The Sea of the Dead

by Barry Wolverton

  “You sound like that loony old Netherlander back in his so-called Paradise,” said Sean, laughing. “Do you want to strut around nekkid, too?”

  Bren was saved from having to respond when Sengge reappeared. “Sorry for the delay. My father insisted on taking you directly to a midday feast. The kitchen has been scrambling.”

  Bren and the others were led into a dining room where a long table was overflowing with food. He almost cried he was so happy to see something besides yak milk or yak yogurt. King Jamyang entered, greeted them warmly, and invited them to sit down and dig in. They enjoyed savory noodle bowls and dumplings filled with meat, nutty bread and butter, and for dessert a baked dish made of sweet red fruit.

  When dinner was done, the king gave them a tour of his current home, and then he offered to show them the grander, nine-story palace still under construction. This required climbing higher up the mountain, and after a feast this was harder than Bren would have imagined.

  “It was my son’s idea,” said King Jamyang, with an arch look at Sengge. “He pretends to honor me, but of course this will all be his.”

  Sengge smiled. “A prosperous kingdom will honor you and your legacy, Father. The palaces and the monasteries honor our religion.”

  Bren could see what he meant as soon as they entered one of the completed floors of the new palace. Front and center was a large statue of a gilded woman, inlaid with turquoise and coral, posed not as some earth mother or fertility goddess, but as a warrior. She wore a hat the size of a steeple on her head, and fanning out from her back were two stylized wings shaped like battle-ax blades.

  “Who is that?” Bren asked.

  “The Goddess of the White Parasol,” said King Jam-yang. “Protector against supernatural danger. The Buddha charged her with cutting asunder all malignant demons and their spells, to turn aside all enemies and dangers and hatred.”

  On the floor above was another statue, this one of a man that the king and his son explained was a representation of the “Future Buddha,” which Bren in his mind likened to the Second Coming of the Christian Lord.

  “Not everyone adheres to our beliefs,” said Sengge. “The Mongols you saved us from . . . they have joined forces with a sect of Buddhism that wishes to destroy us and take our land and temples.”

  “The Blue Sky worshippers?” said Bren. Sengge nodded. That explained why all the religious buildings were built like fortresses. While the palace itself was sturdily built of stone, wood, mud bricks, and plaster, the completed floors were richly decorated with not just statues but tapestries and other wall art. Bren pulled up short when he noticed a large painting on silk, similar to the one that he had unknowingly smuggled out of the Leopard’s Nest.

  “You are admiring one of our tangka,” the king noticed, seeming pleased. “Most are not so large because of the intricacy involved in the design and the work. I’m quite proud of this one.”

  Bren stole a glance at Sean and Lady Barrett. Lady Barrett gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. They wanted to know the meaning of Bren’s painting, but they didn’t know if they could trust Sengge or his father. “I’ve heard of tangka” is all Bren said for now.

  When their tour was over, King Jamyang left his guests in his son’s care, and Sengge took them to another building perched atop another hill where he conducted most of his business affairs. Here the religious imagery was spare, replaced by tactical maps used by his army, shelves of books, military clothing, and weaponry. Sengge brought them to a table and spread out a map of the central Asian region.

  “Where is it you wanted to go exactly?” he asked.

  “I know the Silk Road we were on passes into Cashmere,” Lady Barrett answered. “It’s a disputed region, so I thought perhaps we could find sanctuary there until we figure out how to make it back home.”

  Sengge laughed. “Disputed by whom? Certainly not the Moguls. And you are a long, long way from home.”

  Those words made Bren ache inside. All he wanted to do was to get home, and Sengge made it seem like an impossible dream.

  “It’s not as hopeless as you think,” said Lady Barrett, speaking to Sengge but seeming to read Bren’s mind as well. “All three of us are from Britannia, and I happen to know the Britannic government is forging a relationship with Emperor Akbar to help both countries consolidate territory.”

  Sengge reacted with surprise. “That’s a brave thing to tell me, as you well know by now that we don’t consider the Moslems our friends.”

  “And you needn’t consider us your enemy,” Lady Barrett assured him. “We just want to take any advantage to get us across safely.”

  Sengge nodded and leaned on the table with both hands, studying the map. “I may be able to give you another advantage or two,” he said. “Look here.” They all gathered round. “There’s a pass through the Ladakh Range to our west that will lead you down to the Indus River. You cross that into Cashmere proper. You can see how mountainous it is,” he said, running his finger westward along the map. “Fortunately the trade road avoids the highest elevations. I will make a copy of this map for you before you leave.”

  “Thank you,” said Lady Barrett.

  “It’s no trouble,” the prince assured them. “Though, in return, I hope you don’t object if I ask a small favor of you.”

  Bren suddenly felt like they were being led into a trap. Sengge went to a small cabinet behind his desk and opened a drawer. He came back with a pair of sealed letters. “There is a woman in Cashmere leading an underground resistance to the Mogul invasion. They call it the Lapwing Conspiracy. Her name is Shveta Do-Piyaza, former wife of Emperor Akbar’s former Minister of Wit.”

  “That’s a lot of formers,” said Sean. “What happened to him?”

  “She murdered him, naturally,” said Sengge. “Although I assure you the deed was both just and necessary.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Lady Barrett. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for women seizing power.”

  Sengge laughed. “Shveta seized it by the neck, I’m told! Nevertheless, she’s not in power by any means. But she is dangerous if she doesn’t know you. Brits, especially, are suspect, since your country is known to be in alliance with Akbar. That’s where our mutually beneficial arrangement comes in.”

  “Can’t we just avoid her?” said Sean. “How dangerous can she be? She’s just one woman.”

  Lady Barrett burst out laughing. “Coming from the man I put on the ground with one punch!”

  Sean’s face reddened. “You didn’t put me down!”

  “The side of the ship saved you,” Lady Barrett retorted.

  Sengge turned to Bren. “Are these two married?”

  It was Bren’s turn to burst out laughing.

  “You’re going to travel from Leh to Srinagar, the summer capital of Cashmere,” Sengge continued. “Even as we speak the government is moving its operations to the winter capital of Jammu. With the murder of Shveta’s husband, the Moguls are on high alert, so Shveta is moving her operations the opposite way, from Jammu to Srinagar. And good thing for you, too. It’s much closer. Perhaps two hundred, two hundred fifty miles due west of here.”

  Bren sighed. He wondered if he would ever get to stop walking.

  “The first envelope is a letter for Shveta,” Sengge continued. “We have a common goal—resistance to the Moslems—and have been working together for some time. No one will suspect you three are my emissaries. Of course, you won’t know how to find her, for good reason. You’ll take the letter to a drop box the resistance has been using.”

  The prince handed them a scrap of paper with what looked like an address written on it. “Can you remember this?”

  “Yes,” said Bren.

  Sengge took back the scrap of paper and threw it away. “The second letter is for an emergency only.” He opened it and showed them a bronze disk the size of a medallion. Bren recognized it immediately.

  “A paiza!” said Bren. “But I thought they were only used by Kublai Khan and h
is heirs.”

  “The Ming Dynasty has continued to use them,” Sengge explained. “I have managed to forge a number of them. They won’t guarantee you protection from bandits, but they will help. And they will certainly give credence to your cover story of being Silk Road traders.”

  “Thank you,” said Lady Barrett, taking the paiza.

  “And how about I trade you three horses for your yak?” said Sengge. “You must be tired of walking.”

  “Yes!” Bren almost shouted. Although he felt a sudden tinge of regret at losing the yak. He had come to like the shaggy, ice-skating beast.

  And so the three of them retired early and left at daybreak, with Lady Barrett in possession of the letter for the rebel leader. Bren wondered if she had been tempted during the night to break the seal and read it. He knew he would have. It would be risky, of course, especially considering that Sengge had described this woman as dangerous. But it was also dangerous not having any idea what you were getting into. Bren would have preferred to know for sure, and watching Lady Barrett ride confidently with one hand on the hilt of her sword, he suspected she would agree with him.

  CHAPTER

  10

  DECAMPING

  The first time they stopped to make camp, Bren asked Lady Barrett if he could see the paiza. When she handed it to him, he spun the back side of the bronze medallion toward the setting sun.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just a hunch,” said Bren, wondering if this paiza held a secret message, like the one given to him by the dying sailor all those months ago back in Map. But when he caught the sun’s rays and reflected them against a nearby boulder . . . nothing. “Never mind,” he said, handing the paiza back. But then he asked, “So what did the letter say?”

  Lady Barrett had been unloading her saddlebag. She momentarily stopped, as if she had been caught off guard. “What letter?”

  “You don’t mean this letter, do you?” said Sean, digging through his clothes with both hands until his face turned bright red. “Where the bloody hell is it?”

  “Are you looking for this?” said Lady Barrett, holding up the parchment envelope with the bright-red wax seal of the king of Ladakh.

  “I took that from you last night so you wouldn’t try to open it!” Sean fumed. “I know how you are, and I also know how it looks when you deliver a sealed letter unsealed!”

  Lady Barrett sidled her horse next to Sean’s and held out the envelope. He snatched it and inspected the seal, which appeared to be undisturbed.

  “I saw you take it,” she scoffed. “I sleep like a bird. Take it back if you’re so worried I’m going to snoop.”

  “Never mind.” Sean handed it back, outfoxed again.

  Bren smiled. “So what did the letter say?”

  Lady Barrett carefully placed the letter back inside her jacket. “For the most part, what our new friend said was true,” she began. “About this conspiracy and their common goal to resist Mogul rule.”

  “Wait—you did read the letter?” Sean gasped. “What the—I just examined that seal myself! How the bloody hell . . .”

  “I’m a magician, remember?” said Lady Barrett.

  Sean gave up trying to argue. “Okay, then. Anything important he didn’t tell us? That could get us into hot water?”

  “Plenty,” said Lady Barrett.

  A man who might have been a turtle in another life sat hunched over a large table, one of his stubby-fingered hands holding a quill pen while the other kept a large sheet of parchment from curling back up off the table. The pen hovered above the parchment, a globe of ink swollen and dangling from its nib like a drop of dew.

  “I can’t work with you staring at me like that,” said David Owen.

  Ani was sitting opposite him, at a table that looked to be something out of an apothecary shop. There were several powders, potions, and vials, along with seeds, peppers, plants, and a mortar and pestle. She tilted her head to one side, and her long dark hair fell over her slender right shoulder. David guessed she was about Bren’s age or a bit older.

  Bren’s age. He had been gone more than a year now. He’d had a birthday.

  A blob of ink splattered on the parchment, leaving a purply-black starburst. “Bloody mess,” said David, frantically blotting the ink with his dirty shirtsleeve.

  “The Nightingale doesn’t care for foul language,” said Ani. “She says it is unpoetic.”

  David looked up at her. It was hard to look Ani in the eyes, not because her odd condition was grotesque in any way, but because it was somehow . . . otherworldly. It was as if something far more powerful than a young girl inhabited her body.

  “The Nightingale?” David asked.

  Ani lifted her hand above her head, to indicate a tall person.

  “Shveta?” said David. “You call her the Nightingale?”

  Ani nodded. “It’s her secret identity.”

  “Then why are you telling me?” said David.

  Ani narrowed her eyes. “You’ll never live to tell anyone!”

  David Owen dropped his pen in alarm. It landed on the ink smudge and rolled off the table, leaving a black streak in its wake. “She’s going to kill us?”

  The door to the room swung open, and Shveta and her two bodyguards marched in. “No one is killing anyone,” said Shveta. David couldn’t help but notice that her armed escorts seemed disappointed by the news. “What have you got for me?”

  “I’m afraid I have to start over,” he said, indicating the large smudge and streak of ink. “Ani startled me.”

  The bodyguards laughed. Shveta was not amused, and neither was Ani. She marched over to the apothecary table, found a small bottle of white powder, came over to David’s map and sprinkled the powder all over the spilled ink. Then she tipped the parchment, dumping the excess powder into David’s lap.

  “Hey, how did you do that?” he said, noticing that the spilled ink was almost completely gone.

  “Quit stalling for time,” said Shveta, pointing to David’s work.

  “Fine. My understanding when I signed up for the Royal Survey was that we were to cover the south, below the Deccan,” he said, indicating the southern tip of the Indian subcontinent. “When we arrived, we were whisked north, from Bombay Island to Agra, through the jungle during the rainy season.”

  “What did you do along the way?” said Shveta.

  “Got wet, mostly,” said David. “The survey equipment never came out of our cases until we got far enough north and east that I was able to actually think about escaping to Cashmere.”

  “And Akbar’s troops? How many were you traveling with?”

  “A thousand or so? I’m not entirely sure.”

  “So not a full division,” said one of the armed men.

  “But was your group to rendezvous with others?” said Shveta.

  David lowered his eyes. “I may have picked up some notion of that.” He indicated on the map where he would place the other troops he had heard about.

  Shveta nodded and looked at Ani. “Go get the string bean.”

  When Ani returned with Black, she was walking behind him and his hands were raised. He looked indignantly at Shveta. “Arming children! Have you no shame?”

  Ani came out from behind him, revealing that she had been threatening him with a long eggplant. She smiled.

  “For pity’s sake,” muttered Black, dropping his arms. “David, are you okay?”

  “He’s fine,” said Shveta. “Everyone’s fine until I say otherwise. Now, come take a look at your friend’s map and answer me a few questions.”

  Black did as he was told, and Shveta quizzed him the same way she had David, altering a question or two or subtly changing the way she asked them. When Black was done she seemed satisfied that his and David’s stories lined up.

  “I knew it,” she said, folding her arms so her hands disappeared beneath her silk sleeves and pacing slowly around the room. “Akbar’s not truly worried about securing the south—there’s not mu
ch left there to resist him. He’s making much grander plans, gobbling up western China, perhaps even moving into Persia.”

  “Persia?” said Black, astonished. “That would be madness!”

  “Would it?” said Shveta. “No empire lasts forever. Else we’d all be Sumerian.”

  Black opened his mouth to argue before realizing she had a point. So instead he asked, “So what now? Are we free to go?”

  Shveta laughed. “What’s your hurry, bub? Aren’t you wanted by Akbar? How do you envision worming your way to Persia from here without being caught?”

  “Well, I thought . . . I mean, we were just going to . . . okay, we hadn’t figured that out yet, to be quite honest.”

  “No kidding,” said Shveta. “Besides, I never promised to let you go.”

  David Owen could almost hear Black’s teeth grinding. He wasn’t used to losing so many arguments.

  “What is it you really want from us?” Black demanded.

  “I want you to come with us,” said Shveta.

  “You’re leaving?” said David.

  “Well I have to,” said Shveta. “I murdered my husband.”

  Black glanced up at the bodyguard nearest him, as if to ask whether she was kidding or not. The guard nodded, making a choking motion with his hands.

  “So you’re a fugitive, too,” said Black.

  “Not exactly . . . not yet,” said Shveta. “Ani and I took great pains to make it look like he had been stabbed to death in an alley near the Broken Camel, the last place he was seen. There had been not-so-veiled threats made against Akbar’s ministers, of whom my husband was one. Veiled threats orchestrated by me, of course, but they don’t know that either. Right now Akbar is more interested in keeping the rest of the ministers alive than finding out who killed Mullah Do-Piyaza.”

  “Won’t it look suspicious if you leave town?” said Black.

  “They want to burn her,” said Ani.

  David and Black both turned to her, somewhat shocked. “They burn murderer suspects here?”

  “No, they burn wives,” said Shveta, her voice hardening. “You’re expected to throw yourself on the funeral pyre of your beloved husband. An ancient and barbaric tradition, which I intend to put an end to when I’m in charge around here.” She folded her arms and let her anger subside. “Besides, I have work to do if I am to put things right. How would it sound to you if I told you I could get you safely to Persia—and from there, home? Wasn’t that where you wanted to go?”