“There came into the land a final, terrible sickness, slaughtering conqueror and conquered alike, nine hundred out of every thousand. At the age of twenty-five, having cast aside the saffron, with clever effort Zhu Yuan-Xiang initiated a rebellion of his disarmed countrymen. As this time but one family in ten was permitted possession of a kitchen carving-knife. He o’erthrew the conquerors while they coughed and quarreled among themselves and died.”
The servants had by this time hung decorative bamboo fans over the locker-doors. A string of paper lamps shed softer light than that afforded in the kitchen outside. A landscape, scroll-painted upon rattan, they unfurled upon the wall above the metal bench, itself draped in snowy damask, employed as serving-table. Platters of onion-flavored corn-cakes the servants placed there, along with bowls of fried rice, boiled yams, baked potatoes, salted vegetables, ricebowls of noodles, what Oln Woeck prayed was roast pork, something else Zhu Yuan-Coyotl told him with amusement was pickled snake and chilis.
“Taking the dynastic name Ming, he ruled his people for another forty years. The Emperor Zhu realized ’twas not enough to take the place the conqueror had vacated. Such had come to pass ere this in his land, countless times. Also, the land rotted with the stench of death. Rumors brought from other lands by the previous rulers attributed this to a disease borne by rats.”
Oln Woeck’s much-distracted attention divided itself between the Sun’s words, a less intellectual interest in the boy beginning to tease his loins, and the food whose aroma filled the tiny room, overpowering even the incense.
Still, Zhu Yuan-Coyotl had neither seated himself upon one of the rattan stools which had been brought in for them (the old man had vacated the bench—it hadn’t been difficult to persuade him) nor as yet partaken of any refreshment.
For the moment were they given candied fruit, dried melon seeds, something which the Sun told him was a bowl of deep-fried locusts, crusted with oily salt.
Oln Woeck watched the boy, admiring the fluid grace of his movements, the unblemished smoothness of his flesh. Soon there appeared a teapot, the vapor pouring from its delicate spout smelling of jasmine and crabapple. A steward brought a skullcap for Oln Woeck, a loincloth and black lacquered gauze headpiece for his master.
“Thus did Zhu Yuan-Xiang decree a vast fleet of ships, some thirty-seven thousand in number, whereupon he, his court, aught that might be gathered up of the remaining population, might—having taken the sternest possible measures to rid themselves of disease-bearing rodents—sail off toward the sunrise, and a new land.”
The Sun seated himself.
Employing a pair of slender tapered sticks as tools, he selected a moist tidbit from a platter. He waved Oln Woeck to the other chair. From outside the door there issued the mellow voice of a young woman reciting poetry. Other voices, sweeter, sang. Past the doorjamb, the Helvetian glimpsed the silhouettes of people dancing to the tune of lute, guitar, bamboo flute, silver violin.
“Thus it came about,” offered the Sun, “that, fleeing the selfsame Greater Death which drove your own ancestors scuttling to what you call the New World, Ours discovered it first, in the year you reckon 718, there—or rather, here—establishing colonies which, after a time, fused with the leading native culture.
“The Han were circumspect regarding the Meshika. For them there’d be no going back. To the unstable vitality of these savages they contributed much knowledge, the stability of bureaucracy. The respective aristocracies interbred.
“What resulted—besides Ourselves, of course—was a long-lasting culture capable of a measured progress. With all due respect for my esteemed ancestor, ’twas little to the doing of it. After all, as Our Dreamers inform Us, a redheaded half-Mongol can, with the same ease, be mistaken by a superstitious savage for the Feathered Serpent as any—but you’d have no wise of knowing about that.”
Agreeing in silence with the boy—that he knew not what was being spoken of—Oln Woeck accepted a cup of the fragrant infusion. Perhaps, after they ate, he could determine whether this beautiful youth might feel amenable to yet another pleasure—no! He mustn’t allow his fleshly predilections to overpower his judgment.
Bowing his head, he muttered a few words of ceremonial gratitude to the Suffering Lord Jesus, hands trembling with the effort of controlling his voraciousness.
Zhu Yuan-Coyotl watched him with a neutral expression.
Oln Woeck took up a pair of eating-sticks.
Before the Cultist could taste a single mouthful, the Sun Incarnate appeared to change the subject. So abrupt was the change that the old man looked up, eating-sticks hanging in the air, all but forgotten, before his puzzled face.
“There are many theories, Oln Woeck, as to how one may achieve satisfaction in life. We, for example, have gone to some pains to eradicate within Ourselves any desire which depends for its fulfillment upon the cooperative goodwill of other human beings. Thus no one exercises power o’er Us. Whate’er We can’t purchase, or compel by fear or force, We’ve learned to do without.”
He snapped his fingers. In an instant, servants entered. They began removing screens, fans, lamps, tables, furnishings, fixtures, until the little room shone steel-bare once again, the sumptuous food and drink an agonizing memory.
Zhu Yuan-Coyotl continued as if nothing had happened.
“Be assured this isn’t the case with Our subjects, whose schooling, free of cost to them, and entertainments We’ve seen fit to saturate with platitudes of love, brotherhood, mutual dependence, repeated to the point of nauseation. This, too, is not unlike the theology you practice. We’ve observed with amusement the tendency, once one’s ‘seen the light’—any light, it doesn’t matter—to create others with whom to share this enlightenment. We Ourselves avoid this. Truth is power, Oln Woeck. ’Tis not in Our interests that Our subjects share it.”
The stool jerked from beneath him, Oln Woeck fought back tears of angry disappointment.
“In the name of Jesus, man—”
The Sun appeared to ignore the plea.
“Thus it may occur to you to wonder why We bother discussing these matters with you. ’Tis because, Oln Woeck, of the commendable ruthlessness with which you disposed of Sedrich Fireclaw’s transgressions against what you regarded to be decency. We believe We’ve found a use for you. As you’ll recall, We asserted that all men come to serve Us in their own wise, in sufficient time.”
The Sun’s hand snapped out like a striking snake, ripping the robe from Oln Woeck’s body.
The old man began to shiver once again.
“The best way to rule’s ne’er to let the people learn they’re ruled,” the Sun offered, turning his back.
This time, no butcher knife had been left upon the naked metal bench as a temptation.
“The Comanche and the Utes, Our well-spiked fence against a hostile and inquisitive world, ne’er knew who ruled them, nor e’en that they were ruled, but that they served the gods. With Saracens and Mughals set upon exploring the globe, We believe the time’s come to extend this fence—and Our domination—to your own people, the Helvetii.”
Tossing the robe over his arm, the Sun strode toward the door.
“As a leader of the foremost power among the Helvetii, you may have a substantial part in this, Oln Woeck, and commensurate benefit. But ne’er in the name of this Jesus—at least not in Our presence. Our scholars will determine which beliefs and practices should be encouraged among your people, which uprooted, allowed to perish. We shall discuss the details with you later.
“Perhaps.
“We shall provide you, now, with yet another opportunity—to contemplate in some exactitude what it is you worship, the mythical ghost of a long-dead godling...”
He stepped outside the door, seizing the handle.
“Or the warming light of the living Sun!”
Zhu Yuan-Coyotl slammed the door.
XL: In the Palace of the Sun
Surely for the godfearing awaits a place of security, gardens and vineyard
s and maidens with swelling breasts, like of age, and a cup overflowing.
—The Koran, Sura LXXVIII
“Now the left hand!”
One ankle crossing another, Owald, stripped to a pair of baggy exercising trousers, leaned against a marble column so green it appeared carven out of jade, bearlike arms folded, an expression of astonishment upon his fair, clean-shaven face. He’d a towel draped about his neck, still catching his breath from a session of hand-to-hand.
Sunlight poured down into the cavernous practice-hall through bright-colored windows high in the ceiling overhead, relieving the damp chill each morning’s fog brought to the four islands and the surrounding city in the heart of the Crystal Empire. As Fireclaw shouted explanations—black Ursi dozed, contented, upon a carpet of brightness covering one section of the glossy floor—Owald watched his father’s martial labors with professional interest.
“Head!
“Thigh!
“Head!
“Hip!
“Head!
“Shoulder!
“Head!”
Fireclaw groaned, shouting out imaginary targets as he struck them, trembling with exertion, sweat-drenched, but visibly determined to regain the speed and power a week’s journey and two substantial doses of dart-drug had denied him.
Owald could see how his truncated wrist ached, bruised to the marrow from elbow to stump with what was demanded of it this morning. Nor was he any longer a young man. Yet, shifting the greatsword Murderer for another assault upon a man-high post of bound rattan staves planted in the floor, the graying Helvetian warrior went on and on, repeating motions he’d first learned as a youth.
Whirling Murderer high above his shaven head, he once again lengthened his reach with an echoing roar which was half agony, half fury, letting the gleaming steel weapon lash out. The gleaming razor-edge bit deep, showering tan-colored powdery splinters about the room, making hazardous navigation of the smooth-polished floor.
They’d have to be swept up e’er long, lest some unwary palace servitor slide upon them, breaking his neck.
Watching Fireclaw lever the great blade free, his silver-stranded war-braid bobbing, Owald reflected upon what the older man had told him in the last few days. In sun, snow, and rain, summer heat and winter cold, he’d repeated these painful motions a hundred times each dawning for the last quarter century. The man’s wrists had come to resemble bundled iron staves, his forearms outsizing the calves of many another man. The practice had served him well: he still lived after all those eventful years, while many a worthy enemy didn’t.
Owald suspected other, more recently acquired incentives to self-punishment were at work, guilt of a couple differing flavors, several varieties of frustration. The little dark-eyed Princess, Ayesha, was promised in wedlock to Zhu Yuan-Coyotl, the Sun Incarnate of the Han-Meshika. Fireclaw had lost his wife and unborn child less than a fortnight since, no decent interval, in the eyes of any Helvetian, for proper mourning. Yet life gave little regard to what men considered decent. Neither seemed to realize it yet—from the viewpoint of either party, this was no time to go acourting—but Ayesha was becoming Fireclaw’s woman, in intention if not in deed, which meant more trouble ahead than any sane man would wish to contemplate.
Another sudden whirl, another savage scream of unleashed power, another bite into the rattan butt. Shock sang through the blade, echoing about the room.
Yes, Owald thought, the Saracen Princess, his long-lost father, twice her age, both were in for something of a surprise. Trouble was, even he, the commander of the Sun’s bodyguard, couldn’t imagine how the surprise could turn out to be that pleasant one of mutual recognition which ordinary lovers might enjoy.
He shook his head, as if to clear it of disturbing notions. Life had been that simple ere Fireclaw showed up!
With each swing of the legendary Murderer, Owald was forced to regard the saw-toothed blade he’d carried in the Imperial Bodyguard with greater contempt. Fireclaw had practiced with one such a while earlier, flinging it aside in a few moments with disgust.
Mass-produced somewhere within the Empire, ’twas true it bit deep for its weight, creating terrible ragged wounds, which, did the victim survive, would be long in healing, if at all. The little blade spanned but two fingers’ width at the haft, possessed no cross-guard to speak of. From point to pommel, it could be carried resting upon the fingertips, tucked into the armpit. Great Murderer must be slung across the back, handle high above one’s head. The Empire’s saw-toothed swordlets could be carried at the waist, like daggers.
Mob-weapons, Fireclaw had snorted, devised for close massed attack upon victims less than well prepared for self-defense. Or for finishing off the helpless wounded. Useless, he maintained, to an individual confronting enemies of equal skill.
This annoyed the Imperial Bodyguard commander, who’d heretofore taken some pride in the skill he possessed with the most scientific, deadly edged weapon in the known world.
“Now the right side for a while,” Fireclaw shouted, pushing Murderer’s long pommel into his prosthetic, giving it a locking twist, “and back to the left!”
But not so much as the irritating fact that this gray-haired barbarian was right. Disgusted—although with what he couldn’t say—Owald pulled the towel up over his head. He slid down the column until he was seated at its foot upon the floor.
Time passed.
The patches of colored sunlight from the ceiling crawled across the floor, somehow, as if by magic, dragging the sleeping bear-dog along with them.
At long last, Fireclaw ceased his belligerent labors, toweling his own half-naked body with linens brought by a servant while another entered, as he had each morning for a week, sweeping up the debris with a push-broom. Fireclaw glanced toward Owald, whistled Ursi to attention, began walking across the great hall toward the showers, as had been his practice every morning.
Owald stopped him with a shout, leapt to his feet, and dog-trotted to catch up.
“Wait a moment,” he told his father. “There’s something I want to show you first.”
Ursi glanced in confusion toward the showers—he was fond of falling water, already in the habit of bathing with his master—then seemed to shrug and follow along, complacent. Together all three turned leftward, walking the great length of the empty room which at another hour would be full of off-duty guardsmen, practicing their own murderous skills, until they reached the entrance of a deep wing set at right angles to the rest of the skylighted structure, where two copper-kilted soldiers in full battle-dress awaited them.
Owald looked upon his father.
“I see you bear greatsword and dagger—also the little knife inside your shirtfront—yet you’ve laid your revolving pistol aside. This you shouldn’t have done. ’Tis a sign of the Sun’s great favor to be granted the privilege—”
“Of carrying an unloaded gun?” Fireclaw asked, adding a short, one-syllabled Helvetian word.
“’Tis a badge of honor, Father.”
Fireclaw snorted.
“Empty gun—by the sovereign’s leave—empty honor. We’ll speak no more upon it.”
“You’re held to be a dangerous man,” Owald told his father. “I requested special permission for this, receiving it only under these conditions. D’you not be alarmed.”
He nodded at the pair of body guardsmen, who obeyed by raising the short black weapons slung across their armored chests, pointing them at Fireclaw’s belly.
Fireclaw smiled an evil smile.
A long, padded, waist-high counter lay in sections across the entrance to the wing. Owald removed a small key from his sweaty waistband. He bent, and from a cabinet within the counter removed another of the peculiar weapons. He pulled the long, curved, empty magazine from behind its contoured grip, slapped back the knurled charging-handle upon the left side of the dull-surfaced receiver, and peered deep into the mechanism to assure himself the firing chamber was empty.
He let the handle snap forward, replaced
the magazine, handed the weapon to his father. Glancing from one of the armored guardsmen to the other, Fireclaw winked and chuckled. He accepted the deadly little machine his son had handed to him.
He hefted it in his left hand. Made for the right, it fit him awkwardly.
“Heavier than it looks,” he observed, turning the muzzle toward himself to peer back along its axis.
“About half the bore-size of my pistol, I’d guess. Same sight as upon a Comanche bow, e’en to the fashioner’s markings. This thing holds the ammunition.”
He pushed the release-button as if he’d been doing it all his life instead of swinging a sword. He handed the empty magazine to his son, indicating the operating lever.
“This starts the first into the chamber—better idea than a revolver, once solve the powder-fouling problem.”
Owald nodded, trying to disguise his amazement.
“Smokeless powder,” he answered, “not much fouling at all. You want to shoot it?”
Fireclaw grinned.
“If your little friends don’t shoot me first.”
Owald pointed a thumb toward the far end of the hall-wing, where, a hundred paces away, cloth bags of sand had been laid upon one another to a level twice the height of a man. Half a dozen man-shaped cutouts, in the subdued colors of the sandbags, had been fastened between wooden posts in front of them.
“Just keep this thing pointed downrange,” he told his father. “’Twill keep ’em happy and your skin intact. Here, I’ll start you with single cartridge.”
Owald pressed a smallish cylinder—slender, copper-tipped, aluminum-cased, and bottle-shaped—into the spring-loaded top of the magazine and handed it to Fireclaw. The older man laid the short weapon along his forearm, inserted the magazine with his left hand, slapped the floorplate until it locked. He pulled the charging-handle back with an edge of his prosthetic.
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