Portal of a Thousand Worlds

by Duncan, Dave

  The Emperor was not much impressed by the youth who was marched in by Iron Spur himself. He looked to be about seventeen. Having been stripped down to a loincloth, he was obviously both skinny and thoroughly chilled already by the fall temperature. He bowed, and kept his eyes lowered when he straightened up, as was expected in court—no one ever looked directly at the Emperor. His hair had a brownish, Outlandish tinge.

  “Untie his hands!” Butterfly Sword snapped, more angrily than he intended. “And bring his clothes!” As the general ran to obey, he added, “Welcome, Bearer of Wisdom.”

  “Your Majesty is gracious.”

  “I am sorry for the bonds and the clothes. You deserve better.”

  For an instant, the Firstborn glanced up in astonishment, revealing the oversize eyes always shown in the drawings. He was unimpressive, not what one would expect of a man who had lived thousands of lives. Dress him in the Emperor’s state robes and he would still not overawe anyone. Butterfly Sword was not much older, but he had the advantage of size.

  “And I assure you that the treatment you received in Four Mountains was not by my order. My late mother grew somewhat cranky in her old age.” Butterfly Sword considered what he had just said and laughed. “Vicious, even bloodthirsty. Ah.”

  Iron Spur brought in the missing clothes and cut the rope binding the Firstborn’s hands. Then he gave the Emperor a furious and highly illegal glare, and stalked out. The visitor dressed himself hastily.

  “You may sit there,” Butterfly Sword said. “Now, what brings you?”

  “Two concerns, Your Majesty. The Bamboo Banner, for one.”

  “What of them?”

  “They are a rabble of starving peasants, deluded by a maniac, who tells them that Your Imperial Majesty has risen to the Fifth World and he is your rightful successor. I have not visited them yet, but three of them came to my camp last night. They were on their way here to learn whether there is any truth in the lies they have been told. I offered to investigate and go back and tell them—subject to your imperial will, of course.”

  “And?”

  “As I will report that the rumor is obviously untrue, I most humbly beg Your Sublime Majesty to forgive them and send them home.”

  “Granted. I will be much happier to see them departing in peace than being cut to pieces. Will they go?”

  Another quick glance of surprise. “I hope so, sire. If the rest are like the three I met last night, they are all desperately hungry.”

  “I’ll see if we can spare some of our rations. And what is the second thing?”

  This time, the Firstborn looked up and stared the Emperor straight in the eye. “The second thing is that you do look very like Emperor Zealous Righteousness, but your behavior could hardly be more different. He cut off my head—twice! I have met more than a hundred Emperors, and only four of them waived the kowtow, even when I was laden with chains and standing in muddy cow pasture. Maybe a dozen allowed me to try to mediate with rebels. And not a single one ever offered me a seat or an apology.”

  Butterfly Sword felt a cold trickle run down his back. Had the sun not continued to shine, he might have looked up to see if the roof were leaking. “I can have you loaded up with chains if that will improve your manners.”

  “You speak Palace Voice with a slight accent, probably from rural Chixi Province. And it is well known that the Portal of a Thousand Worlds is due to open very soon. This always indicates a change of dynasty.”

  “You are insanely impudent. I believe I will be guided by my father’s precedent and have you decapitated. Once should be sufficient.”

  Without any change of expression at this threat, the Firstborn quietly rubbed his right eyebrow with the tips of two fingers held together.

  For the second time that morning, Butterfly Sword felt an earthquake. “You too?”

  But of course it was not only possible but extremely likely. Pick a boy with roughly the right sort of looks to start with, then teach him seeming magic until he was good enough to fit the sketches, plus enough history and philosophy to get by … When one dies, launch another. Or even run several Firstborns at the same time—who would ever know in a nation as huge as the Good Land? The hallowed Firstborn was only a long-running Gray Order fraud?

  The boy smiled, but there was more scorn than mirth there. “No, I’m genuine. I do not go around robbing the dead. Not that the Gray Helpers have not tried to impersonate me in the past.”

  “You are saying that I am an imposter. So the question is, which one of us will the commander believe when we denounce each other?”

  The Urfather shrugged. “Death doesn’t scare me, even the death of a thousand cuts. It is only a nuisance. I judge by results. Your reaction to my appeal on behalf of the Bamboo Banner was totally out of character, but I found it very welcome. Convince me that you will be a worthy ruler and I will gladly accept a secret change of dynasty. I have known it to happen before now. There is nothing I have not seen at least once.”

  So now His Imperial Highness, Son of the Sun, Lord of the High and the Low, Father of the Gentle People, et cetera, was about to be judged by this barefoot waif, was he?

  Yes.

  “Back in the Year of the Firebird, when Zealous Righteousness died …”

  Butterfly Sword talked, the Firstborn listened, watching the Emperor’s lips as if he could mark every word as true or false. He did not comment once, but soon he began to nod slightly, and then he started to smile. He pursed his lips at the death of the Empress Mother, yet still did not speak. When the story reached the expulsion of the eunuchs, he actually grinned.

  And when Butterfly Sword had finished, the Firstborn slid off his stool to his knees, and knocked his forehead three times on the rug. The tent was too small for the required two repetitions. The Emperor stood, took him by the arm, and raised him. Then he went to his refreshment bar and poured his guest a goblet of wine. “Ancient One?”

  “Thanks. My name is Sunlight in this life.”

  “You can call me Horse when we’re alone.”

  Thus did two young men seal a pact. There being no other goblet handy, Butterfly Sword drank straight from the flask.

  “So who holds the Emperor’s leash?” the Firstborn asked, sitting down again without waiting for permission.

  Butterfly Sword bypassed the throne and pulled up another stool. “That I do not know. Sister Lark, I suppose. She’s too smart to tell anyone else the secret, but someone else must hold hers. I can’t see how I can rule with that hanging over me.”

  “I can,” the boy said with a smile. “Just forget them. Yes, the Gray Order is the second biggest gang of thieves in the world, right after the palace eunuchs. But the Humble Teacher said, Fret not over them that loot the rich, for the rich gained their wealth by looting the poor.”

  “He did? I have never heard that before.”

  “He did say it,” Sunlight said. “Often. But it is among his many aphorisms that have been suppressed.”

  “Well the Gray Order does rob the rich, but they also murder the rich, and I am richer than anyone. Do I start with the impossible task of finding Sister Lark?”

  The Urfather sighed. “Lark is undoubtedly dead. She knew too much. Look at the situation from the Gray Order’s point of view. The Empress Mother was old, and when she died, you would become the first Emperor in history who knew all their secrets. They were afraid of you and what you might do. Lady Twilight was also old, and likely to follow the Empress Mother to the Fifth World very rapidly—if not by your hand, then by one of her uncountable enemies’. Only she knew your leash! So the Gray Order disposed of them both and secured you with a new leash to control you directly. Undoubtedly, someone gave Sister Lark very definite orders, most likely the primate of the House of Joyful Departure in Meritorious Aspect, who must have been Twilight’s accomplice when she found you. But the Order has survived for centur
ies and no Emperor has dared tackle it since Celestial Mercy, who promptly died a sudden and very painful death. My advice to you, Horse, is to forget about them. After all, someone has to dispose of the corpses! The Gray Helpers serve a useful purpose and they cannot legally marry, so they leave no legitimate heirs. I’m sure they won’t trouble you if you don’t trouble them, and you have more pressing problems to worry about.”

  Butterfly Sword emptied the wine flask while he thought about this outrageous suggestion. He decided that it did make sense. “Thank you. I see why you are called the All-Wise. You have lifted a great weight off my mind.”

  “Even the Emperor cannot solve all the problems of the world, sire. Remember that, or you will go crazy.”

  “I need such advice! Will you return to Sublime Mountain with me and accept a post as imperial advisor?”

  The Firstborn laughed. “I have believed for several centuries that nothing in the world could ever surprise me, but that does! Most Puissant Father—that’s a Third Dynasty honorific—on what could I advise you were I shut up in the palace as you are? The right of access, now … that would work! Then, when I find something that needs the imperial frown, I could bring it to your attention. That would be wonderful. It isn’t seeing what needs to be done that is the problem, it is getting it done.”

  “Which teacher said that?”

  The Urfather scratched his untidy mop of hair. “I think it was Half-Dead Tiger. Then he cut off the man’s head himself.”

  Butterfly Sword roared with laughter. Suddenly, he felt young again, drinking with a friend. It was illusion, of course, and he must remember so.

  Sunlight was smiling, too. “I’ll proffer Your Celestial Majesty one piece of advice as a free sample. If the Portal of Worlds does open next year, as predicted, and you survive, as I hope, then I think you should proclaim yourself first Emperor of the Twelfth Dynasty.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “You can do anything, but that would make it easier for you to change all the customs and throw off the shackles of tradition. Like eunuchs, for example.”

  Brilliant! Simple but devastating. The Emperor rose and returned to his throne. “If you would be good enough to strike that gong, friend Sunlight, I will order lunch for us. And later, you can take an hour or two to describe to me the best of all the Emperors you have ever known, and to instruct me in all the things that a truly benevolent ruler must do to serve his people well.”

  Chapter 23

  Shard Gingko spent a long day sitting on the ground with the rest of his companions just outside the army camp, watched over by a score or so of armed, distrustful soldiers. The antagonism waned soon after the Firstborn was led away, which indicated that he had been made welcome by the Emperor. The weather was pleasant, neither hot nor cold, windy nor dead calm, and the scenery was memorable. But the prisoners were not allowed to talk, and he dared not open his scribe’s box to write anything lest he be suspected of making notes about the army. The soldiers were having a day off, squad after squad running over to the river to splash and laugh and horse around. Even the horses were horsing around.

  Bowls of rice were handed out at noon, but after that, the monotony returned. And then, without warning, the Firstborn returned, accompanied by the senior officer who had taken him away. Everyone jumped up—other than Shard, who scrambled upright with the help of Mouse’s strong arm. Their horses were being led back, already saddled and bridled, with a packhorse they had not seen before.

  The Firstborn came straight to Shard Gingko and Mouse. He was smiling.

  “All is well, Master?” Mouse said.

  “All is well so far. His Imperial Majesty has agreed that he will not pursue if Bamboo’s followers disband and head for home. He will send some food wagons tomorrow to give them a good meal before they start. I have to witness that Bamboo himself has repented and recanted, but everyone else is pardoned already.”

  Shard’s instant reaction was to wonder whether the Emperor could be trusted, or whether he was just hoping to catch the rebels off guard as they scattered. But if anyone could detect a lie, it must be the Firstborn.

  The sun was setting as they came in sight of the caravanserai, where the three rebels already had a fire burning. They stood in a row, regarding the Firstborn’s party with dark suspicion while they dismounted. As Sunlight walked over to them, three of the Goat Haven men moved in around him as a bodyguard, hands on swords.

  “I have spoken with the Emperor,” he said. “He pardons you all, provided you now turn around and go home. He will send wagons of food in the morning. The only exception is Bamboo himself. He has to recant his claims, and I must witness his oath of loyalty. After that, he too is free to go.”

  Fair Visions and Ominous Scroll smiled broadly.

  The one called Silent scowled. “How do you know he is the true Absolute Purity and not an imposter?”

  The Firstborn did not lose his good cheer. “I know he looks quite like Zealous Righteousness, his father, and even more like his grandfather, both of whom I met. He has given us a load of dainties to brighten our diet, so that we may feast tonight, and bless his name.”

  “A cheap bribe!” Silent shouted.

  The Firstborn sighed. “Any man who has the Imperial Army at his back and flies the Golden Dragon banner is good enough for me. Don’t argue with him!”

  “He is right, Silent,” Fair Visions said. “Let sleeping tigers lie. This is incredible generosity.”

  “I don’t trust him!”

  “Will you fight him alone?”

  The Firstborn walked away, and his escort went with him, leaving the three rebels to argue it out among themselves. Shard had met fanatics like Silent before, men who could not allow any evidence to change their minds.

  Everyone else was content. Only the Firstborn had seen the Emperor, but that was to be expected. Even to be close to him was the highlight of a lifetime.

  Moonless darkness closed in. Stars glittered overhead like a river of diamonds, and seventeen men sat around a fading campfire, feasting on the treats the Emperor had sent from his own supplies—and drinking the best wine Shard had ever tasted.

  Conversations were quiet and local. Shard felt again that sense of completion. His great adventure was over: He would retire to Goat Haven to complete his memoirs; the Firstborn and Mouse, his ever-faithful disciple, would go with the food train to Bamboo’s camp, and the world would roll along as before.

  At last, the Firstborn rose, stretched his ropy arms, and yawned luxuriously. “I foresee a long day ahead tomorrow, so I bid you all good night and safe sleep. Don’t worry about noise. I can sleep through thunderstorms.”

  Almost everyone else had risen out of respect, cutting off the firelight, so that no one foresaw the tragedy. Silent leaped forward and twisted a long dagger into the Firstborn’s belly. He cried out and fell. One of the Goat Haven men whipped out a sword, but Silent slashed his throat, incredibly fast. Other swords flashed, but it was Prince Silk Hand himself who dealt with the killer. Moving almost too fast to see, he grabbed Silent from behind and broke his neck with one quick wrench. How did he do that? Shard was appalled—snap a man’s spine with bare hands? But then he awakened to the real disaster, the wounded Urfather. Prince Silk Hand knelt at his right, Mouse at his left, and everyone else cleared out of the way to let the firelight reveal the awful scene. He was writhing in agony, struggling to suppress screams, and pouring blood.

  “Master! Oh, Master!” Mouse cried. “Somebody help!”

  “There is no help,” Prince Silk Hand said. “The demon knew how to strike.”

  “You are right,” the Firstborn muttered through clenched teeth. “The wound is fatal. But this has never been my favorite way to die.”

  “No!” Mouse roared. He leaped to his feet, turned to the mountains, and bellowed, incredibly loud. “Open! Open now! He is here this time, but you m
ust be quick. Hurry!” Not even an echo replied.

  “It isn’t the Year of the Firebird yet!” Shard protested. No one answered.

  Mouse screamed the message again, louder then ever.

  The ground shivered.

  Mouse fell silent. Someone said, “Another earthquake?”

  If it were another quake, Shard thought, they were in a very safe place, where nothing could fall on them.

  Whatever it was, it was not stopping. Shard sensed a strange low rumble, somewhere between a noise and a shaking, something both heard by his ears and felt in his bones. He wondered if he was detecting landslides in the mountains. Then a knife cut of light exploded into the darkness, painfully bright. Men cried out in terror.

  Lord Silk Hand said. “It can’t be! Not this year.”

  Shard Gingko thought, Will you teach Heaven to eat rice? a saying of the Humble Teacher.

  “No it isn’t, but he is here!” Mouse shouted joyfully. He stooped and scooped the Firstborn up in his arms as if he weighed no more than a rolled blanket.

  The light was certainly coming from the Western Wall, a vertical slash on the cliff, the southern edge of the Portal. Across the valley, the Fortress Hills were bright as day.

  The Portal was opening, pivoting on its north edge, swinging forward. The sepulchral rumble grew stronger, the light unbearable. Surely, the sun itself must be right behind that vast door. Now came waves of sound as trees and hillside were forced apart. Even to look across the campfire hurt now, so bright were the Fortress Hills.

  “Oh, listen!” Fair Visions said.

  Yes, there was music, very strange, very distant, growing louder. To Shard, it seemed to combine the essence of every timbre he had ever heard: gongs and bells, but also reeds, strings, silk, and brass. There were voices in it, and birdsong, and he thought that his ears could not detect all of its range, yet no other music would ever sound worthy again. It plucked at his heart.

  The horses were shrilling in fear, racing around their paddock. Men whimpered in terror—and nothing had come out of that door yet.