of Cherish.
He entered country new to him when he rode past the turnoff to Heaven’s Threshold. Soon, the road dipped into a winding gorge, which seemed like good ambush country, but still they saw no living creatures. He did not doubt that he was observed, though. Knifeblade 5 or some other local lord would be keeping watch on travelers going by, just as Prince Silk Hand now did.
The Imperial Army, for reasons unknown, had not come from Cherish by the Wilderness Road, but by some other trail to the north. About halfway down the long descent into that valley, the Firstborn’s expedition came to a viewpoint and paused to gaze at the overwhelming scenery. The Portal was in shadow. The boggy river glinted here and there in the low light. Silky looked in vain for the Two Lakes Caravanserai that had once been part of the devious web he had spun to destroy Sky Hammer 7. From what he had heard, no caravans had come over Swordcut Pass this year.
“According to the very best rumors,” Firstborn said, “were we to wait here until after sunset, we might see the lights of the Bamboo Banner to the south of us, and the Imperial Army’s to the north.”
Plus mountains to the west and hills to the east. They were riding into a killing ground.
“We can camp by the river,” Silky said.
“A wise man does not drink downstream from armies.” The Urfather spoke the words like a quotation.
“Which teacher said that, Master?” Shard Gingko asked automatically.
“No teacher. I was so advised by a bloody-handed warlord of the Second Dynasty.” The Firstborn looked around at their faces and laughed.
They found Two Lakes Caravanserai where the road forded the river, half a dozen fenced paddocks, each capable of holding thirty or so horses or camels, and each having its own watering trough and well. For humans, there were as many shelters, each comprising a raised deck with a roof but no walls. A single sturdy stone building clearly belonged to the owners, but there was nobody home there, and the neglected grass had grown long this year. A couple of Silky’s guards produced nets and went fishing. Everyone else except Shard Gingko went for a dip in the nearer of two horseshoe-shaped lakes. The Portal was in the mountain face just to the south of them, but invisible against the sunset. The Firstborn did not refuse fish caught downstream from an army, but they were pathetic eating.
Shard Gingko wanted to write, but the light was too poor. Fourteen men sitting on logs around an open-air fire pit with sparks swirling up to the skies—the scene made him think of funerals, which should be inspiration for a poem, because he knew that his journey with the Firstborn, the greatest experience of his life, was about to end. The Em
peror might have them all put to death. Even if he did not, there would be a battle, which was no place for bystanders. And the very best solution for Shard Gingko would be to creep back to Goat Haven and try to put his final days to good use.
“I will help with the guard duty tonight, my lord,” the Firstborn said.
“No need, lad.”
Lad? Shard Gingko looked across at them in astonishment. How dare a jumped-up horse rancher address the Firstborn like that? Then he realized that the youth Prince Silk Hand was addressing was not the Firstborn but Mouse. He not only looked like the Urfather now, he even spoke like him.
“Then I respectfully suggest that you do something now, my lord, because I can hear horses.”
Two of the Goat Haven men threw themselves down to put ears to the ground. They jumped up very smartly. “He is right, my lord,” said one. “Three or four horses coming. They will have seen the light of our fire.” He began barking orders to the other guards. Prince Silk Hand sat in silence, letting him do so. In a few moments, there were only seven around the fire, and the rest had vanished into the darkness.
Then came voices. … Challenge. … Response. …
Three figures appeared out of the darkness, men leading horses.
The one in the center was wrapped in a cloak; the other two wore rags.
“They admit, my lord, that they are from the Bamboo Banner, but they come in peace.”
Prince Silk Hand rose. “But do we receive traitors in peace? Master?”
He seemed unusually unsure of himself, looking to the Firstborn for instructions.
“Why not? They seem underfed to me. Offer them a good meal and see what information they offer in exchange.”
One of the ragged rebels said, “We are loyal followers of Bamboo, the true Emperor, and we will not be bribed by—”
“Be quiet, Silent,” said the one in the cloak. “My name is Fair Visions 3. I am Bamboo’s nephew, and I was sent to establish whether the rumors of the Empress Mother’s death are true.”
“Everyone says they are,” the Firstborn said.
“And who leads the army that lies to the north?”
“It marches under the banner of the Golden Dragon, so its leader is Absolute Purity himself. And if it isn’t, he is still claiming imperial honors and has ten thousand rifles at his back. Me, I wouldn’t argue with him.”
Which was amusing, because the Urfather was supposedly the only man who always did argue with Emperors.
“He does not know!” shouted the one called Silent. “More lies! More rumors!”
Fair Visions looked around the circle. Unlike Silent, he was a thinker, and he had sensed the hint of humor. “And who are you?”
The Firstborn rose and stepped forward to the fire, so the light was full on him. “I have had many names. In this life, I answer to Sunlight. You must have seen my likeness?”
Fair Visions sank to his knees, and his unnamed companion followed, but the one called Silent did not.
The three visitors were fed—and ate more than their horses, the Firstborn said. And when they were satisfied, it was he, the All-Wise, who spelled out the problem for them—and offered a solution.
“I have stood between rebels and Emperors many times. I always try to negotiate peace, although I rarely succeed. When I fail, and there are battles, the Emperors almost always win. Nowadays, he has guns, more guns than rebels can hope to have, so the odds are enormously in his favor.
“Tomorrow, I go to entreat this Emperor, whoever he is, to beg him to be merciful and forgiving. Whether he is Absolute Purity or a usurper, he may wish to begin his reign with a great victory. Or he may choose to show that he rules with the mandate of Heaven, his enemies melting away before his majesty. In your place, I would fear to approach him, but since I am who I am, I must and I will.”
Madness, Shard thought. Utter madness!
“If you will trust me,” Sunlight continued, “I will plead for all your lives. If I am able, I swear that I will return to this camp and tell you what he said. If I fail to arrive, you may assume that I am dead. Can you trust me?”
“Of course, Ancient One,” Fair Visions said. “We will wait here and pray to Heaven that you will be allowed to return in safety.”
One of his companions agreed; the one called Silent remained so.
The next morning, they emerged to see the Portal a little to the south of them, lit by the rising sun. It seemed to be almost overlooking them, although it must be many miles away. The closer one got to it, Shard Gingko thought, the more impossible it seemed. But that was a problem for next year, the Year of the Firebird.
The Firstborn’s party ate congee, saddled up, and rode north, leaving the three Bamboo warriors to wait on their return.
Chapter 22
Dawn came to Butterfly Sword in a glorious golden blaze, sunlight shining through the silk of his tent. He had not known about this imperial pavilion until he disembarked near the ruins of Cherish. Had he known, he would have forbidden Iron Spur to bring such a useless luxury, but the general assured him that it would save many lives, because every one of his troops would fight like a hundred if he knew he was doing so under the eye of his Emperor. Thus, every night now, the imperial banner flew over the camp and the great golden pavilion was erected so the fake Emperor could lie on a very comfortable cot and reflect on what a despicable fraudulent turd he was.
Today? Today he was in the Great Valley, and great it was, as depicted on many landscape scrolls. Today, the army was to rest, because the horses needed a break, and the oxen that pulled the guns were slow and needed a day or so catch up. Today, perhaps, Butterfly Sword would ride ahead and take a closer look at the celebrated Portal of a Thousand Worlds. No, Iron Spur wouldn’t allow that. He couldn’t forbid it, of course, but he would send an escort of several thousands along, and those men needed a day off just as much as the horses did. So the Emperor must behave himself and try to stay out of sight.
Butterfly Sword leaned over and rapped a knuckle against the bedside gong to inform his valets he was ready for his breakfast. Food was usually served much faster and hotter than it was in the palace. Campaigning was tough.
The pavilion was not the imperial palace, of course, but it would have slept fifty men easily. It was entered through an open patio, fenced around by yellow silk curtains for privacy, so the Emperor could sit in the sunshine and study his correspondence. If there was trouble back in Heart of the World, First Mandarin wasn’t telling him. Nor had he declared the throne vacant and promoted Prince Boundless Shore, which he undoubtedly would if the Bamboo Banner won the battle that now seemed inevitable, three or four days from now.
Iron Spur was supremely confident that no such disaster was remotely possible. Refugees confirmed what army scouts sent to study the enemy through spyglasses reported: a disorganized, starving rabble with no guns and few swords. Canister shot would blow them to fragments; any survivors could be mopped up by the cavalry. This Emperor did not want to start his reign with a massacre.
It was about midmorning when something happened to break the monotony—shatter it, in fact. The Emperor was standing precariously on a stool so he could see over the fence and study the Portal with a telescope when the sounds of the camp seemed to change. Then he heard a command very close to his castle: “Squad halt!”
He jumped down, put the stool to its proper use, and took up a scroll to look busy. He was absolute autocrat of the Good Land, and yet, in some ways, he was a prisoner of his own imperial resplendency.
Three discreet taps on the signal rod outside meant that Iron Spur himself wished audience. Bade approach, the general entered through the curtain and bowed, kowtowing having been strictly forbidden in the field. His normally impassive face looked eager, almost excited.
“Your Majesty … There is a youth out here who was apprehended riding in this direction with an esc
ort of about a dozen, most of them armed. He claims to be the Firstborn.”
Butterfly Sword’s world skipped a beat. Stories of the Urfather were legion. Many previous Emperors had granted him audience—possibly even taken his counsel, although, of course, that could never be admitted. He was credited with superhuman powers, and that he should turn up virtually on a battlefield, offering to mediate, was certainly in keeping with the legends. But the present situation was not normal.
In snooping through the late Empress Mother’s private papers, Butterfly Sword had discovered “his own” orders to the warden of a certain castle to torture a certain prisoner to death. The questions the warden had been required to ask proved that the unnamed prisoner could only have been the Firstborn. The said warden had died before he could obey, and the prisoner had escaped. If the newcomer was genuine, he might not be very well disposed to his supreme ruler.
Furthermore, if the supernatural stories were correct and the revered Ancient One exposed the present Emperor as a fraud, the army would tear one or other of them to pieces. Or both.
Noticing the imperial hesitation, Iron Spur drew a finger across his throat and raised his eyebrows. Butterfly Sword shook his head angrily. “Ask the youth where he last enjoyed our hospitality.”
Iron Spur bowed, backed out, and returned in a few seconds. “He says Four Mountains, Your Majesty, and the warden was Mandarin of the Third Rank Sedge Shallows.”
“Then we must meet this, um, youth.” It was hard to reconcile that word with a reputation for immortality. “Have the guards moved back from the tent so that our talk will not be overheard. I will receive the Ancient One alone.” Seeing the soldier’s jaw stiffen, Butterfly Sword added, “As long he is unarmed, I am confident I can handle any man long enough to yell for help.”
He rose and went into the pavilion, where he moved a stool close to his chair of state, upon which he proceeded to sit. It wasn’t the Golden Throne, and he was not wearing his imperial robes, but he doubted that either would impress the Urfather much.