Spirit Gate

by Kate Elliott

  “Any problem?” said the sergeant in a low voice, off to his left.

  “Got to piss.” Kesh was surprised at how cool he sounded when for an instant all he could see was a flare of bright red anger, and the shadow of a twisted black fear.

  “Need to take your gear with you to piss?”

  “Twist says if I don’t carry everything with me, it’ll be stolen when I get back.”

  “Huh. That’s true enough. I’ll come with you.” The sergeant was a stocky man, almost a head shorter than Kesh, the kind of man you never dared grapple with. The kind who could likely rip your arm from its socket, and would.

  “Always a pleasure,” added Kesh, “to piss in company.”

  A Sickle Moon was rising, its fattened curve lightening the eastern sky. A cloaked man walked along the road, leading a horse burdened by panniers. Or maybe those weren’t panniers. Maybe those were folded wings. He shuddered. The horse line was still restless, as he was. He grunted in surprise as a hand slapped onto his shoulder.

  “You coming?” muttered the sergeant, who paused to survey the road, then turned away in disinterest. For once, Kesh was glad to follow him, to turn his own back on that sight. The wind crackled in branches. The air smelled of the coming dawn, floating a memory of yesterday’s heat. A bird whistled its morning tune, but there came no answer to that call. It was still too early for waking.

  They pushed a little way into the woods and found a stand of young pipe-brush that rattled a friendly chorus as they peed onto them. The sergeant said nothing. He didn’t need to. As they finished their business, Kesh wished that for once things could run in his favor. Had he heard Bai’s laugh? He’d been separated from Zubaidit for so long that it was more likely he couldn’t recognize her laugh at a distance, at night, in strange circumstances when he was wishing more than anything that she would return and get him out of this. Was she even coming back to get him? This means of escape obviously wasn’t going to work, but if Bai was in camp searching for him, he had to go back and look for her.

  The sergeant grunted. His knees sagged, and he folded over. Kesh blinked. The sergeant crumpled into the stand of pipe-brush, snapping stalks as he went down. Magic stuck his head out of the sling made of the cloak and closed his mouth over Kesh’s elbow. The pressure was less than a bite but more than a kiss, enough pain that Kesh dropped to his knees as he hissed out a curse and reached for the lizard’s crest to dislodge him.

  An arrow passed over his head. He threw himself flat, arms out. The ginnies scrambled out of the cloak and onto his back. With his head twisted to one side, he saw with one eye as their crests flared and they opened their mouths wide to show threat. Mischief’s claws poked into his butt. A stone dug into his cheek right below his eye, and Magic, that bastard, raised himself up with his forelegs on Kesh’s head, pinching claw cutting hard right over his ear.

  A foot slammed down a finger’s breadth from his nose. It was a foot shod in leather trimmed and shaped unlike Hundred footware, which was mostly sandals. He’d seen such boots recently. Those Qin mercenaries had worn such boots, sturdy, strong, and indestructible. Too heavy and hot to market in the Hundred.

  “If you keep quiet and don’t move, Master Keshad,” said a voice as soft as the breeze, “you’ll live through this.”

  From this angle, he could see into the length of camp along the road. Fire flashed into life along the horse lines, eating out of the piles of hay. The horses screamed and bolted. They had all been cut loose. He could tell because they broke away from the ropes and stampeded in all directions, frantic to get away from the flames. Arrows whistled out of the night, some tipped with fire. Canvas shelters caught as men stumbled up to the alert. Burning hay spun in the wind. A man fell beneath the hooves of panicked horses. The captain hadn’t cried out the “Beware!,” but sergeants shouted at their men to “Come alive,” “Get up!” “Rise! Rise!” “Get those beasts under control!”

  His sergeant lay dead in the dirt beside him, lifeless fingers inert, just within reach of his left hand.

  The boot was gone, the man wearing it vanished into the darkness. Kesh stirred. Magic shoved his head against Kesh’s ear, took hold of it, and closed his mouth with the greatest delicacy around the lobe. He didn’t bite. Not yet. Kesh didn’t dare move.

  A man who travels a great deal in troubled times knows himself wise if he has learned enough of the arts of war to defend himself, and enough of the arts of prudence to keep out of fights. Kesh had avoided many a fight in his years trading at Master Feden’s behest, but he had also scored a few wins when forced to the wall.

  Not today. Today, with the dawn scarce breathing its first light, he lay as flat and still as he could with the pressure of ginny claws on his tender skin. He smelled smoke on the air, tasted floating ash and scorched hay on his tongue as the camp went up in flames.

  He listened.

  Branches snapped. Arrows sighed. Swords sang a bright rhythm where men fought. Horses thundered past, escaping the tumult and the burning.

  Men shouted; they grunted; they screamed. Men ran, heard in their stampeding footsteps. They fell. The blood of the sergeant crept close to his fingers before the earth drank down these scantling rivulets and that spring dried up once and forever.

  The course of the battle ebbed and flowed along the road. Twice men sprinted past him into the trees. Once, no more than a stone’s toss away, he heard a man gasp as death overtook him, as metal struck to the bone.

  The Qin were Death’s wolves, ghosting out of the night to devour their foes.

  A soft footfall trod the ground behind him. The ginnies chirped in welcome. A slender, sandaled foot pressed down the undergrowth an arm’s span from his staring eye.

  “Up,” said Zubaidit. “We’re getting out of here.”

  The ginnies scrambled off him, but circled her warily, tongues tasting her savor. Rising to hands and knees, he realized belatedly there was light enough to see. Blood spotted her feet and legs. She had blood on her kilt, and a stripe of blood on her face, as though she had forgotten blood was on her hands and tried to wipe something else away.

  “Follow close,” she added. “You’ll carry the ginnies. I have to be free to strike if anyone attacks us. They’re not all dead, and even the least of them will kill us if they can. And there are other creatures abroad we must avoid.”

  “Like what?”

  Like the ginnies, she tilted her head and licked. “Something that tastes very bad,” she murmured, “and feels very old. We’ve fulfilled our obligations, yours to your old master, and mine to the temple. They can fight their own battles now. We’re getting out of here. And we’re never coming back.”

  From the road, the sounds of fighting were dying down, and what cries he heard were those of helpless men as their throats were cut. Bai did not flinch, not as he did. Gliding away, she seemed no different from the black wolves who had raced past him earlier.

  As he got to his feet and grabbed his gear and chased the ginnies into the sling, he remembered that after all she was born in the Year of the Wolf. Generous to those they love. Loyal to clansmen. Sentimental, uninhibited, forthright, and courageous. Yet a wolf will tear apart any creature that falls into its clutches, even if it is not hungry.

  She looked back at him. The blood slashed her skin like shadows. She half blended into the woodland cover.

  “Kesh!” she hissed. “This is no game! Hurry!”

  For the first time in his life, he was afraid of her.

  45

  Before the last march of the night, Chief Tuvi pulled Shai to the back of the line. “You’re too inexperienced. You’ll wait back here with the tailmen. Your job is to cut down any stragglers who run this way. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Best thing you could do is get in a kill or three, just to get blooded. You’re little use to us otherwise.” Chief Tuvi wasn’t as encouraging as Tohon, but Shai hadn’t seen Tohon since yesterday before dawn. About eight other men we
re also missing from the troop, but no one had bothered to tell him where they had gone.

  They had left Olossi at about midday and marched as slowly as they possibly could out West Track to the intersection with West Spur. There, they had headed southwest, as if returning to the empire, moving as if led by hobbling ancients and delaying themselves with frequent stops. Late in the afternoon, when given the signal by the captain, they had simply pulled off the road as if to camp. As soon as dusk gave them cover, they had marched at speed through the night, past the crossroads that led down to Olossi and farther yet along the river bottomland east of the city. This was unknown country, but now the missing scouts appeared at intervals to give their reports. Late, as the waxing crescent moon sliced its way out of the house of the dead, the captain called a halt. Shai and a dozen tailmen took up stations along the road. Grooms led their horses into the trees. The rest of the company vanished into the night, hooves muffled by cloth.

  For a long while they waited. There was no conversation.

  Shai wanted to talk, but he dared not be first to break the silence, and he had a damned good idea that none of these tailmen would utter even one syllable. Every gaze was bent along the road. Shai had never seen such a road before. It shimmered, very faintly, as though a ghostly breath rose off it, like a cloud of breath steaming out of a warm mouth in bitterly cold weather. The other road they had traveled, West Spur, had exuded no such glamour.

  A shadow passed overhead. He ducked. The others, those he could see, looked up, but there was nothing to see, only a cloak of stars and night thrown over the world. The wind died suddenly. An insect clik-clik-clikked. One branch scraped another. Strings creaked minutely as bows were readied. Swords whispered out of sheaths.

  It caught them from behind, an explosion of wings and hooves and the crack of a staff as it met a hard leather helmet. One of the Qin went down, but the rest, these paltry tailmen, were already rolling, tumbling, jumping out of the way, finding a new position, a new angle. Shai stood there and gaped as a massive horse galloped out of the sky and right at him to trample him under.

  Far away, in counterpoint, shouts and screams rent the silence. The noise of a distant battle breaking out jolted him into action. He ducked, stumbled, fell, scrambled out of the way just in time. The beast pounded past him as the tailmen whistled to each other, calls to mark position and choice of attack. The rider billowed like a cloud, only that was a voluminous cloak rising out behind his body as though caught in a gust of wind. The horse slowed to a canter, and it pulled in its vast wings and turned on a right rein, back around to face him.

  The horse had wings.

  The glamour on the road brightened where the horse’s hooves touched it. That unnatural light rose as if with the dawn, but it was not yet dawn. Far away, the battle raged as Captain Anji and his men hit the strike force with their surprise attack. Close at hand, Shai saw clearly the face of the man who rode on the back of that impossible horse. He rose, trembling, and raised a hand to ward off what he knew must be an insubstantial ghost.

  “Hari.” His voice choked on the name.

  A hiss of arrows answered. The tailmen were the least of the Qin company, but a Qin tailman would stand as an elite in most armies. Five arrows sprouted from the rider’s body. A javelin, cast from the side, caught the man in the torso, just above the hip. He grunted in pain, and swayed in the saddle, but he kept his seat.

  “Hari!”

  The ghost spoke with Hari’s voice, urgent and angry. “Shai! How can it be you’ve come here?”

  “I came to find you.”

  “You shouldn’t have. Go home before the shadows swallow you as they did me!”

  The horse screamed a challenge, tossing its head, and it launched itself down the road as if to assault Shai. He was stupefied, bound, paralyzed. It leaped, and took to the air. One hoof shaved the top of his head, knocking him flat. The tailmen fixed arrows and loosed them after the animal. No arrow touched those gleaming flanks. But the rider was not so fortunate. Those dark slashes fixed in his body, yet he did not fall. His dark cloak billowed, a shadow entwining him.

  Jagi whistled the alert. Shai grabbed his sword, which had somehow fallen out of his hand. A dozen or more horses bolted toward them on the road. None bore riders. Not far behind ran twenty or more men on foot, in a disorderly retreat.

  “Get off the road,” said Jagi in a calm voice that meant he was irritated.

  Shai got off the road by stumbling backward down the ramped earth and falling hard onto his butt. There he sat, too stunned to act, as a trickle of blood, like a tear, slipped down his cheek from the scrape atop his head. Its salty heat caught in the corner of his mouth. The panicked horses swept past. The tailmen coolly picked off their enemies before those hapless men understood they were still under attack.

  It wasn’t the aftershock of the battle that immobilized him.

  The tailmen had seen Hari. They had filled Hari full of arrows. Yet how could they see, much less kill, a man who was already a ghost?

  46

  Eliar took her from camp about midday, just before Anji and the others rode out. By the time he had escorted her and her slaves up through the city, a tedious and very hot walk, the shops along the streets had begun to close their shutters for their afternoon’s slumber. Olossi’s avenues twisted and turned; even the main streets shifted position with curves and doglegs and sudden sharp-angled corners. Down the narrow side streets and deeper within alleyways lay walls and gates, the walls washed white so they all looked alike and only the gates painted with symbols and colors to give a hint of what household bided within. They hurried at length down a street where gold- and silversmiths displayed their wares, but by this time scarcely anyone was about to remark on the sight of Eliar, his two male companions who carried their belongings, and the three women. They turned left at a corner where a fountain burbled, then right into a cobbled alleyway wide enough to admit a wagon and swept so clean Mai could distinguish no speck of dust. White walls flanked them. The alley dead-ended in a plain wooden gate, its double segments marked only by yellow trim, a greeting bell hung to one side in an alcove in the wall, and bronze door handles fashioned to resemble deer in full flight, slender legs thrust out before and behind. A small door reinforced with bands of iron was set into the right-hand gate, with a slit-like peephole cut just above the level of Mai’s head. High up on the wall, on either side, were set small grated windows.

  He rang the bell, and waited.

  “Where are we?” Mai asked.

  “This is the house of my clan,” he said. The walls were the height of two men, but there was a single building within the compound that towered above the walls, fully three stories high with a balcony ringing the highest floor, its interior screened by latticework.

  “Do you need permission to enter your own house?” Mai asked.

  “This is the women’s entrance. I can’t go in and out through here, nor can you use the men’s entrance on the other side.”

  “If you live separately, then do you keep secrets from each other?”

  “Not secrets, no. But I don’t know everything that goes on in the women’s quarters.”

  Anji’s mother, a Qin woman, had been sent to a country where women were not allowed to ride. Yet she had contrived to teach her son to ride, according to the custom of her people. The emperor sequestered his women, but clearly, he hadn’t known everything that was going on with them.

  “Look! Look there!” Eliar cried.

  An eagle flew over, but with walls rising high around them, they quickly lost sight of it.

  “Is that Reeve Joss?” she asked. “Or one of the eagles from Argent Hall?”

  The metal strip blocking the slit rasped free, drawn away by an unseen hand. In the opening thus revealed appeared dark eyes, narrowed and tucked, rimmed by lovely black eyelashes and outlined with a black cosmetic.

  “Enter,” Eliar said to Mai with an expansive smile and a bold gesture of welcome, arm swept in a wid
e curve. “Be welcome to the house of the Haf Gi Ri.”

  “Sen Eliar!” The woman’s voice brought him back to earth. “What means this?”

  “I have sworn to take these women in as guests, under our protection.”

  The eyes blinked. The voice said, “Does anyone else in the family know what you’ve done, Sen Eliar? Did you ask permission, or warn anyone?”

  She answered herself. “No, of course not. Very well. Get out of here.”

  The words were uttered so curtly that Mai could not help but flinch, despite that she had long since trained herself not to show displeasure or fear or anger.

  Eliar cupped his hands over his eyes in a gesture very like obeisance, or prayer. The two companions dumped her gear on the ground, and all three men backed up to a safe distance, then turned and strode away down the alley. Shocked by the rejection, Mai shifted to follow them, but Priya grabbed her arm and caught her before she could take more than one step. Whispers teased her. Looking up, she saw movement behind the grating of the two high windows. A giggle floated on the air. On the other side of the gate, bolts were shot and a heavy weight shifted and moved. The inner door set within the doubled gate opened inward on well-oiled hinges.

  “Come! Come! That boy! No need, we’ll bring in your belongings.”

  Sheyshi started to snivel. Mai stood as straight as she could and, with Priya and Sheyshi, walked through into a small if pleasant courtyard the exact width of the alley. In the far right corner stood a dry but very clean fountain. Several planting troughs lined the walls, most of them fallow though one boasted the stalks and spiky leaves of fragrant paradom, not yet in its flowering season. One trellis supported grape vines; another bent under the weight of thickly twining rainflower. Benches offered respite from the sun. Behind her lay the gate through which she had come. Ahead rose the three-storied building, open to the air on its upper stories although she could see only the suggestion of movement behind latticework screens. To her right stood a doubled door, another gate, in a high wall; heavy wagon tracks suggested that, sometimes, wagons were driven in this way. To her left a spacious veranda welcomed her.