He’d seen the light outside the narrow window that brought fresh air into his solitary cell change from bright to dark and dark to bright. He’d tracked the changes, scoring them deeply into the wood of the doorframe.
Three days, not counting the day on which they had been captured. They’d not walked far that day. Thundering Heaven had positioned wagons around a bend in the trail. After weapons—and, in the case of himself and Flying Claw, armor—had been removed, the prisoners had been bundled one at a time into those wagons. Their hands were tied behind them, their ankles hobbled. A rope about their waists secured them to an iron loop in the wagon.
The bonds had not been uncomfortable, but they had been restrictive. As further insurance against escape attempts, Thundering Heaven had employed the neat little device of a rope looped around the throat, connected to that which bound the wrists. As long as one did not struggle, the loop around the throat remained no more restrictive than a tight collar. However, if one struggled—as in stretching to attempt to untie one’s own wrists or those of another—then the loop tightened, first restricting breath, then strangling.
This was the stick. As a carrot, Thundering Heaven had offered not to gag them as long as they remained perfectly silent.
“I will have soldiers stationed in the back of the wagons with you. If they report a single word, even a suspicious grunt, then the gags will go in. You see? I can be gracious—as long as I am not pushed too hard.”
The prisoners had been placed in three different wagons. Loyal Wind did not think it a coincidence that he, Flying Claw, and Riprap—the three most effective fighters—had been separated. Loyal Wind shared his wagon with Bent Bamboo and Gentle Smoke. They had all been warned that they must remain in their human shapes.
Gentle Smoke in particular had been warned of the consequences should she attempt to slip away. Loyal Wind recalled how furious Gentle Smoke had been with Thundering Heaven. She’d even tried to bite him. Funny. Until then, Loyal Wind had never considered whether her snake form was venomous or not. He still wasn’t certain, but from how the soldier who had been set to guard them had reacted, that young man wasn’t going to take any chances.
No one had broken the prohibition against speech while the wagons were in motion. When they were unloaded well after dark in an inner courtyard of a looming structure that smelled of wet stone and grief, Nine Ducks had ventured a question.
“Where are we?”
“Someplace that would mean nothing to you,” Thundering Heaven had said. “A place with sufficient quarters to house you all appropriately.”
Those quarters had proven to be cells: stone-walled, stone-floored. The furnishings were minimal: a covered bucket, a heap of straw, and a large clay jar filled with fresh water.
The only light came from a narrow window that ran along the top of one wall. This was the only source of fresh air as well. When rain fell, as it did on the second night, water streamed in to splash on the stone floor before draining through slits set a few inches from the wall.
The cell’s door had a slot through which food was passed at odd hours: usually rice topped with some slivers of fish and pickled vegetables. The food was fresh and plentiful. The water was replenished through a hose lowered through the window each dawn. The bucket was emptied into the slits on the floor, rinsed through with water from the same hose. If Loyal Wind worked quickly enough, he could even give himself a shower. This was easy enough, since his only garment was a light cotton tunic.
On the first day of his captivity, Loyal Wind had attempted some magic to improve his situation, but found he could not even summon a small light. He was no Dragon to speculate on what charms must have been used to eliminate drawing even on personal ch’i, but the level of exhaustion he felt after his effort made him think that the charm must divert his ch’i from the spell of his choice, draining more ch’i than he had intended to use, judging from his fatigue.
He decided not to risk ch’i depletion. There were worse things than darkness.
In the three days since Loyal Wind had been put in his cell, no one had spoken to him. He had tried shouting, but no one had answered him. Soon after, the food slot had shot back and a voice had made a shushing noise, then added three words: “Or no water.”
The pickled vegetables had made him thirsty. Loyal Wind accepted the warning. In any case, given how carefully all the other arrangements had been made, he doubted that his associates were anywhere they could hear him. He’d had to try.
From what Thundering Heaven had already said, Loyal Wind knew the Exile Tiger’s master wanted them alive, wanted to speak to them. Except for their confinement, their situation could be worse. They had come here to learn what had happened to the Lands. Now they would do so.
Once Loyal Wind might have raged at being imprisoned. Stallions were not known for their equable temperaments, nor horses in general for loving confinement.
But Loyal Wind had been dead far longer than he had been alive. When, somewhere in the long years of death, he had slowly begun to let go of the anger and outrage that had led to his suicide, he had begun to distrust his own temper.
Now he sat on the pile of straw that was his only furniture and contemplated the situation. He hoped that Flying Claw or Riprap had not done anything too impulsive, that Bent Bamboo had kept his tendency to make sassy remarks in check. Des was not likely to say anything deliberately rude, but his eagerness to ask questions might be misinterpreted.
The ladies provided less reason for concern. Gentle Smoke was skilled in monitoring her remarks. While Copper Gong could be acid-tongued, the long years she had spent pushing the Orphans to attempt a return to the Lands had taught her something of the value of moderation. Nine Ducks, like her namesake Ox, was very calm unless roused.
Loyal Wind felt a stirring of uneasiness when he thought of Nine Ducks. She—not he—had defeated Thundering Heaven back when they had first sought to rescue Bent Bamboo. Would Thundering Heaven attempt to exact some vengeance? Loyal Wind doubted that Thundering Heaven would stoop to anything as extreme as torture—after all, apparently Li Szu wished to speak with them—but withholding food or water or providing some minor humiliation could serve both to punish her and to provide them all with a reminder that their situation might be far worse.
Such thoughts were troubling, especially as speculation made them seem all the more real. Loyal Wind tried thinking about other things. Foremost among these was Li Szu himself.
Thundering Heaven had referred to Li Szu as the creator of the Lands Born from Smoke and Sacrifice. In a sense Li Szu was, for he was the one who had counseled the first emperor, Ch’in Shih Huang Ti, to burn those books that did not agree with the new empire’s policies. This action—combined with the executions of scholars who refused to comply—had created the surge of energy that had given birth to the Lands.
It was a tale every child was told, but, strangely, after that initial act neither Li Szu nor the first emperor had any place in the tales of the Lands. The gods and goddesses of the Lands were those of China at the time of the Burning of the Books, though Buddhism had seeped in and left its mark, just as it had in China.
Sometime on the fourth day, probably about noon given the light—Loyal Wind had long ago established that his window faced east—the food slot in the door shot back. It was too early for another meal. Loyal Wind went from an idle drowse directly to his feet.
He cast about for a weapon, but the lid to the slops bucket was chained on and the bucket itself secured by a short but heavy chain to the wall. Straw would do no good, and both the bowl in which his rice was provided and the water jar were made of clay too delicate to be of any use as a weapon.
“Stand where you can be seen,” said a voice without, male, but not, Loyal Wind thought, that of Thundering Heaven. “Put your hands out to your sides.”
Loyal Wind did this.
The door opened, swinging out into the corridor.
“Come,” said the voice.
Aft
er the indirect light of his cell, the area outside seemed very bright. All Loyal Wind could make out was a large shape. When he stepped out into the corridor, he realized this belonged to a guard. The man who had spoken was a much less impressive figure, dressed in the robes of a minor official.
“You are to be prepared,” the official said. “If you cause difficulties, you will still be prepared, but afterwards you will not return to such pleasant accommodations. Do you understand?”
“I do.” Loyal Wind decided to hazard a question. “Prepared for what?”
“An audience. Follow me.”
Loyal Wind did so. Another guard as large as the first stepped out between him and the official, while the first took up the rear—this despite the fact that they were in a corridor without any other doors.
Loyal Wind wondered if this was actually the case. Disguising any distinguishing marks was a very simple illusion, one often done in prisons to keep the prisoners from getting a sense of where they were, so that even if they did escape, they would not be likely to find their way out.
They went down this corridor, up a short flight of stairs, into another corridor, down a ramp, and eventually ended up in an area that smelled very invitingly of musky perfumes. The air held an extra note of humidity, and Loyal Wind was not in the least surprised to find they had come to a bath.
“You will bathe,” the official said. “You will permit the attendants to trim your hair, beard, and nails. You will then—when you are dry—garb yourself in the clothing provided. Any resistance will lead to punishment. Do you understand?”
Loyal Wind did, and although he felt humiliated by how meekly he was forced to accept this grooming—feeling rather like a horse being prepared for parade—he decided nothing would be gained by protesting. He even tried to enjoy the scrubbing and the attentions of the skilled attendants, but doing so was difficult.
No one would speak to him. The official had moved away to a bench near the entrance, and appeared engrossed in a scroll he removed from one of his capacious sleeves.
Eventually, garbed in rich red robes embroidered (somewhat hastily, Loyal Wind thought) with a horse on the back and on each of the sleeves, Loyal Wind was ready. The slippers he had been given to wear were a trifle oversized, and he wondered if that was deliberate, to make him clumsy if he should choose to run.
Anything is possible, he thought.
Loyal Wind wondered if he would be taken to a waiting area, if he would find some of the others there, similarly fresh from being bathed and groomed. Instead, the official led the way into an inner courtyard. There their entourage swelled to a dozen guards, most armed with clubs but several carrying spears. The message was unspoken but no less clear. Were Loyal Wind to try anything foolish, he would be beaten down.
Loyal Wind did not expect to be warned again, nor was he.
They left the inner courtyard, passing into a larger, central building. Here the corridors were wider, floored in marble or intricately patterned wood rather than the more utilitarian stone of the building they had just left.
The walls were ornamented with subdued taste. There were four-clawed dragons, but no sign of the imperial five-clawed version. The ch’i-lin, who only appears when the ruler is wise and just, was depicted repeatedly, as were emblems for prosperity and wisdom.
Nothing for happiness, though, Loyal Wind thought. I guess that says something. Certainly the emphasis on the ch’i-lin does.
Wide, double-paneled doors led to other, even wider corridors, and these to even grander entries. Despite the vastness of the palace, they passed no one. Corridors were empty. There were no sounds, no smothered giggles from functionaries hurrying out of sight, no hints of distant music, only perfect silence and the matched footsteps of the guards who escorted Loyal Wind and the nameless official.
At last they came to a pair of doors that, although wider than the rest, was devoid of the elegant carvings Loyal Wind had seen elsewhere. It was as if whoever was within did not wish to give anything away about himself or his desires.
The foremost guards rapped on the door with the butts of their clubs. In answer, the doors swung open.
“Enter,” the official said, stepping back to let Loyal Wind precede him, “and kowtow most profoundly before Li Szu, creator of the universe, absolute ruler of all these Lands Born from Smoke and Sacrifice, soon to bring justice and order and right living to all lands no matter how far they may be.”
Loyal Wind did as he was told, performing the kowtow after the fashion demanded for a reigning emperor. When he was finished, he remained crouched on all fours, but dared to sneak a glance at the man who claimed to be the creator of a universe.
Li Szu was a sparely built man who was certainly at least seventy, and quite possibly much older. He wore his hair and beard cut in the fashion popularized by Confucius—or at least in the fashion that great sage was most frequently shown wearing in art. Li Szu was clad as a Mandarin, with a scholar’s rectangular hat, pointed beard, and long hair. Despite his grandiose claims, Li Szu did not wear the robes of an emperor, but rather those of a scholar of the highest rank.
Loyal Wind tried to decide whether this was an indication of modesty or the reverse. In his teachings, Confucius frequently advocated neither extreme, saying that a man should represent himself as what he was, no more, but certainly no less.
If I could get a feeling for what Li Szu’s game is, Loyal Wind thought, I might better know how to plan the tactics of my approach. For now, I shall treat him like an emperor, as his subjects do, but include the grace notes accorded to a scholar.
“Rise, Loyal Wind,” said Li Szu. His voice was as spare as his frame, but not in the least reedy or shrill. It was the voice of one who prefers whispers, and who commands so much power that he has never needed to shout.
Loyal Wind rose, feeling the skirts of his formal robes fall into place. Good silk. Heavy, yet densely woven. Looking at the man before him, Loyal Wind understood that this had nothing to do with him, nor with any desire to reflect his own honors and achievements. Those who came before Li Szu would always be clad as that man thought they should be, no more, but certainly no less.
We are dolls in a shadow play of his making, Loyal Wind thought. But what is the script? My role seems to be that of courtier and advisor, as I was before the Exile.
Li Szu was seated upon a chair set upon a raised dais. It was not a throne. Rather it was the chair of a high official who represents the emperor, the type of chair upon which the governor of a large province might sit when receiving homage ostensibly for his ruler, but in reality for himself.
Without letting his gaze wander, Loyal Wind assessed who else was in the room. Guards flanked the raised dais, their expressions as emotionless as those of painted Men Shen upon a door. The armor and weapons were elaborate, but from how the edges of the heads of the spears cut the light, Loyal Wind did not doubt that these were more than ornamental weapons.
Clerks hovered just out of the imperial line of sight, ready to assist but not intruding. A few scribes sat at a long table, brushes ready to dip into the ink prepared on the stones, long pieces of paper unrolled and waiting.
Loyal Wind noted that even the least clerk wore the cap buttons of officials of notable rank. Most wore robes reserved for those of higher ranks, with ornaments on their sleeves indicating years of faithful and illustrious service.
Like a general, Loyal Wind thought, whose assistants are themselves ranking officers, qualified to command large forces. Li Szu’s robes say he is but a scholar, but his surroundings say otherwise.
After giving the command to rise, Li Szu kept silent for a great while. Now he spoke.
“Bring a chair for the great general! Bring him tea and refreshments.”
Loyal Wind was surprised to be offered the opportunity to sit in the presence of greatness, but he obeyed when a chair was brought.
Li Szu smiled benignly as a green tea smelling lightly of fresh melons was poured. He accepted a cup for himse
lf from the same pot. A steamer filled with elegant dumplings was brought, and each was permitted to serve himself.
Mute reassurance, Loyal Wind thought, that I need not fear poison.
The dumplings were perfect, filled with savory, salty things that went very well with the slightly sweet tea. Host and guest shared for a time, then Li Szu wiped his fingers and motioned for his cup to be refilled.
“Loyal Wind, you have been an advisor to an emperor, a commander of vast forces.”
The statement was not phrased as a question, so Loyal Wind did not reply. Instead he inclined his head slightly, acknowledgment of what had been said, but that was all.
“As one who must make decisions that will guide a great enterprise, I have need of advice.”
Somehow I doubt that, Loyal Wind thought, but he schooled his face into impassivity that he hoped would be taken as attentiveness. The next thing he says will give me some inkling as to what game he is playing.
Li Szu leaned forward slightly. The fall of his ostensible scholar’s robes showed a weight and weave of silk that gave lie to any claim of humility. The worked gold and coral buttons on his cap caught the light and gave it back transformed into bloody red.
“Tell me, Loyal Wind, how would you deal with a thief?”
Brenda sat tucked into bed, the fantasy novel she’d been reading—something about a woman raised by wolves—set beside her on top of the sheets.
Two days had passed since Brenda’s return from the Land Beneath the Hills, a perfectly good weekend spent mostly in bed recovering from massive ch’i depletion. The drain hadn’t been as bad as the first time, during the summer. She’d been spared the vomiting and aversion to light, but she’d still been so exhausted that she could hardly raise her head from the pillow.
At first, Shannon had teased her, thinking that Parnell and Brenda had gotten a bit wild. Brenda’s usual limit was a couple of beers, and she’d never acquired a taste for anything that involved drawing smoke into her lungs.
When Brenda still looked pretty bad by noon, and turned down anything other than yogurt and ice cream, Shannon offered to run to the drugstore for anything and everything that might ease the symptoms. By mid afternoon on Saturday, Brenda had been willing to choke down a few aspirin and even contemplate eating something semisolid.
Five Odd Honors Page 31