by Matt Weber
“He did give it,” said Netten. “As for reverence, you may spare us your attempts until you are sure of success.”
“Is he truly master of the Rigors?” asked Datang.
“Ask the Eager Edge,” said Netten. “He was at Goat Ridge.”
“And there is no denying the King’s wondrous power with the Four Conflagration Touch,” said Lin Yongten. “To say nothing of the Eight Weapon Hand, of which his mastery is consummate. Yet I believe he has kept his study of the other Rigors private.”
“His mastery of the Diamond Word is self-evident,” said Netten. “The same for the Crane’s Migration Step and the Infinitesimal Breath. The higher refinements of the Silken Palace Palm and the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions are difficult to assess and slow in coming, yet his power in the rudiments is undisputed. That is as good as any King of Uä.”
“The Regent did better,” said Lin Yongten. “As Sagacious Tenshing is rumored to have done.”
“They had a lifetime of training,” said Netten, “and the last achievement of Sagacious Tenshing is unconfirmed.”
“What about the Reflecting Pool Mind?” said Datang.
“The Master of the Reflecting Pool Mind is ungenerous with information,” said Netten.
“What, are the others gossips?” said Datang.
Netten shrugged. “They are voluble enough concerning his mastery.”
“Because they wish to calm the public,” said Lin Yongten quietly.
“Wouldst prefer a panic?” parried Netten.
“Is panic apropos?” asked Datang.
“That is between the King and the Priestkiller Worm,” said Netten.
“The matter concerns our blood as much as theirs.”
“Be that as it may,” said Netten, “we cannot teach the Rigors to the King, nor kill the Priestkiller Worm. We can only do what we can do.”
“And what is that,” asked Datang, “in this teeming metropolis of Naga-gyo, nowhere near the northern border?” For they had, indeed, begun drawing up to the place—which had the look of a ghost town, if the truth must be known, save for the fresh tracks of horse and wagon in the snow-mingled mud and the filaments of smoke reaching toward the heavens from the chimneys.
“We will reach the border in due time,” said Netten. “But I have business here. News from the border will wait a half-day. You may accompany me if you wish, or turn back to the post road if duty pricks.”
“No,” said Lin Yongten. “We are four as the compass points are four, as the seasons, as the stars that formed White Tenshing’s sword. As four we outwit, outshoot, upstage, and overwhelm. Netten’s goal is our goal.” He looked off into the empty streets of Naga-gyo. “And ours his. We cannot follow in silence forever, freeman.”
Netten turned to Lin Yongten. “That is direct.”
Lin Gyat snorted. “The Python of Degyen is direct. The Eager Edge licks you like a mother cat, and the Ape’s Left Hand twitters like an outraged sparrow at the raccoon sucking her eggs.”
“And what has the Python of Degyen to say to me?” said Netten.
“The Python of Degyen is indifferent to your obsessive secrecy,” said Lin Gyat, “though it may become vocal if drink, sport, or disputation is not soon on offer.”
“Well,” said Netten, “we may have to tolerate its cries in the short term. But not much longer, I think.”
He snapped his reins and trotted toward Naga-gyo. Lin Gyat shrugged and followed. Lin Yongten started after him, then stopped when Datang did not join him. “Come, Left Hand,” he said. “He will let you understand in time.”
“Then perhaps I should wait for ‘time’ to come before I follow him.”
“That is your right. With respect, I ask you not to.”
“Then, with respect, I assent. For a while.”
Lin Yongten nodded and motioned for her to pass, and so she did.
Hunger has famously and often been pronounced the emperor of sauces; and likewise, amidst the variable huts and shanties of the town of Naga-gyo, it was easy to forget that the stately and well-constructed home that Netten approached would have seemed shabby before the Orchid Palace—the fading paint of its decorative struts a sign of poor care rather than steadfast endurance, the rusted axe and machete crossed over the door a feeble boast and not a weathered testament to conquest. There was no bell by the door, and though it was adorned with a thick, scarred bronze plate, there was no knocker either, nor did there seem ever to have been one. Netten pounded the plate with his hand, producing a sort of fitful, muffled noise, then applied a well-controlled burst of the Eight Weapon Hand, which caused it to ring pleasingly enough.
“State your name!” barked a sharp voice from the interior—a woman’s, by the sound, and not young.
“Netten, freeman of Rassha.”
“State your business!”
“I come bearing pleasant concepts and light conversation.”
“The House of Ogyal traffics not in such things,” said the voice. “Seek out the town scribe—industry has never brought him pleasure, and his discourse is excessively abstract.”
“Perhaps I have misrepresented my freight,” said Netten. “I am unaccustomed to commerce with men who see the world with such harsh clarity, hence my instinct toward euphemism. In truth, the concepts are complex to the point of tedium, and the conversation concerns matters so weighty as to test the limits of human capacity.”
There was silence from within. “Who is this Ogyal?” asked Lin Gyat.
“The King’s grandfather,” said Lin Yongten. “If you must ask such questions, do it in a lower voice, please. The House of Ogyal may become intransigent at disrespect.”
“How can I disrespect someone I do not know?” said Lin Gyat.
“Have no fear, Envied of Snakes,” said Datang. “If anyone can do it, it is you.”
Netten’s eyes met Lin Yongten’s; the latter’s head moved, birdlike, in assent almost too swift to see. “Envied of Snakes,” said Lin Yongten, “we are surely impeding Netten’s progress. The matron of the House of Ogyal suffers from skittishness, it would appear, and I believe their reluctance to admit us originates in your own heroic proportions.”
“Well,” Lin Gyat said stiffly, “I cannot shrink my frame, nor would I if I could.”
“Of a certainty,” said Lin Yongten, “but you can absent it. Attend,” he said, before Lin Gyat could interrupt, “no doubt my boxer’s greens unnerve these yokels as well. Let us go where our affiliation will aid, rather than hinder, our pursuit of our objectives. Say, the public house.”
“I find myself preferring debate to libation,” said Lin Gyat.
“Well, you will get neither here,” said Lin Yongten, “but the local wine-well will furnish at least one.”
Lin Gyat looked at Lin Yongten with some suspicion, then at Netten and Datang. At last, without a word, he turned and left; Lin Yongten followed.
“And now,” Netten shouted, “has the House of Ogyal arrived at a decision?”
“Your syntax is involuted and your pronouncements smack of flattery,” said the voice after a moment. “Exercise restraint inside the House of Ogyal, which is, as all correct men know, a satellite palace, and not to be defiled with mealy speech.”
The door swung outward, none too steady on its hinges, to reveal a stout middle-aged woman nearly buckling under the weight of steel and bronze jewelry. Her crossed forearms were armored with bangles, her neck yoked with chains and pendants, her greying hair made lacerative with clips, forks, and pins. Beside the door, gripping its handle, were two immense, bearded men smothered in mixed pelts, with swords scabbarded awkwardly at their sides; if pressed, Datang suspected, they would more likely have recourse to knife or hatchet, with which both were also equipped. The hall was dark, the air close and touched with wood smoke. Netten made an elaborate abasement to the bejeweled woman that Datang did not recognize; she hastily aped it as best she could. “The queen mother exalts me with her attention,” Netten said from the ground, his fi
ngers splayed in the correct positions.
“Yes,” said the bejeweled woman. “What is it you would have of the House of Ogyal?”
“A question, first and foremost,” said Netten. “Does this domicile retain the privilege of hosting the most holy wife of Ogyal, by rights King Tenshing Sastha?”
“I do not know which one was most holy,” said the queen mother, “and would not venture a determination.”
“Your correction is trenchant,” said Netten. “Very well, then: Do any of Ogyal’s wives still breathe?”
“I do not see the matter’s relevance.”
Netten made a swift, self-abnegating abasement. “I beseech you to indulge me regardless.”
The queen mother tossed back her head and sniffed. “Unless some deity has rediscovered mercy in the last half hour, my husband’s mother lives to soil her sheets.”
“My heart shouts to hear it,” said Netten. “Might I have the pleasure of her company, even if it be for but a few short minutes?”
“She is not fit for company,” said the queen mother. “Her mind is not equal to complex concepts, nor her lungs to weighty conversation.”
“I am rich with patience.”
“You are an irritant,” said the queen mother. “I contemplate asking my men to expel you.” Datang saw from the corner of her eye, as easily as had she been staring straight on, the pelted men grasp their sword hilts, with all the awkwardness she had inferred on her first glance.
“That is not advisable,” said Netten.
The queen mother’s eyebrows rose at that. “I do not think I asked your counsel, freeman.”
“I seek only to preserve the queen mother from a tragic waste of life,” said Netten. “To say nothing of the destruction of property.”
“These men are the best in Naga-gyo, and the two of you together barely make one of them.”
“Well, we eat sparingly,” said Netten. “But we are determined, and they—well, they are fearsome, but they can have no great dedication to a queen mother who does not know their names.” And here Netten swung his eyes away to look the pelted men directly in the eyes, one and then the other, and Datang saw that he had perceived correctly. One of the guards shifted uncomfortably; his knuckles whitened.
The queen mother pressed her lips together. “My men will accompany you to my husband’s mother’s bedchamber. They will tell me all that transpires when your transaction is complete. Should anything improper come to pass, my son will hear of it.”
“That is a perfect plan, queen mother,” said Netten.
“Very well,” she said. “Be about it.”
Netten needed no further exhortation, and moved so swiftly up the narrow front stairs that Datang had to scramble to follow. At the landing, he hesitated for a moment, then looked behind Datang to one of the pelted men, who jerked his head obligingly toward their destination. “Thank you,” said Netten.
“We would not have stinted to kill you at the order,” said the pelted man. “Perhaps we should have done in any case.”
“Your obedience is excellent and admirable,” said Netten, “the more palpably so in contrast to your better judgment.”
The guard grimaced at this and flexed his fist again around his sword’s hilt, and Datang was just letting her hand brush the hilt of her own straight sword when a clarion voice rang out from the chamber that the pelted man had indicated. “Who speaks of killing in my hallway?”
Netten turned his back to the guard and walked over to the chamber to open its door just a crack. The chamber was neither capacious nor well appointed, and its odor was, though not overpowering, still better left unspoken of; in the narrow bed was a white-haired woman so spare and frail as to seem nothing more than a wrinkle in the sheets. “Forgive us,” Netten said. “We have been disputing, as men do, to no good purpose. But I do come with a good one, at that. It is to speak to you.”
“I did not think you would return,” said the old woman.
Datang stared at Netten with her best look of inquisition; he shrugged minutely and motioned that she should follow him, then entered the room. When Datang joined him, he had sat beside the bed on a stool too low to be comfortable, facing the bedridden queen-grandmother. “Remind me of when last we met,” he said.
She drew a great breath past toothless gums to speak, but her eyes narrowed and gained focus in the middle of her inhalation, and she closed her mouth again to examine Netten for a moment. “You are not that man,” she said. “You would be older. And you would not bring a wench.”
“I can only imagine you are right,” said Netten. “Yet, if I may confess, I do not know of the incident you mention, or the man.”
“You said your purpose was to speak to me,” said the old woman. “Of what?”
“I have an interest in genealogies,” said Netten. “Your grandson’s is one of new salience.”
“Which grandson?”
Netten frowned faintly. Datang searched the old woman’s eyes, seeking to divine whether she joked or asked sincerely, but she could not fathom it. “The King, my lady.”
“Little Kandro,” said the old woman. “He always did put on airs. But the Regent’s genealogists have had it all from me; I do not care to speak of it again.”
“You knew your mother-in-law,” said Netten. “You knew she could not read or write. Is that the case?”
“I knew it,” said the old woman. “Or I thought it, until she died. That scroll with those ridic—” She fell into a bout of coughing that curled her body in on itself like an inchworm; at last she straightened out again, sucking air in a long, rattling wheeze. “Those once controversial claims.”
“True claims, my lady.”
The old woman made a hawking noise, which Datang found unaccountably cheering. “I’ll not gainsay that.”
Netten examined her, his eyes seeming to read and consider every tic and particle of her line-carved countenance. “Why would you wish to?”
The queen-grandmother smiled; the gesture sat strangely on her features. “He said you would be clever. I knew my mother-in-law, as you say. She would have loved nothing better than to be known, in her lifetime, as the mother of a King’s bastard. Failing that, the promise of a place in the royal genealogies would—” Again the spate of spine-coiling coughs, the scrabbling wheeze for breath.
“That scroll was tied with a King’s mandala,” said Netten. “It is death for any but a King to bear a King’s mandala.”
The old woman crinkled her face into a mass of deep horizontal lines. “But you and I both know he was a King, do we not?” She looked appraisingly at Netten and sucked her teeth for a moment, then smacked with loud satisfaction. “And so were you once, I think.”
Datang stiffened. Netten’s eyes were fixed on the old woman like a cat’s on a mousehole. The woman made a slow, almost strangled noise, like dry leaves in an eddy of wind. “The time for circumlocution ends; your father’s diamond curse has pounced at last. I will have three proofs of your paternity, or I will die within the hour. Give them, and I may speak freely. What Rigor learned you first, boy?”
“The Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions,” said Netten softly. “I learned it before I could walk. Esho and I used it to avoid our brothers.”
The door darkened; a pelted man filled it. Datang tilted her head back to look him in the eye and stood firm. “The queen-grandmother is sick,” said the man. “This interview is over.”
“Shut up, Dorje,” said the queen-grandmother, “or I’ll get really sick. Son of my southern visitor—who was your first betrothed?”
The pelted man put his hand to his sword. “Shush, woman, or I’ll gut you like a pig.”
“Well put,” said Datang, “yet there is a defect in your syllogism.”
“Kangjungkanggu Sonam Pema,” Netten said to the queen-grandmother, “Chatelaine of Dhaul and Vavasour of Seventeen Shrines Meadow, known of late as Mother-of-Daughters, to whom my father pledged my hand when I was five years of age and she ten, not knowing th
e affliction running through the women of her line.”
“Affliction?” said the old woman, but the questioning rise in her voice was cut off by another strangled ejaculation. “Never mind, give me the third proof. Which brother did you first kill?”
Netten snapped upright as though a snake had peeked out from the queen-grandmother’s bedspread. “That is a matter for the public,” he said. “Any imposter could furnish it. I imagine you know the answer yourself, hag. Do not throw that in my face.”
“I do not know what ‘syllogism’ means,” said the pelted man, “but scholarly pork and ignorant pork are all the same to me.” He moved to draw, but Datang was quicker; her straight sword fanned out in Clearing the Spider’s Web, scratching his sword arm through bearskin and leather. He howled and stumbled back; she slammed the door shut and latched it.
“I only know the answer because your father told me,” the queen-grandmother said, “and you will not have his letter if you do not give it.”
Netten looked at Datang, then back at the queen-grandmother. There was shouting outside the door.
“I will go if you wish, Regent,” said Datang. “I do not know the answer, nor need I to know it, and there are fools in the hallway requiring my attention. But the name would mean nothing to me.”
Netten considered the merits of these words, and in considering his face aged five years, then ten. “I imagine it would not,” he said at last. “It was Esho,” he said to the queen-grandmother. “We played together every day since I was born—five years, almost six. We were like twins, born two weeks apart to different mothers, and we learned the Rigors together. He was going to be my bodyguard, my trusted confidant.”
The dull thud of a hatchet sounded on the doorway.
“Then, not long after my first betrothal, someone got it into Esho’s head that Father had sired a bastard son on a scullery maid before our births, and he came for me with the Seventh Weapon.” Netten shook his head. “Or he would have. He forgot about the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions. My own Seventh Weapon pierced his heart before his left his hand.” He turned his eyes to Datang. “It took me ten years to find out who set Esho against me. It was my second brother, Rinshen. He had thought it a joke. He took poison when I learned.” Netten’s face was grim. “We had a conversation.”