by Matt Weber
“Yes,” said Gyaltsen, “we shall broaden the scope. Does there remain any mass of troops at the Iron Army’s camp?”
“Camp followers only,” said Zigsa. “A few thousand, but they are dispersing steadily. I do not believe that is a trap.”
“Retain a defensive force of double their number on the walls,” said Gyaltsen. “Split the rest of the army into companies of five hundred. Map out a path for each company, so none attacks the same farm twice. Once the enemy is eliminated, they move on. If the farm is safe, they wait.”
“No garrisons for the cleared targets?”
“No garrisons. Killing troops is tonight’s business.”
Zigsa nodded; Gyaltsen trusted the master fencer’s memory. “General,” the younger man said, “what happened with Lin Jinpa?”
“I defenestrated him,” said Gyaltsen. “The Gracious Regent has made it the traditional treatment for assassins.”
“He meant to kill you?”
“At the very start of the Third Blight. He is a student of the Infinitesimal Breath. When he was forced to breathe, he knew the river of rlung was dammed and the Cerulean Sword had become inert. The Master of Horse ordered him to kill me at that time.”
“And he did not do so?”
“I divined his orders in advance,” said Gyaltsen, “and informed him that I had retained more reliable protection.”
“That was well planned,” said Zigsa. “I detected no trace of a hidden bodyguard.”
“There was none,” said Gyaltsen. “I did not think the mandarins had gotten so close to me, Zigsa. I had anticipated a strike of some sort at the onset of the Blight—but not one so intimate. That the Master of Horse would conspire with the assassins’ union to subvert one of my closest men…” Gyaltsen shook his head. “It was a bad mistake.” He glanced at Zigsa with a gimlet eye. “It makes me leery of you, I must admit.”
“Be as leery as you must, only do not decline to use me. Even killers hanker after good works.”
Gyaltsen smiled. “Thank you, Zigsa.” He thought a moment. “Please take my orders to the war room. Tell them I have gone to the walls, but send a messenger to the Green Morning compound if some circumstance arises that demands my attention. Otherwise, the major-generals may operate with full discretion within the parameters I have described.”
Zigsa looked at Gyaltsen with some concern. “I do not guess the streets are safe, General. The assassins’ union has a bounty to collect.”
“The assassins’ union is not expecting to see me outside the palace grounds. No one is. I will be safer there than here. And, Zigsa, if the Master of Horse’s bounty was as great as Lin Jinpa implied, they will not have left the job to him alone.”
Zigsa shook his head. “Very well, General. You have preserved yourself this long; I defer to your expertise.” But he gave Gyaltsen a worried look. “Will you really be at the Green Morning compound?”
“Or else on my way there, or back,” said Gyaltsen.
“Why?”
Gyaltsen weighed the response and decided, at last, on candor. “Zigsa,” he said, “how will the Glib Ape secure the throne by burning farms? His troops are separated; he can make no defense, still less any attack on a fortified city. Even if he could reassemble the army, he has set the people dead against it now. He could stand on the fresh-severed neck of the very Priestkiller Worm and all the Great South Plain would still rise against him, save perhaps a few of these mandarins who are blind to the power of the people’s desperation. And even if they let him take the throne, he would have nothing to eat.”
Zigsa had gone noticeably pale. “He means to destroy Rassha?”
“If he means to do aught else, he has bungled it spectacularly. But the farms are not his sole target. There is one thing that will keep men and women in Rassha, even if they have to eat bear meat and sedge to stay.”
Zigsa looked at Gyaltsen in inquisition. Gyaltsen spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “The Orchid Palace is the keystone of our city and its raison d’être; our people’s souls are carved from mulberry granite. Famine will not drive them away while it stands. But a general trying to avert famine might be distracted from a few well-placed sappers…” Zigsa’s eyes widened. “I need the Green Morning to scour the palace grounds.”
His adjutant nodded, not needing the elaboration: Men trained in observation as well as strategy, men accustomed to operating beyond the norms of war. But Gyaltsen could tell that the young swordmaster feared for his general’s life in the unrestrained streets.
He was not alone in that fear; but Gyaltsen had been kept from the front too long. By habit, he stroked the Cerulean Sword, which lay like a dead thing in the scabbard. He shuddered and made off, seeking one of the secret exits that might successfully conceal his passing. He did chance to find a maid along the way, and detained her (anxious—the fourth queen, Kamala, was pregnant and had requirements) while he wrote a note. He asked if she could read and she said no. “Give it to the head of household,” he said. “All staff not on essential duties to remain in the refectory. Deliver this note to my retainer, Zigsa, in the war room; we will detach a portion of the Cerulean Guard for your protection.” By the look in her eyes, she knew protection was not on the general’s mind. Who was to say the Glib Ape’s men were not already here? He thought a heartbeat, then demanded the note back and scribbled an addendum. “This says the mess in the Dawn Courtyard should go uncleaned until the end of the Third Blight. Spread the word yourself—my own life depends on it.”
The charge of Gyaltsen’s preservation galvanized the girl; steel stiffened her spine and flashed behind her eyes. “General,” she said, “you have no idea how it relieves one to hear a mess of yours may go uncleaned.”
It seems I will never live down the Therku Room, Gyaltsen thought as she ran off. Well, it is not such a shabby legacy; and, in any case, servants rarely write the histories.
Hobbling the bamboo step
he baths at the ducal palace were as refreshing as Datang could ask, for all that she was being watched by a woman who appeared to be constructed of leather over wood; this was the more discomfiting after the bath proper, during which the guard barked out the protocols for correct ablutions with scented oils and perfumes much as Datang’s fencing masters had once corrected her on technique. Luckily, her guard at least had the forbearance not to approach her and apply the unguents herself.
Datang’s fencer’s clothes had disappeared on her exit from the chambers; what remained was a white qipao, slit up the side far enough to show more leg than she would like but not far enough to free her movements. If she had had her knife, she would have extended the slit, but even she could not stomach the thought of ripping such elegant fabric with her bare hands. On closer inspection, she saw that the qipao was in fact off-white on white, patterned with knots and ties whose similarity to the King’s mandala was unmistakable.
The suite was empty. When Datang called into the hallway to inquire after the fate of Mother-of-Daughters, she received no answer.
The Giant of the Grass, when she arrived, was no more voluble on the topic. “You must forgive me,” she said. “I am not in the habit of divulging information to prisoners unless it is vital that they know it. Otherwise I must make my own determinations about what is innocuous, and that is a bale too heavy for these shoulders.”
The painted warrior’s voice was brittle; Datang sensed a reproof. “That is a different attitude from the one you harbored on the road,” said Datang, “and even an hour ago.”
“Those were generalities,” said the Giant of the Grass. “Someone would have taught them to you, somewhere.”
“The Duke of Imja’s allegiances hardly constitute a generality.”
“No?” said the Giant of the Grass. “Indeed, Ape’s Left Hand, I think you have not listened to a word I said. The Duke’s location—that is a particular. The Duke’s allegiances are a factor of the office, not the man, and determined by historical forces too huge for anybody to ignor
e.”
“I know a Degyeni marksman who could ignore them.”
“Your Degyeni marksman could ignore anything; his shadow is so long, it is a wonder he can see anything at all.”
“The Red and White,” Datang said, “speak to him of anything but length. Conversations with Envied of Snakes are most tolerable if the pretense can be adopted that all objects are spherical—without length and without concavity.”
“Does the man not wear monk’s robes?” said the Giant of the Grass. “I enjoy stories of bawdy monks, but one rarely meets them in the flesh.”
“He is the opposite of a monk,” said Datang, “but, having completed two and a half days of a novitiate, he pretends some affinity to the religious vocation.”
“His pretense lacks verisimilitude, then?” said the Giant of the Grass, an oddly intrigued look in her eyes.
“He once threatened to eat every bandit in the Earthen Sky.”
“He will have to compete with the hodags and grass-spirits.”
Datang gave the Giant of the Grass a suspicious look. “Netten mentioned the grass-spirits to Envied of Snakes as a carnal inducement to hard labor. You cannot mean that he spoke truth.”
“Engaging in carnality with them would be unwise, but I have heard it is not unpleasant—at least in its initial stages.”
“The Earthen Sky is a fearsome habitat,” said Datang.
“Oh, the spirits do not quarrel with those of us who travel atop the bamboo, nor do they molest travelers on the more well-established roads. They only lurk in old stands of the thick grass—the deeper the blue, the greater your peril. Their lairs do yield the best wood, of course.” The Giant clopped her staff on the floor with some authority. “Though it is perilous to acquire and difficult to work.”
“You shall have to tell me the story of your staff sometime,” said Datang, “when we are not so much at odds.”
“And when your Envied of Snakes can be avoided,” said the Giant of the Grass, “lest he furnish inapposite commentary.”
Datang laughed out loud as they turned the corner into a parlor.
Netten and Lin Yongten were there, the former in white courtier’s garb—the same as Datang’s, off-white on white—and the latter in only marginally less fine greens that hung awkwardly on his wiry frame. They sat on adjoining divans, tense and straight. The Giant ushered Datang in with a gesture, but did not herself enter, instead remaining outside the door, her staff leant across the aperture as if by accident. The room was as dark as the rest of the basalt fortress, and Datang saw why the Duke made so little effort in the corridors: More tapestry than wall was visible, and the high ceiling was adorned by a thousand-candled chandelier, but no amount of brilliance could dispel the darkness of the stone. The feeling was of being huddled around an unusually opulent campfire, all sides exposed to the night. The men noted Datang’s entrance and greeted her with wary reserve. Datang thought to be hurt, for a moment, until she remembered how Netten had been subdued—not by skill, but by the threat to his confrères. She returned their greetings with at least equal coolness, then seated herself next to Lin Yongten. “How passed your hour?” she asked.
“I found it tolerable,” said Lin Yongten. “Our friend required more scrubbing than I, and mounted more resistance to his finery.”
“It is presumptuous,” said Netten quietly. “The Duke should not possess such garb.”
“Doubtless he passes his time with costume dramas.” Datang cast a quick glance toward the Giant of the Grass. “Where is Envied of Snakes?”
“He had difficulty convincing the stewards of his unusual sartorial constraints,” said Lin Yongten.
“The Lotus,” said Datang. “When Envied of Snakes encounters ‘difficulties,’ wet work tends to follow.”
“He grasps the sensitivity of our situation,” said Netten. “Once I was apprised of the issue, I managed to convince the stewards to let him pillage the shrine.”
That brought a thought to Datang. “Why did you not convince the Duke’s men to let us go, then?”
“The Diamond Word does not support broadly targeted orders.” Netten’s eyes flickered toward the Giant of the Grass. “And mastery of the Rigors tends to confer resistance.”
“Can I resist it?”
“Now is not the time to find out, Left Hand,” said Netten. “But, for all your talent, the Giant of the Grass is more advanced in the Crane’s Migration Step than you, and perhaps other Rigors as well. She is a formidable woman. You would do well to learn from her example.”
Datang tried, with near-total success, to keep a look of distaste from her face. “Martially, she is my superior, yet I know better teachers. And as to superiority of morals, well, etiquette forecloses candor.”
“There is virtue in pragmatism,” said Netten. “I would not see you harmed without need.”
“Do you so counsel the Eager Edge?”
“The Eager Edge is a veteran with a full life behind him.”
“What about Envied of Snakes?”
“Envied of Snakes is as obdurate as a statue of a mule.”
“And what man would you counsel to subordinate glory to ‘pragmatism’?” Netten’s lips pressed together, but he did not speak. Datang looked straight ahead, doing almost all she could to suppress her anger. “The Lotus, Netten, you say you would not see me harmed, but to collaborate with the friend of a foe would harm my spirit as grievously as it would yours.”
“Well spoken,” murmured Lin Yongten.
Netten shot an inquisitive glance at Lin Yongten; but at that moment, the double doors on the far side of the parlor opened, and two resplendent figures came through. One was a tall man, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, not young but hale, his physique showcased by a well-fitted robe dyed a blue as dark and soft as the night sky. He wore a jeweled dagger at his right hip; it looked as though it had been thrust carefully through the Duke’s varicolored sash, but Datang saw that it did not move enough with his stride, and traced a swordbelt under the sash. His skin was pale, his hair long and straight, his goatee and mustaches as sharp as knives. Netten, Datang, and Lin Yongten stood immediately at his entrance, so that Datang registered the identity of the second entrant only when she was on her feet.
It was Mother-of-Daughters, dressed in the same whites as Netten and Datang, the qipao gracefully altered to accommodate the swell of her belly.
“Duke Dorje of Imja,” announced some obscure servant, “and Queen Pema of Rassha.”
Lin Yongten and Netten abased themselves; Datang swiftly followed. When they had completed their abasements, Mother-of-Daughters made hers, after which the Duke of Imja made his, a small thing that a freeman might not have noticed; Datang herself would not, had she never left the Flying Tiger vineyard, but her experience with the mandarins of the Orchid Palace had sensitized her to subtleties of gesture. “Be seated,” said the Duke, and the three friends obeyed. “Netten freeman,” said the Duke, “I hope it will not give insult if I squire your wife. It has been a long time since we have seen one another; I would hate to squander the opportunity to renew our acquaintance.”
“I could imagine no other course of action,” said Netten. “Wife of my heart, it refreshes the eyes to see you so near and so well cared for.”
“I shall not elaborate on those sentiments,” said Mother-of-Daughters, “for they mirror my own precisely, omitting only my gratification at the Duke’s good influence on your hygiene.”
Datang was startled to notice that food had appeared, and was continuing to appear, on the low tables in front of them; dark-garbed servants were bringing dishes. Had she learned to ignore the movements of servants even as she learned the subtleties of mandarins?
“Gracious Regent,” said the Duke, “where is your third comrade-in-arms? And where is it you go with such dispatch?”
“My third confrère, Lin Gyat jiao Envied of Snakes, is in pursuit of suitable attire for your audience,” said Netten. “He is bound to wear monks’ garb, and it was not forth
coming from your steward.”
“I shall issue the order immediately,” said the Duke.
“You need not,” said Netten. “I interceded. The steward soon saw the wisdom of addressing Envied’s necessity.”
“That is well, Regent,” said the Duke. “Your companion is a fighting monk, then?”
“No,” said Netten.
“A shame,” said the Duke. “You know I have been cultivating a great center of religious learning here in Imja.”
“I recall your mention of the project early in my regency,” said Netten. “It gratifies me to hear of your success.”
“Does it?” said the Duke. “Well, perhaps your gratification will sweeten my offer.”
“How,” said Netten, “an offer?”
“These are troubled times,” said the Duke, “as you know better than anyone, I think, save possibly the King. And perhaps the Iron Eunuch.” The Duke smirked. “Yet the director of my little seminary has chosen this time to vanish. My scholars are in disarray, Regent. The Great Exhortation that I have planned is falling into shambles.”
“I recall your mention of this Great Exhortation,” said Netten. “The King’s Lama informed me that it was at variance with the better theories of prayer.”
“The King’s Lama was always a political man,” said the Duke.
“The Crescent,” growled Lin Gyat, barging in, “we have been taught the truth of that!”
All heads turned to face the huge fighter, resplendent in a red-and-gold robe that fell barely past his knees and revealed a stripe of tattooed chest and belly as wide as Datang’s finger was long. The sash barely met in a tiny knot just above a visible breechclout, the seams beginning to strain in the shoulders and upper arms. He was shoeless.