Jian shrugged. “Let them pass. The living need not mind the dead.” He turned away as Perri laughed, knowing that his words would be carried to Naruteo’s ears, and that his rival would hate him all the more.
Let Naruteo hate. Let him love. Jian did not care. It did not matter. They were none of them more than pieces on the emperor’s game board, pearls and stones to be set into a sword-hilt or ground into dust. There was no winning the longer game unless the emperor himself could be vanquished.
And even then, Jian thought, like as not he would be replaced with another just as bad, or worse. With his paltry new rank, an unblooded sword, and an army of twenty-two dammati, Jian himself could scarce dream of changing the course of his own fate. The best he could hope for would be to get through this briefing and return to the Yellow Palace for a bath, a piss, a meal, and bed, in whichever order he could get them.
Leading his men at a steady pace, ever forward and up, he never took his eyes from the ground until it leveled out, and they stood in the very shadow of the white tent. Then he halted, raised his right fist high, and splayed his fingers open against the sky’s pale belly, dismissing them. A low, ragged cheer rose from the ranks. Victorious, his troops would spend the remainder of this day sleeping and eating. They would sing battle songs all the long walk home, unencumbered and laughing at the Red Bulls and Black Snakes, who would be forced to carry the victors’ gear and armor, as well as their own.
No few of them would look forward to the embrace of a village girl—or boy—or the obligation-free release granted by those in the emperor’s comfort houses. Let them cheer, let them have their comforts; still Jian did not care. It was an empty life, but it was all they had.
As the rest of his troops left, Perri took up a position at the tent’s door, near the unmoving form of the White Stag bannerman. Jian nodded to his friend, and forced a weary smile.
“You are dismissed, too, Perri.”
The young man set his jaw and said nothing. The wind whipped the sea-bear banner so that it slapped him heavily in the face. Jian snorted half a laugh, and stiffened as a sound came from behind him.
“Dammati.” The voice was low and smooth and dark. It was the voice of the forest. “Faithful as stones, and twice as stubborn.”
Jian bowed low. “General.”
“That was well played, Daechen. A child’s game, yet, but well played. You may survive the Yellow Road, after all. Come.” A shadow passed over Jian, white boots stepped quick and sure before his downcast eyes. A swirl of pale silk bade him follow, and Daechen Jian, Sen-Baradam of the Blue Issuq, bowed his way into the tent.
Jian had been studying under Mardoni for nearly a two-moon now. Perhaps in another two-moon he might become accustomed to the opulence of the general’s tent, lovingly built as his own childhood home—and better furnished. In another year, perhaps, he might be able to share in the easy banter that flowed among the great men who occupied it, strategists and soldiers and scholars of renown so great their names were known even in backward Bizhan. It seemed to Jian, however, that he might spend a lifetime in awe of the White Stag himself.
Mardoni stood across the war table from Jian, watching as the luminist lit her fat candles, one by one, by blowing upon them. Jian averted his eyes as best he could—the Daechen had all been warned against casting so much as a sideways glance at the emperor’s light mage. Still his eyes were drawn by the bright runes that crawled across her dusky skin, the odd pale eyes that glowed as if lit from behind, and the faint shimmer of deep violet light that shimmered about her as if she had chosen to clad herself in color rather than drear human clothing.
It might seem worth risking the wrath of the yendaeshi, the Sen-Baradam, even the emperor himself, to sneak a lingering gaze at her naked form, had Jian not seen the consequences of such folly with his own eyes, on their first day in camp.
Eyes.
Jian shuddered, and swallowed bile.
The candles were lit and set in their places around the war table. Mardoni lifted his antlered head, peered at him. One white eyebrow lifted, and the corner of his mouth quirked as if they shared some great joke. Then the man turned his wide dark eyes toward the luminist as easily as if she were an ordinary woman, and he might ask her to dance.
“Zhaoli? If you would, please, my dear?”
The luminist ignored Mardoni’s gaze, and his flirtatious tone. Indeed, as she lifted one fat candle in front of her face and stared into the dancing light, her lips pursed and color grew in her pale cheeks in a way that made Jian blush and look away. Then the other candles flickered, and the table in their midst began to glow, and Jian forgot all about naked women and flaming eyeballs as he watched the magic unfold.
Green sparks fizzed and leapt from the candles, to become trees and grass. Blue arced and snaked to become a river, and small figures of flame and shadow became miniature people as they danced into place. The table shimmered and glowed, then with a pop that made his eyes ache and ears ring, a scene burst into sharp relief, a tiny battle played out by figures no bigger than the toy soldiers his mother had bought for him when he was small. No toy had ever been carved with such cunning skill, though, nor could it move like a man. No tree of clay, wood, or grass made of green cloth could ever ripple thus in an imaginary wind.
Jian watched, as awed as he had been the first time he had seen this magic. The day’s battle played out before them, and he watched a miniature version of himself order men into the trees and into the mud, watched himself lead men into battle, and had a sudden, uncomfortable thought. What if, at this very moment, he was in fact a miniature version of a much larger Jian, who watched himself watching himself?
His head throbbed with the beginnings of a truly thunderous headache and he wished—not for the first time—that he might somehow slip back into childhood, to a time when candles were candles and toys were toys, and a man’s eyes did not burst into flames at the sight of a beautiful woman.
“There,” Mardoni said, and he held a pale hand splayed above the tiny battle. “Stop right there.” The tableau froze. Tiny Jian stood unaware as a tiny man in red stood behind him, readying his toothpick-sized spear for what might have been a deadly blow. Had the attack been successful…
Mardoni flicked his fingers, and the figures moved again, slow as butterflies on a cold day. Jian clenched his jaw as Naruteo’s man thrust the blunted spear toward the back of his neck. Then he blinked to see Perri leap, twisting like a cat, to knock the blow aside. The spear caught Jian’s dammati in the side of the head, knocking his helm off and sending him to crash in a heap. As the Bull’s man ran off, Jian noted a peculiar hitch to his gait.
“That is Chei!” He pointed. “I thought we were friends… but he tried to kill me.” A serious violation of the rules, but one which Jian knew would never be punished.
“That child is not important,” Mardoni said. “This one… this is the one you need to watch.” He held his hand above the miniature Perri as Jian’s bannerman rose and took up the standard, swaying on his feet.
“Him? That is Perri. I trust him with my life.” It was a revelation. “I owe him my life.”
“Ah, a treasure among younglings, then, truly. It is good to have friends, Daechen Jian.”
They watched as the figure of Chei ran to Naruteo’s side. I will remember this, Jian thought. Tiny Perri picked his helm up out of the mud, put it on, and straightened the banner of the Blue Bear. It shamed Jian to think that he had not seen the depth of Perri’s loyalty before now. I will remember this, too, my dammati.
“It is good to have friends,” Jian agreed.
“It is good to have friends.” Mardoni bared his teeth in a slow, feral grin. “It would be better to have an army.”
SIX
On the third day of the march back from battle, Jian thought about dirt. There was grit that covered your face, even coating the teeth so that every meal you ate was that much less pleasant. Or powdered dirt as fine and soft as the stuff a woman might use to powde
r her face. Then there was the foul black dirt like small rocks that you might crush with your fingers, but which would work its way between your toes and flay your feet by the end of a day’s march. His hair itched with grit, his clothes chafed, and when he spat, he spat mud.
Bath first, he thought.
His stomach rumbled a protest.
Bath first, his mind insisted. Enough was enough. I am more dirt than man.
They moved together as a unit, their raised voices a fine harmonic counterpoint to the soft stamp, stamp, stamp of booted feet upon the hard-packed earth. No longer did their heads bob like a raft of sea dogs on a choppy sea, nor did they stumble on the verse or the step or trip over their own gear. They had become a living being, like a dragon from the legends, made up of the songs and stories and dreams of all their souls and one true heart.
Jian became aware, however, of a commotion on the far side of the formation, and he signaled a halt. This led to growling among his dammati and soldiers, and it echoed his own distress, for every delay was one more obstacle between his skin and a bath, his stomach and food, his head and a pillow. Naruteo’s squad stamped to a halt behind his, shouting insults. They had been forced to march through the dust of their betters, and it had not improved the mood of the Red Bull’s troops.
Well, let them grumble. If the Bull wanted to make these decisions, perhaps he should win a battle or two. The thought cheered Jian, and he was grinning as he walked to the source of the disturbance.
The grin faded when he reached the far side of the march. Garid Far-Eyes, one of Jian’s steadiest men and the least likely to panic, was round-eyed with worry. Garid was an avian daeborn, and the feathers that served him in place of hair stood up in a tight crest. He saluted Jian, but his hawk’s eyes were fixed on the tree line some distance away.
Jian returned the salute. “Trouble, dammati?”
“Trouble, Sen-Baradam.” He pointed. “Civilian.”
“Where?” Jian squinted, and saw nothing but dirt, sword grass, and trees. “I do not… my eyes are not as good as yours.”
“Nobody’s eyes are as good as mine.” Garid blinked. “But she is not far from here, only hidden. There, by the strand of red bamboo. A girl, I think, and… chinmong? Maybe? Two of them, I think.”
Jian brightened. Raptors were precious and rare, the hunters who bonded with them famous for their bravery, and Jian had always wanted to meet one.
“I have never heard of a chinmong hunter this far to the west.” He squinted hard, using one hand to shade his eyes against the sun. “I think I see… by that third tree? The shortest one? Yes, there she is, though not the raptors. Can you see what they are hunting? We should not disturb them.” Neither did he particularly wish to walk through a field of the tall, cutting grass.
But chinmong…
“The girl stands as if she is wounded, Sen-Baradam,” Garid replied. “And the raptors… there are only two of them, not a full clutch, and the bigger appears to be lunging at her.” Jian could not see the raptor, but trusted his dammati’s eyes. He shrugged off the last of his fatigue and drew his sword.
“To me, then,” he said. “Teppei, and Changha’an and Perri, as well. Sunzi, you take command while I am gone. Two raptors, you said, Garid? Are you sure there are no more?”
“I see only two, but they are very well camouflaged,” Garid answered. “There may be more.” He blinked. “Sen-Baradam…”
“Gai Khan and Hulagu as well, then. Yes, dammati?”
“Sen-Baradam, if I may ask…” Garid blinked again, uncomfortable as an owl at midday. “What is your plan? Do you seek to aid this girl?”
It was Jian’s turn to blink. “Of course. What else would I do? Leave her to the raptors? You said she was wounded.”
“Jian…” Perri’s voice was soft, but his hand on Jian’s shoulder was less so. “Sen-Baradam, even if she is a hunter, she has seen that which is forbidden—seen the emperor’s daeborn troops at our war games. If she has been watching us train, and she is human…”
“Death,” Garid said.
“Yes,” Perri agreed. “It is written. Perhaps Mardoni…?” He gestured to where the White Stag sat astride his fine horse, some distance away, still as a statue but watching them, always watching. Jian’s heart hurt. It was tempting, to turn this matter over to the older man, to close his eyes and his ears and his heart, but he could not. He was Sen-Baradam, he was Daechen, but he was human, as well—or half, anyway. He had a man’s heart.
Perri’s eyes were wide. If Jian failed in his duty, his dammati would pay the price, not he. And Perri had saved his life.
“No,” he said. “The command is mine, and the duty. Come.”
“What will you do?” Garid asked, and he flinched as Jian turned to face him. “If I may ask, Sen-Baradam?”
“You may not,” Jian answered. He waded into the tall grass as if it were the sea, never minding the sharp blades that swiped and sliced at his exposed skin, never once looking back to see whether his dammati would follow his orders.
They know their duty, he thought, and gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly it hurt. As I know mine.
Walking slowly in the direction Garid had indicated, he chose his steps carefully, and glanced up now and again to make sure that his path held true. The ground was soft and wet beneath his feet, the kind of ground that is pleasant to walk upon but dangerous to troops on a long campaign. He would have to dry his feet well come evening.
And clean my sword, as well. The thought was as slow and difficult as marching through wetlands.
As the path and his troops fell behind him, the ground grew wilder. By the time Jian reached the stand of red bamboo his calves and shins ached, and his ankles were sore from negotiating the tussocks. The grasses grew shorter, and tiny frogs leapt away from his feet at every step. It would be a fine place to hunt birds, Jian thought, or marsh hogs, but all game had gone to ground in the presence of the chinmong.
Garid Far-Eyes had been right. There were two of them, a red-streaked alpha female, crest raised and shaking with outrage, and a smaller brown-spotted male with a bloody broken claw. These were healthy animals, sleek and fit, bearing the blue tattoos that marked them as domestically bred. Bonded animals, then, not wild—but they were most definitely not bonded to the young woman who crouched before them, hands upraised as if to forestall an attack.
She was a young girl, a skinny stick with big hands and feet. Her rough clothing and wide amber eyes marked her out as mountain-born, and clan tattoos on one side of her face declared her chinmong-hui. But she was too young to be a hunter—she still had all her fingers—and this half-clutch seemed more likely to hunt her than to hunt for her.
The bigger raptor swung its head at his approach and hissed, pale eyes flashing, foreclaws flexing.
“Hey now,” Jian said in as soothing a tone as he could manage, feeling stupid even as the words left his mouth. How did one address a raptor? “Easy, there.”
“Hsssssst.” It was the girl who hissed at him, angry as the raptor had been and every bit as fierce, if not as frightening. “Stop. Go away. You will frighten them.” Her words were long and round with the accent of her people, and her voice rough in her throat. Jian stopped, and blinked at her.
“Uh… yes,” he said. “I will frighten them.”
“No, you will not,” she replied. “I have been trying to bond them for days, and they only just let me… ti ma dai!” she cried angrily as the raptors ducked their heads and sped away, tails whipping behind them. “Sao ba dan tai shen!”
Jian’s mouth dropped open. He had not heard anyone cuss like that since… well, since his mother had dropped an anchor on her foot.
“You are too young to use such language,” he scolded.
“And you are so old?” She stood, brushing dirt from her leggings and not bothering to look at him. “I am old enough to hunt with my… with my… Anmei.” Her face crumpled and she wept silently, tears coursing down her face and leaving muddy streaks
. “I cannot go home without her chinmong.”
Not old enough to hunt, Jian thought, and his heart hurt as he drew his sword. Yet old enough to die. “Who are you?” he asked, that he would know what name to use when he begged his ancestors for forgiveness. “What is your name?”
“I am Ionqui Holuikhan, chinmong-hui-hao of Peichan.” She straightened her back, and her pale eyes flashed like the raptor’s had as she saw his drawn sword. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I must,” he told her. “You have seen the emperor’s Daechen in training. It is forbidden.”
“Ah.”
Jian blinked again. Was she not going to beg for her life? The girl wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, and faced death more bravely than Jian had ever faced anything in his life.
“My mother will never know what happened to me,” she said. “Or to Anmei.”
“Anmei?”
“My sister.” It was her turn to blink at him. “We were hunting boar, but we found a nightmare instead. She died that I might get away. I should have stayed with her, but I ran.” She frowned at Jian. “Why do you hesitate? I will not run. I will not fight. I am unarmed.”
He stepped closer, so close he could see the water rising in Holuikhan’s eyes, giving lie to her brave words. So close he could see the rents in her clothing where the chinmong had attacked when she had tried to bond with them, so that she might return to her village with honor. His sword whipped out, fast as a raptor’s strike, and bit into her shoulder deeply enough to draw blood.
The young girl clapped one hand over the wound and cried out in pain.
“Fall to the ground,” Jian hissed between his teeth. “Close your eyes. Do not move. You are dead, do you understand me? You are dead.”
The girl—Holuikhan—fell to the ground.
Jian stared at her motionless form for a long while. Would the raptors return to her? Would she survive to return to her village?
At long last he turned and walked back to his dammati, head bowed, heart heavy. When he reached the others, Perri stepped forward. His one eye fell upon Jian’s bloodied sword, and he nodded, face tight with sympathy.
The Forbidden City (The Dragon's Legacy Book 2) Page 6