“But Magnificence,” Nevye looked nervously at the Chancellor. “None of us is Shah’tyriah. We are not warriors. Bushido is not ours to serve.”
“We are all warriors for something, sidi,” said the First Mage. His eyes were as white as the moon. “It merely depends on what we serve.”
“Indeed it does, Jet,” the Chancellor nodded. “But enough of this. We shall do nothing until tomorrow. One of the ‘tribulations’ may have already been taken care of tonight.”
Jet BarraDunne, the First Mage of Agara’tha, smiled.
“It would be poetry, wouldn’t it, if they simply took care of each other.”
They all smiled at that.
***
“She sleeps.”
Sherah al Shiva put a bloody finger to her lips and turned her eyes in the direction of the Scholar’s table. In the Chamber of the Dead, the Captain followed her gaze.
It was almost impossible to see her for the mountains of books and foothills of paper, but she was there. Head down in her arms, hair splayed in a multicoloured mat across the wood, slim back rising and falling like a slow, steady tide, Fallon Waterford was indeed sleeping.
The Captain smiled a weary smile.
“She is fortunate. I wish I could do the same.”
“I can help you, sidi.”
He shook his head.
“No, but thank you, sidala. What have you discovered?”
Slowly, the Alchemist rose from her table, stretching her long body like a serpent, forcing him to watch every arch and curve lest she bite suddenly and kill him with her poisons. She moved to the row of bodies, six chest cavities exposed, six rows of livers and hearts and lungs, severed fingers and toes in drying rings across the table. He cast his eyes up to their faces, for the organs did not interest him, but the faces, they were another matter.
One leopard, one lion, two tigers, a serval, and – he moved closer...
One was Sacred.
“Petrus Ishak Raphael Mercouri. The Ancient of Sha’Hadin.”
He felt a knot in his chest. The Empress had called him friend.
He felt Sherah move in behind him.
“Some say he had seen one hundred summers, perhaps more. That he himself had counseled three Empresses. Pity.”
“How did they die?”
“Terror.”
His head snapped up. The exact word the Seer had used.
“Explain.”
She picked up a heart. It looked small and pale in her long, strong hands.
“They were old men. Something terrified them, stopped their hearts. Stopped their breathing. A dream, perhaps. Or a vision. We will never know.”
“That is not the answer I was looking for, sidala.”
“That is the only one I can give.”
“No poisons?”
“No poisons. No puncture wounds or pinpricks. No deep and hidden bruises that swell up after hours to block the path of blood. No apparent causes of any sort.”
He hesitated before touching the ring of fingers, blackened and blistered as if scorched. Or frozen.
“And these?”
She shrugged. “Anemia of age. Poor circulation. A mere curiosity, I should think.”
“benAramis claims there is friction between the Alchemists and the Seers. Is this true?”
Sherah leaned upon the table, rolling back her head and stroking her long throat.
“There is a mild conflict of philosophy perhaps, between the Orders. But there are Alchemists who are blessed with Gifts of Vision, just as there are Seers who practice the Arts of Alchemy. They are not mutually exclusive disciplines.”
She turned her golden eyes upon him. They were hypnotic.
“In fact, there are certain factions within Agara’tha that seek the unification of the Gifts and the Arts. An Alliance, if you will. For the good of the Kingdom, of course...”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “This ‘Terror’ as you have called it. Can you think of any way to prevent it from claiming its last victim tonight?”
She seemed to think for several moments, plucked at her bottom lip.
“There are medicines we use, medicines to slow the heart, thicken the blood, dull the senses. Perhaps a combination of these...”
“Very well. Use what you have learned here. I want him alive in the morning.”
He turned his back to her, taking several long strides as if to leave the chamber of the dead. It was thick with incense and incense invariably gave him a headache.
He paused a moment.
“Can the Gifts of Farsight be projected?”
“Sidi?”
“Is it possible for a living soul to project a vision into the soul of another?”
“Those are two distinctly different questions, sidi.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Anything is possible at the seventh level, sidi.”
“Even death?”
“Even so.”
He let his eyes wander over the still sleeping form of the Scholar. He should wake her, for he was curious as to her conclusions and she was sure to have no ‘conflict of philosophy.’ But he would not. He envied her the peace.
“She dreams of your brother.”
“What’s that?”
“Your brother.” She hummed softly. “The grey coat. He has caught her fancy.”
“Hmm. Yes. Yes, he does that on occasion. Although what he does once he has caught it is another matter entirely.”
He did not turn to see the smile. He could imagine it well enough.
***
“Sleep.”
“Sleep. Sleep. How can I sleep? Tell me that, oh wise Empress, tell me that.”
“You shall sleep, for if you do not, then I shall kill you.”
“Then I should sleep well, indeed, for fear of your claws upon my chance awakening.”
“Pah.” Ursa rolled her eyes. “You talk like a scholar.”
“And you talk like a soldier.”
“Soldiers obey orders. My orders are to make you sleep or kill you. So, sleep or die.”
With a growl, Sireth resumed the pacing that had him moving round and round the small chamber like a cobra wanting out of its basket. Ursa straddled the room’s only chair, following him with her eyes and growing more frustrated with her inability to carry out the Captain’s orders. She glanced around the spartan chamber. There was nothing here, only the chair, a low mattress stuffed with straw, a tray of paints and a bedside candle to break the monotony of stone. But the sun was reaching her first golden fingers in through the long, narrow window and somehow, everything seemed right in this small, spartan room. Everything belonged.
It disturbed her.
He spun to face her, hands clasping together dramatically.
“Tell me this then, my dear woman. Is the Captain so eager to shed my blood because it is mixed? Is it because I have no claim to a single Race that you find yourselves so desperate to kill me? If that is the case, then why did you come to save a man who deserves nothing but death? Why make the journey?”
She rolled her eyes yet again.
“I don’t have to tell you anything. I am not your judge. The Captain is. All you must do is prove your innocence.”
“Ah yes,” he nodded. “Yes, of course. By dying tonight. Effective proof, I should think. If I die, I am innocent. If I live, then you kill me. Either way, there’s one less mongrel to pollute the bloodlines of the Kingdom.”
Her smile was as icy as her eyes.
“You see, you understand all too well. Now,” She reached out to pat the corner of the mattress. “Sleep.”
To her surprise, he obeyed, lowering himself down to the lumpy surface with familiar grace. He sat a moment, looking at the floor between his split-toed sandals and nodding again with slow deliberation.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m tired of this, Major. I’m tired of death. I’m tired of life. I’m very, very tired.”
He stretched out his long legs, laced his hands across his middle and cl
osed his eyes. It was merely a matter of seconds before he was deep in sleep.
And the Major did not take her eyes off him for an instant.
***
When the gong sounded for Sun Salute and morning prayers, attendants and acolytes obeyed without hesitation. An hour afterward, it sounded again, this time to break the long fast of night. The kitchens served up food for 500, porridge and sweet rolls, steamed fish and rice. Tea of course, hot and sweet, to feed the blood and purify the humors. It was as if the day were starting as usual and the cold drifts of morning quickly fled at the approach of the sun.
High in a hay loft a grey lion slept, dreamless for once, his stomach only beginning to rumble about in the absence of food.
High in the monastery a mongrel slept, stirring only momentarily at the sounding of the gong. The snow leopard, however, slept not at all and did not touch the tea that was brought to her.
Deep within the monastery, a young tigress slept while a cheetah worked, mixing medicines of questionable nature and humming to herself in strange, exotic keys.
And finally in a quiet room, once the chamber of Petrus Ishak Raphael Mercouri, the Ancient of Sha’Hadin, the Captain of the Queen’s Gurard slept fitfully, restlessly as visions of his own intruded into his dreams.
Beyond the Walls
Fallon Waterford stretched her slender arms over her head, yawning so broadly that her tongue actually curled inside her mouth. Then she shook her head so that her hair fluffed up from the flatness of sleep and curved about her shoulders like a river flowing round a rock. Finally, with an exaggerated flare of nostril, she breathed in the cool morning air, blinking as its sharpness bit the back of her throat like her father’s sweet iced cream.
“Ah, the mountains,” she announced to no one in particular. “The Great Mountains. There’s nothing like mountain life, I always say.”
She glanced around the rocky path, flung her arms up in desperation.
“Oh who am I kidding? I’ve never even been to the mountains until eight months ago. I’m a jungle girl, born and raised. These mountains are so dreadfully cold. I hate all this snow. There’re no plants, there’re no trees, no vines or bugs or anything like home. I suppose it could be worse. After all, they’ve amended my birthright, haven’t they? I have status in the Court of the Empress! Won’t my father and mother and sisters be pleased?’”
She smiled to herself and pushed off the rock, resuming the stroll she had been enjoying since her rather late breakfast. The fish and rice had been tasty, but she found the porridge and sweet rolls very filling and it was all sitting in her stomach like a stone. On top of it all, the odors in the Chamber of the Dead had been dreadful so she had abandoned the Alchemist to her bubbling pots and noxious potions and set out to clear her head and think.
Trails led to and from the monastery like goat paths and she had not been surprised to see the occasional patchy pelt scrambling up the rocky slopes. Her father used to keep a few goats and she remembered they always smelled of musk. Their oils scented everything. When she had moved to the University, she had made it a point to wash her clothes many times over to rid herself of the stench. These goats, however, didn’t seem to stink. Curious.
She had seen several robed people also out for their morning strolls. Odd sorts, these monks. She had noticed when they were doing their jobs or when they hadn’t seen her watching, their hoods were down, faces exposed like normal folk. But whenever they were in sight of her, their hoods went up, drawn like curtains cross a window. Curious, she thought again. She would have to ask Tiberius about it later.
Silhouetted in front of a bank of high dark clouds, a small bird sat preening itself on a bluff. She had never seen it’s kind before so she climbed up toward it, squeezing her backside through a cleft in the rocks and froze.
On the other side of the bluff, in the centre of a level plateau, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey was working a great shiny horse at the end of a long rope. It was the Captain’s horse, she remembered, now barebacked and sporting only its leather bridle, reins laced high up on the neck. She could hear his voice, singing to it, urging it onward. It cantered around him in a large circle, collected and calm, its large hoofs seeming to spring from the ground like a hare.
She sank into the rock, sighing.
Easy on the eyes, Sherah had said and she found herself agreeing quite heartily. His hair, although not as traditional or impressive as his brother’s, seemed to suit him, falling into his eyes and curling at the back of his neck but in need of a good brushing. He was athletic, this she could tell, for he moved within that circle with supple strength, keeping the horse cantering by the movements of his body alone. He held the rope in one hand, the excess looped in the other and she realized that those hands were not as soft as she might have expected from a lion born to a Noble House.
“Alchemists,” she muttered to no one in particular, “Why can’t you leave well enough alone. I was fine. Really, I was. Now, you had to go and ruin it all. Here I am, me, Fallon Waterford, Scholar in the Court of the Empress, ogling over a stableboy who happens to be a grey lion from a Noble House. Look at me. Look at him. Oh mother...”
As he turned within his circle, he spotted her and waved and in her flurry to disappear, she tumbled off the rock and onto the hard earth below.
“Hello, sidalady tigress!” He dropped the line and rushed toward her. “Say, are you alright?”
“Fine! Fine!” she shouted, flailing her arms at him to keep him away. “I’m not needing a-rescuing, thank you very much!”
“You need water for diving, sidala,” he grinned as he pulled her to her feet. “I thought tigers had more sense than that.”
“Well, we do, and I wasn’t, so... so paws off!”
She snorted, pouted and dusted herself off, slapping his hand away when he tried to dust too.
“Yes, yes, paws off, I understand.” He was still grinning. “How’s your backside?”
Emerald eyes flashed.
“I didn’t fall on my backside, in case you hadn’t noticed. And, and, and if you had, then then then why are you noticing my backside, hmm? What are you thinking?”
For the briefest of moments, his mouth hung open, bewildered. But he recovered smoothly. He always did.
“I meant from yesterday, sidala. That was a long ride for someone unaccustomed to the back of a horse.”
“Oh. Oh, well. Oh well, that’s different.” She nodded, swallowed, looked away quickly. “That’s a nice horse.”
“Yes he is. Imperial bred. Just like my brother.”
“Are you two really twins?”
“We are. I’m just immature, that’s all.”
Again, that smile. It seemed to capture the sunlight and wrap it up in one brilliant package, just for her.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
She took a step to follow, but for some reason, one knee had turned to butter and buckled beneath her. He caught her as she stumbled
“You sure you’re alright?”
“Oh. Yeah. My, um, foot just... fell asleep. Happens all the time. Feet. Can’t live with ‘em. Can’t cut ‘em off.”
alMassay nickered as they approached, and Fallon was surprised at how large the horse was. He had not appeared so from the back of her own mount. In fact, when the great head reached out toward her, blowing softly through wide nostrils, she found herself hesitant.
“He’s not going to eat me or anything, right?”
“My, my no. He’s just checking you out. Here, scratch him right here. He likes that.”
His grey hand took hers and laid it high on the withers, to the arch where proud neck met strong back. She scratched and the stallion sighed, a deep rumbling sound that rolled around his massive chest.
“See, he likes you. Want to try him? He’s a good ride.”
“Me? Oh, no. No, I can’t. I’m a yak girl, really. Need that old spinal ridge to keep me on. Besides, there’s no saddle...”
His reaction was instantaneous, and sh
e cursed her flapping tongue.
“Saddle? Who needs a saddle? Grab his neck. I’ll give you a leg up.”
Before she knew it, she was on.
And Kerris was backing away, holding the rope and grinning.
But there-there’s no mane! It’s all shaved off!” she yelped as the horse started to move. “And the reins are tied way, way up his neck! How do I hang on?”
He had resumed his position in the centre of the circle.
“You don’t stay on by hanging on, sidala. You stay on by balance.”
“Balance?”
Biting her lip, Fallon sat back and began to think.
“Yes, balance. Lengthen your legs and... yes, just like that and let your weight fall into your feet... and... that’s right and...”
Kerris’ instructions trailed off, for the tigress had indeed lengthened her legs, letting her weight fall into her feet, rolling on to her seat bones, squaring her shoulders and dropping her hands to her sides.
“Yes, um, yes that’s good. That’s quite good, actually...”
“It makes sense, now that I stop to think about it,” she said, completely at ease now on the back of the great horse. “The problem is that there are so many things I never stop to think about.
“My life story, sadly.”
alMassay had picked up a trot now, and the Scholar’s perfect position had not wavered as they circled around the figure in the centre.
“So, then, if you don’t need a saddle to stay on, do you really need reins to steer --”
Without warning, the horse stopped, planting its fore hoofs into the sand, its body almost buckling as its rear end caught up. But an unprepared Fallon tumbled over the crested neck, pitching forward to the ground with a thump.
“Don’t move!” shouted Kerris.
Naturally, Fallon Waterford didn’t listen. She rarely did in circumstances like these, for her curiousity almost always got the best of her. But when she pushed her face and shoulders from the earth, she thought it best if she didn’t actually move.
“...oh mother...”
For a mere hand’s breadth away, a giant cobra reared its hooded head.
To Journey in the Year of the Tiger Page 9