by Matt Weber
“What gift?” said Datang.
Lin Yongten walked over and reached a hand out to touch her face. It had the fine-sand texture of bamboo, stiff but flexible. She caught the hand to inspect it; the joints were as stiff as Lin Yongten had suggested, the roots of his nails blue rather than pink, and faintly fibrous. She could practically feel Lin Gyat puff up in territorial anger, but Lin Yongten’s touch was like a child’s, questing in the mass of particulars for the underlying generality; there was no caress in it.
“We are starving,” she said. “We can stay no longer. Can you walk?”
Lin Yongten lifted one foot from the ground, then the other, as though his ability to take a single step were in question. “I think I can,” he said, “though not quickly, and perhaps not well.”
“Well, then,” grumbled Lin Gyat, “at least you are no worse than you were when your blood painted the ground.”
“Perhaps not,” murmured Lin Yongten, his eyes far away.
Datang did not press him, and he did not expand on the point. Between them, they took their best guess at the southerly path, and set out through the grass for the edge of the Earthen Sky and Pongyo Gorge. It was not long before they reached the “new road,” which, after some discussion, they elected to use, thinking speed more important than stealth; but it did not escape Datang that, although Lin Yongten moved neither quickly nor well, he nonetheless made the best time through the grass, which he navigated as Mother-of-Daughters had, as though the narrow, winding path between him and his destination were capacious and straight.
They walked through the night until Datang had to stop, the pain in her head now bone-splitting, eclipsing all perception. Yet sleep came quickly enough, and they resumed at first light as though they had been sleeping since dusk. They had not been walking long before a wagon full of split stalks overtook them; it was clear that the wagoneer would just as soon have passed them by, but Lin Gyat swung easily up on one of the horses to begin a conversation, and ultimately the menace of three fencers, however bedraggled, overwhelmed his preferences. A few hours in the wagon brought them to a small post, where the wagoneer wished them a profoundly false farewell and promptly informed the constabulary. The latter, perceiving the same danger that the wagoneer had, declined to take action themselves—although none of the three friends missed the dispatch of a fast horse northward to Dzangbo and the Duke. But, although Datang and Lin Yongten had been stripped of their letters of marque, Lin Gyat had retained his (stained, ripe, and crumpled though it was), and the three were soon provisioned and saddled on the fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-best post-horses that the little grass-walled enclave had available—for the third-best had gone north to the Duke, and the first- and second- to the Gracious Regent and his wife, who had passed through not hours before.
They rode fitfully and slowly, for none of the horses could bear Lin Gyat’s weight for long. Nonetheless, they had cleared the edge of the cerulean grass by evening, glad to be shut of it; and it was not long at all before they reined up at the crest of the hill overlooking the campus of the Tenshing Theological and Engineering University (known informally as the University of Heavenly Ordnance), the town with which it lived in symbiosis, and the great rent in the earth that now threatened both town and university, and every other soul that drew breath among the Rafters of the World.
The Judge wrote, as had been his habit for eight generations, but Unerring Jangmu could see that his mind was not in it—had not been, in truth, since the day she had returned to his study. It was tempting to offer her services, as once she had done, allowing the Judge’s mind to operate unencumbered by the demands of calligraphy. Long practice had taught her how to condense his thoughts into their essence, which lines of speculation were mere mental exercise and which were likely to bear fruit. She had learned enough of Heaven’s laws, in her service, to oppose any mortal barrister—though, of course, expertise in Heaven’s laws was a rare skill among mortals in these godless days. The Judge’s grudging respect for Pasang Zapa Rempok had been high praise indeed.
Still, for all that the Judge’s insistence on writing his own memos seemed, to Jangmu, stubborn and wasteful, the practice had affected his composition for the better. He wrote more tightly now, the full force of his wit impelling every argument. Responsible now for the physical rendition of every character in every word, there were no more gassy digressions left to others to pare down, no more footnotes serving only as valve for an otherwise inert erudition; the opinions marched steadily down a straight road, deploying elaborate maneuvers only for maximal effect.
The Judge put down his pen. His arms and shoulders had accrued some bulk under the robes; the lines were fading from his face. “Unerring,” he said, “apprise me of developments.”
“The University of Heavenly Ordnance is very nearly vacated,” said Jangmu. “About a dozen dead in the stampede. Those who remain will soon starve. The town is just as barren. One King waits at the gorge; one comes from the heart of Imja; one skirts the province’s edge, but his spell of marvelous travel will bring him here in haste, once the Third Blight is over. The Ratter has abandoned all pretense of fighting to claim the Great South Plain and has dispersed his troops to burn it.”
“Have the Sickly Lout muffle the Gong of Rlung,” said the Judge.
“The Sickly Lout is spreading plague in Shrastaka.”
“The Hungry Lout, then.”
“The Hungry Lout is eating up the rice paddies in Degyen.”
“The Violent Lout?”
“Whipping up the cults in Dhakamma.”
The Judge grimaced. “An ugly business, that. If he is not careful, they will entrench themselves instead of self-immolating. I hope you have not yet dispatched the Fatal Lout.”
Jangmu shook her head. “It seemed most likely he would be needed here.”
“Capital. Have him muffle the Gong of Rlung. What should we expect, do you think, when it is silent?”
Jangmu gave the matter some thought. “The new King is impetuous. He might come immediately. Then again, his advisors will want him to practice more. And if they know the other Kings are coming, they may wait and join forces for the battle.”
“Join forces?” the Judge said, with mild but perceptible disapproval. “That hardly conforms to the gods’ terms.”
Jangmu shrugged. “Netten and Tenshing both know how to enter the sanctuary. The Iron Eunuch could be taught. If they are desperate, they may not much care about the gods’ intentions. And you know better than anyone the state of this people’s communications with the gods.”
“By the Nineteen Exceptions to the Excellent Statutes,” murmured the Judge, “that is just. Then I must prepare to fight three Kings.”
“Three false Kings of Uä,” said Jangmu, “against the Fatal Lout, Unerring Jangmu, and Perfect Judge Dorje? I do not anticipate difficulty. And if the Ratter arrives in time—”
“It was the Ratter who flubbed my last debate with a King,” said the Judge. “I want him nowhere near this confrontation. He knows this, does he not?”
“Completely,” said Jangmu, “and yet—he has faced more than one master of the Diamond Word over the intervening generations, Judge, and prevailed. A King will not take him by surprise again.”
“Kings have more weapons than the Diamond Word,” said the Judge, “and cats more weaknesses. The Ratter has eternity to redeem himself. I am not disposed to take risks with this contretemps. The Ratter knows his orders; they have not changed.” He turned toward the forge, the muscles of his back bunching for a moment under newly tight robes. “Come, Unerring; I have something for you.”
He motioned her over, and she came. The Judge took a length of metal resting on the great anvil before the forge; it was a blade without flaw, a gleaming silver-white at the tang that faded softly to black at the forked tip. Jangmu took a long look at it and shook her head; but there was no mistaking the appraisal in her eyes, nor the desire. “I cannot do justice to such a weapon, even if I were trained in th
e use of the forked sword.”
“Ah,” said the Judge, “but the blade will avail no one else. It is balanced for you, Unerring, and fashioned to mimic the tongue of the inkwell snake. You see how it complements my snake-head glaive.” He used the blade to indicate his own weapon. “My secretary may go armed if she must, but I will not have a servant with an undistinguished blade.”
“The Ratter flirts with blades like a lecher, each fixation more dubious than the last.”
“The Ratter’s blade is his nature,” said the Judge. “All these ‘fixations,’ as you charmingly term them, are merely material extensions of that nature. A blade of quality would wrong-foot the hooligan as surely as two left boots.” He picked up the hilt nearby, evidently a cousin to the snake-head glaive—though no red or yellow scales decorated it, only black and white. The quillions took the shape of fangs, which faded to black toward the tips in the same manner as the blade. “I will join blade to hilt when I am done filing this motion.”
“What motion?”
“A motion to establish a new species.”
Jangmu allowed herself a small, conspiring smile. “I had wondered how, in eight generations of wandering, I had failed to hear of the inkwell snake.”
“It will be a well-wrought serpent,” said the Judge, “of pleasant length and girth, preying on the plagues of cities—rats, lapdogs, drunks. Bright white at birth, we shall say, with no trace of black; even its eyes will be blind white. It will feed on its mother’s black milk as it grows, and its scales and eyes will gradually blacken, as will the tip of its fangs and tongue. In its prime, its white scales will be the cream-white of paper, and the dark ones cavern-black; in its dotage, the white scales will crack and brown, and the black scales, now faded to dark grey, will predominate, and when it is nothing but faded ink, it will die. Its black venom will seize the power of speech from anyone unlucky enough to be bitten.” Reverie dropped from the Judge’s face, revealing a grim satisfaction. “It will prefer the fragrant air of temples and the dry dark of libraries, and while it will meet daylight with supreme equanimity, it will give no quarter to those who penetrate its lairs with lanterns.”
“A noble addition to the serpent kingdom,” said Jangmu, unsure what else could be said.
“A thinner of pests,” replied the Judge. “Go, Unerring. Speak to me of the Kings on my doorstep. I wish to know their movements and intentions.”
“Netten knows me,” Jangmu reminded the Judge. “If he catches sight of me, I may not return.”
“Confine your attentions to the others, then,” said the Judge.
“Shall I tell the Fatal Lout to stay close to you?” asked Jangmu.
“No need,” said the Judge, setting the Inkwell Sword back on the anvil. “When the time comes, I will ring the Gong of Night myself.”
The University of Heavenly Ordnance
The view from the Wind Horse Gate
ever had General Gyaltsen so devoutly wished for mastery of the Rigors. Not the offensive Rigors, which were of only intermittent utility to a commander of troops, and a positive distraction to a wielder of the Cerulean Sword—but, atop the walls of Rassha, hoping to espy a small team of intruders, vision pricked by the torchlight of his own troops and the flickering red stars devouring the farms of the Great South Plain, the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions would have come as a welcome aid to perception.
The Green Morning had secured several nested perimeters—one around and several within the Orchid Palace, another around the Resting Place Between Heaven and Earth Pavilion, another two blocks out from the Pavilion. He had twice sent un-uniformed men to test those perimeters and been swiftly informed of their apprehension. One soldier had been killed, a man of the Cerulean Guard and the Green Morning whose name he had remembered long enough to draft a letter of condolence, and no longer. That would haunt his dreams the next evening, if he lived to see it—but not tonight. Tonight, he would not dream at all.
A small war room had been set up between the parapets that flanked the Wind Horse Gate; his man Zigsa was the only soldier allowed within a glaive’s length of his person. It was difficult for Gyaltsen to write in the night’s chill, but his orders were legible enough, and in any case, he spent most of the time reading, as he had done since he had vacated the Orchid Palace the night before. A few reports told of farms that had been preserved, and he had done his best to refer their places on the map to locations on the plain that stretched before him. Some of those, in the interval between the report’s writing and its reaching him, had been rekindled. But most of the farms not actively burning were now embers. The Iron Army had been too small to threaten Rassha with force; but now, his army could do no more against it than it could against a swarm of wasps in an orphanage. Gyaltsen had passed the previous day evaluating reports, writing orders, and watching over the Wind Horse Gate. Now, with the sun no longer visible, he had begun to stint on reading, for there was little new to know, and on writing, for there were few orders to give. But he could not seem to watch enough.
These actions all struck Zigsa as eminently reasonable, and as to the general’s allocation of time at each, well, he would not dare to presume; but when Gyaltsen turned from the Wind Horse Gate to stare for ten uninterrupted minutes down at the city behind him, it was enough to tax the comprehension of even the most loyal man. He struggled for a series of long moments, wondering whether he should shout from his post or leave it to question the general more quietly. At last he determined that prudence dictated the latter, and took a position respectfully behind Gyaltsen and to his left.
“What is to be gained,” Gyaltsen asked, “by surveillance of the city?”
“A matter beyond one soldier’s wisdom,” said Zigsa. “Yet, I think a general would know.”
“What I now perceive—” Gyaltsen began, then stopped. “Say, rather, what I now attend is an absence of things typically absent. Why should I attend to such a thing?”
“I fear the question is too abstract for a simple mind,” said Zigsa.
“You are literate, Zigsa?”
“Passably.”
“Then you will have read On Dispute, or should. What should one look for in a city in wartime?”
Zigsa thought on the question. “Famine.”
“An absence of things normally present. And invisible from the Wind Horse Gate at night in any case.”
“Unrest.” Gyaltsen uttered a sound that could be rendered “Ah,” though in truth it was unvoiced, more like a sigh than an interjection. Zigsa seemed to gain courage from it. “Houses lit when they should be dark. Torchlit gatherings in squares. Fires.”
“All disturbances most disposed to reveal themselves at night.” Gyaltsen would have continued, but the Cerulean Sword issued a yawning moan and jerked visibly in its scabbard, as though shaking off sleep. “Ah!” Gyaltsen repeated. “The Third Blight ends; that is well.”
Zigsa thought a moment; then his eyes grew wide. “The burning farms!” he exclaimed. “You will send the rain to quench them?”
Gyaltsen chuckled. “I could,” he said. “But a farm torn apart and drowned is no better than a burned one, and a deadly gale is no meet reward for a farmer with the luck or wits to evade the attentions of what was the Iron Army. I can release a gale of whatever size I like, Zigsa; the blade’s potency is without limit. But I cannot rein it in.”
“Then how will it avail you?”
“In two ways. First, it empowers me to protect Rassha, which liberates me to release a column of troops up the Silver Dragon.”
“Whence the urgency of this?”
“The news has not reached the men, then? That is well. The Garden holds Therku, Zigsa, and I am not so foolish as to dream that its theft will be their last. I had ignored the problem while the Iron Army held the Khodon Pass, but I do not surmise they hold it now. With the Sword to guard the city, I can reduce the garrison.”
“I comprehend. Yet you had mentioned a second use.”
“What? Ah, you are right. I
had. It is not something you could have anticipated. Zigsa, why should a general set up a war room on the parapets, on a chill spring night? I am neither close to the mass of my troops, nor able to operate in efficiency or comfort.”
After a moment of silence, Gyaltsen turned to Zigsa. The small muscles in the fencer’s face were evidently mobile, tensing and relaxing to keep some sentiment confined. “Speak your mind, soldier,” said Gyaltsen mildly. “You would not be the first subordinate to apprise me of a deficiency.”
“I had thought it perhaps a punishment, General,” Zigsa said.
Gyaltsen smiled. “Say, rather, an atonement. I made an error when I met the Iron Army at their camp. That particular error came too late to teach me much of use, but in studying it, I did learn something else. The Glib Ape is a potent warrior, man to man as well as in war—I have not crossed blades with him, but he reeks of talent. I believe he means to destroy the Orchid Palace, to remove the focus of these citizens’ loyalty that he might usurp the line of Tenshing with some upstart regime.”
“Have you not dispatched the Green Morning to deal with this exigency?”
Gyaltsen turned back to his table and began to organize its contents: Rolling scrolls and securing them in weighted rings, securing flat papers under books. “I have, Zigsa. But the Glib Ape is no fool. I think he knows his objective stands unveiled, and he knows me for a man who might anticipate his tactics. Have you laid eyes on a sapper in my army, Zigsa?”
“I have.”
“And have you any children, or young relatives?”
“A niece, General, near her fifth birthday.”
“Put any sapper in my army and a brother of the Green Morning before your four-year-old niece, Zigsa; give each man a knife, and offer the girl a bit of rock candy if she picks the winner. Whom would she choose?”
Zigsa shrugged. “Your sappers, like your soldiers, are chosen for their particular expertise. No doubt the study of chemistry and engineering comes at the expense of devotion to physical culture.”