Swallowtail & Sword: The Scholar's Book of Story & Song (Tails from the Upper Kingdom 4)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  He might never come down.

  Three

  I love you

  And as he floated above it all, he wondered if he should just leave for good.

  Humanity had lost the race. They deserved to be gone. If the IAR had indeed succeeded, perhaps their monsters would step in and create a better world and perhaps they might end up in wars and destroy each other in much the same way. The future was a strange, brilliant, dreadful place.

  He might never come back.

  Two

  I’m sick

  He never heard the final countdown from the Coldroom speaker. His world was slipping away along with his sluggish heart, soon to be little more than a bittersweet memory, soon to be gone, extinct, forgotten.

  He might never wake up.

  One

  Yes

  Regardless, he would never see her again.

  The stars beckoned; the universe inside each molecule, the slowing of electrons in their orbit, the splitting of cells and the splitting of atoms. It was beautiful and sad and he was glad he was going.

  The world was empty, dying, gone, like his body, like his soul.

  Heat boiling the blood in his veins, cold burning the flesh from his bones, light frying the eyes from his skull, pain like never before shattering him into a thousand pieces but then

  Long Night and Ashes

  Long night, no inclination to sleep,

  Empty hall, opening and shutting doors:

  Deliberately I move out of the glow of the lamp,

  Wait where I'll catch the moonlight

  when it comes

  Falling leaves suspended,

  snagged in a bird's nest

  Streams of fireflies circling round me.

  At dawn I dust off the cobwebs

  And sandalwood ash from one stick of incense.

  The Life and Death of Fireflies

  Year of the Horse

  Ash and dust settle

  The glaze dries on iron cups

  Beautiful and strong

  It was uncommonly hot in this part of the Empire and he had to admit that somehow, at some time, he had grown soft. Life in Sha’Hadin was cold. For a thick-pelted cat, cold was a good thing but the heat in this little jungle town of Shathkira was possibly worse than Cal’Cathah, and Cal’Cathah was arguably the worst in all the Kingdom. Not that he would complain. Uncooperative weather was an old man’s curse and Petrus Mercouri was a very old man.

  The garrison was almost as old, with hard dirt paths and huts built on weathered posts. Parrots swooped through the branches high above and crows from roof to thatched roof, drawn most likely to the blood. Sri’kirath was both garrison and penal compound located outside the village for good reason. Shathkira was a border town in Lan’ladesh but in reality, it was just a spoke in the chaotic sprawling wheel that was Cal’Cathah. Only politicians and soldiers were safe in these places and as such, the outlands of the Empire needed her garrisons strong and her criminals punished. Both were in view as much for the spectacle as for the state.

  Soldiers watched him as he moved through the garrison in his orange robes, leather gloves and split-toed sandals. He hoped it was simply because of his monk’s attire not the race of the person clothed within. He couldn’t abide the caste system. Cats lived for it, thrived on it, ran their very lives by it. Sad state of the Kingdom but then again, he was Sacred, his life easy. People would give him their boots if he asked. They would give him their cloaks or their oxen or their children. It was a stratified society but cats were, after all, a stratified people.

  It had been a long journey from Sha’Hadin with only one fellow monk for company. Naturally, they had started on foot and it wasn’t until the markets and the Inn at the Roof of the World that the ocelot, Tang Hao, had offered the use of his cart. Still, Shathkira was in Lan’ladesh, a world away from Sha’Hadin when travelling by ox.

  A lynx had accompanied him, a novice named Tiberius. If anyone had the right to complain about the weather, it would be a lynx. The man’s pelt was slick against his face and his ears peaked high above his silver hair. He had no gifting, no claim to Farsight or Vison but he had maintained a serene smile for the entire journey and proven himself both composed and resourceful. There was a future for such a cat at Sha’Hadin.

  Through a gate and fence of lashed tree trunks, the penal compound was not a tranquil place. Criminals of all races were shackled to posts, moaning as flies crawled across their faces and into their wounds. Some looked as if they had been shackled for months and it was all he could do to keep walking. He was here for a purpose, for a single man. It would not serve the Kingdom to take pity on all of them, though he would have served his conscience had he the time.

  Ahead, he could see a low windowless hut, barely high enough for a man of even Sacred size to stand. It had clay walls, a yellow-grass roof and was flying a white death flag. He made for it directly but was stopped by a lion of about forty summers.

  “Sahidi,” the lion said, his voice accented in the richness of the Imperial Courts. “I am Major Thomas Whitehurst-Yao, Commander of Sri’kiriath’s penal compound.”

  And he bowed, hand to cupped fist. Petrus bowed in the same fashion, as did Tiberius.

  “Good Major,” said Petrus. “You are expecting me.”

  “Indeed, sahidi. The magistrate of Shathkira has kept us informed of your progress.”

  “That is good.”

  “But I regret your travel is in vain, sahidi.”

  The airs of men.

  Petrus smiled when he would have sighed. To sigh would be offensive.

  “In vain? But why? The prisoner is surely alive?”

  “Oh yes, sahidi, but barely. He was trying to burn down his own pukka and was caught in the flames. His wounds are significant.”

  “He has been seen by a physician?”

  “It is pointless, sahidi. We are expecting Governor Dasgupta-Carr any day now.”

  “To execute him.”

  A fly buzzed around the lion’s head. He swatted at it with a golden hand.

  “Yes indeed, sahidi. He is quite guilty.”

  “Of killing a lion.”

  “Of killing a lion in the Queen’s Service, sahidi. It is a crime punishable by immediate zhǎnshǒu. It is a miracle he has been allowed to live so long.”

  “Has he had a trial, Major?”

  “There is no need, sahidi. The sequence of events is clear.”

  “It must be to warrant immediate zhǎnshǒu.”

  The lion nodded.

  “Yes, sahidi. It is. He butchered his wife and young daughter, murdered the lion sent to investigate and then attempted to burn the house to make good his escape. Fortunately, he was caught in his own trap and was found by villagers, charred to the point of death.”

  “But not dead.”

  “Not yet, sahidi.”

  Petrus thought a moment, listened to the flies buzzing at the door of the hut, the moaning of the prisoners, the talking of the parrots, of the crows.

  “Was he known in the village, this man?”

  “As a maker of chairs, sahidi. But that is all. He kept to himself.”

  “With his wife and young daughter.”

  “Yes, sahidi. It was said he made good chairs for a mongrel.”

  The sharp cry of a falcon pierced the sky above the compound, scattering both parrots and crows. Soldiers looked up, shielding their eyes from the sun as Na’rang took up her position on the peak of the yellow-grass roof.

  “A mongrel?” said Petrus and he raised a grey brow. “The man is a mongrel?”

  “Yes, sahidi. CalCathah is a haven for gypsies and lawless peoples. We have constant trouble from their immorality.”

  “That is most interesting.” He glanced at Tiberius, standing beside. The lynx smiled. Serenely. “What do you make of it, Tiberius?”

  “It is a mystery, Brother Petrus,” the lynx began. “I am boggled by the craftsmanship that is involved in the making of chairs.”

 
“I feel the same, Tiberius.”

  “Might I be permitted to tend the wounded? It troubles my spirit to see so many ill-treated.”

  “This is a prison compound,” said the Major. “Ill-treatment is the least of their worries.”

  “I do understand, brother,” said Tiberius. “But still.”

  “By all means,” said Petrus. “Do what you can. We may be here longer than I expected.”

  The lynx smiled and bowed before leaving the pair. Petrus thought a moment longer. He looked up at the lion.

  “You know who I am, Major?”

  “Yes, sahidi. Petrus Mercuri of Sha’Hadin”

  “Petrus Ishak Raphael Mercuri.”

  “Yes, sahidi. Forgive me, sahidi.”

  “A member of the Council of Seven.”

  “Yes, sahidi. The senior member.”

  “The Ancient of Sha’Hadin.”

  “You are wise beyond your years, sahidi.”

  The old man smiled at the lion’s discomfort.

  “And what does all of that mean, Major?”

  For once, the Major seemed at a loss for words.

  “It means you see things that ungifted cats don’t see. Dreams and visions and future events.”

  “Indeed. It’s said we can see into the very souls of men.”

  The lion swallowed. He believed, it was obvious.

  “Yes, sahidi. Even so.”

  “Then might I be trusted to weigh this ‘chain of events’ for myself? If I council the very Empress on matters of Imperial import, then might I be trusted on something so trivial as the crime of one chairmaker in one small town, no matter how obvious or lawless it may seem?”

  Cats are, after all, a pragmatic people and to his credit, the Major’s hesitation was brief. He stepped aside, acknowledging the hierarchy of race and station and for once, Petrus was grateful. He paused, slid first one glove then the other from his bony hands.

  “And Major, if any one of your men dares send an arrow toward my falcon, every one of your men will be dismissed from the Empress’ employ. Sri’kiriath will cease to exist as both compound and garrison and Shathkira will be at the mercy of mongrels, gypsies and other lawless peoples. I trust that will not happen. Not today.”

  He bowed before stepping into the hut. The lion threw a glance up to the falcon, perched on the yellow-grass roof, but followed.

  ***

  It was an assault on all his senses, including those inside his skin. Wave after wave of grief and pain, blood and vomit, all threatening to send him to his knees but he rose above it, high, higher than even the sinking stones of dying men. These were not the ones he had come for. He could not be moved by their circumstance.

  “I will show you the cell,” said the Major.

  Petrus shook his head.

  “Thank you but there is no need,” he said, tucking his gloves into the braided cord at his waist. “I have been tracking him based on the echoes of one contact, all the way from Sha’Hadin. A few doors will prove no obstacle.”

  “Of course, sahidi.”

  And Petrus turned his face to the long dark corridor. There were more than ‘a few doors’ on either side of the hallway – so narrow and short that only a thin man stooped would fit through. There were also no windows, no torch nor candle to light the hut and the heat was heavy as a wet woolen blanket. He closed his eyes and began to walk, palms outstretched, one sandaled foot in front of the other as if on a tight line. As he passed each door, he could feel the stories as they passed through his fingers, collected like rainwater in his palms. Pain, rejection, hatred, betrayal. The list of feline sufferings as old as the mountains. Odd, he thought with a quirk of thin lips. Women changed their entire lives, embraced it from one stage to the next and emerged stronger, more resilient for the changing. Men, it seemed, strove to keep life unchanging and predictable. No wonder there were more men in prison. Life excelled in disappointing.

  One door was empty of waves and he paused, laid his fingertips on the hammered metal.

  No grief, no pain, no sensation at all and he glanced back at the lion.

  “Unlock this, please,” he said.

  “You do not want to go in, sahidi,” said the Major. “Truly.”

  “Open it please or I will melt it with the chakra of my mind.”

  He didn’t smile as the lion moved forward, fumbling with the key, but he sorely wished to. The Gifts were many things, but no cat in the Kingdom could melt a door with his mind. Even the Alchemists would be sorely pressed to change the state of metal with all of their potions and powders. There was, however, great power in words and they often proved more powerful than any Gift or Art.

  The door rattled aside and he slipped under the low lintel, stepped down onto a cell floor made of mud and straw, blood and bones.

  Petrus Ishak Raphael Mercuri turned and slid the door home on the shocked face of the Major and the cell was once again engulfed in blackness.

  ***

  The silence was overwhelming and beautiful and he let it engulf him like that wet woolen blanket, released himself to become one with the power of the void. He understood the reason for it, was impressed at its creation and marveled at the skill of the mongrel who had made it. Most brothers couldn’t create such a void. It was unskilled but raw and perfect and he could breathe it in forever.

  He reached out the fingers of his soul, felt the clay walls take shape beneath them, the straw floor, the thatched roof with cobwebs spinning like Hanyin lanterns from above. He could feel the heat from a man sitting against the far wall and sent his mind in waves to bounce off the form like a pebble dropped into a dark well, or echoes off a mountain valley. He was in chains – that much was clear. Metal was sharp like bitter teeth and he freed himself to go beyond to the man beneath.

  Long of limb, that was clear; arms draped across knees that were swollen with bruises – he could feel the heat in the joints and the face. Something about the face, bowed low and hidden by masses of charred mane – this mongrel had a lion ancestor – the shoulders hunched and blistered. The back…

  Petrus shook his head. Fire. Fire was a terrifying element. The mastery of it made cats superior to all other animals, although he often wondered if dogs had tamed it as well. That would pose an ethical question regarding the wars waged against them, but he was a priest, not a politician. Chancellor Ho would beat him like a rug if he stepped on more political toes.

  Then again, if he did what he was considering, Chancellor Ho and all the Council would hate him forever.

  He smiled to himself. All the more reason to do it.

  He knelt on the ground, sat back on his heels. Methodically, he reached to the cord at his waist, removed a small tin lantern with leaded glass sides. He shook it three times before it began to glow, casting the cell in flickering light.

  “Fireflies,” he said. “Much lighter than oil. I have five. That should give us a little starlight but no sun.”

  He could see the man clearly now, the same as he had ‘seen’ in his mind. He was young, perhaps in his twenty-fifth summer, and had been stripped of all clothing save his wide fisher pants. His feet were bare and spotted, ankles and wrists shackled with lead. His arms were striped and his shoulders streaked with blood and grime. Petrus was grateful for the shadows engulfing his chest and back. Still, he could imagine.

  “My name is Petrus,” he said. “I am the reason you have not been executed. For that, I ask your forgiveness.”

  There was no response. It was to be expected.

  “Do you have water? You should have water. If you have none, you must become it. Today, of all days, you are water.”

  No response. He could barely hear the man’s breathing.

  And so he sat.

  He sat for a very long time watching the firefly light as it flickered and danced in the darkness. He watched the light and listened to the breathing of the man sitting before him, and to the nimble thoughts of the falcon on the roof. He felt the spiders scuttling along the beams a
nd the beetles crawling across the mud and the wings of the flies feeding on the wounds. He sat for hours that became an entire day that pressed into dusk until the Major rapped on the door.

  “Sahidi,” said the Major. “It is dark now and we are locking the hut down for the night. I have a room for you in the village—”

  “Not the village,” said Petrus as he rose to his feet, dusted the straw from the orange folds. “Your quarters.”

  “My, my quarters?”

  “Thank you. I would be honoured to sleep in your bed. You may take my room in the village.”

  The Sacred monk looked back at the mongrel.

  “Fear is a curious ally.”

  And he turned and stepped up to the hall.

  “I will return tomorrow. With more water and fireflies.”

  The Major slid the door closed, plunging the cell into blackness once more.

  ***

  The sun rose early over the garrison of Sri’kiriath and Petrus Mercouri rose with it. He performed the Sun Salute on a mat beside the narrow bed of the garrison lion. After the Salute, he made the bed, folding the blanket seven times. A tray had been left for him and he drank the tea, feeling its warmth waken the back of his throat. The wontons, annanas, rice and water he left on the tray for later. He looked at the lantern on the table next to him, at the fireflies crawling across the glass. One was dead on the bottom and he cocked his head, thinking. He sat that way for some time before slipping his feet into split-toed sandals and leaving the room, taking the tray and the lantern with him.

  There was a mist that hovered over the jungle floor and from the verandah, he could see soldiers going about their morning duties. Checking on prisoners, he assumed, although he could be wrong. In all his years, he had never been in a place like this. He was glad for his inexperience.