by Aaron French
Artifice held his breath. He would play the docile captive until he saw his chance, then he might work an illusion or a charm of fire—anything to startle and frighten the creatures. But for now, he avoided looking at the blade against his throat and the clawed fist that held it. The animal stink of the beast-men filled his nostrils, the reek of dried feces and blood.
The chieftain loomed over Mordeau, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat. He spoke in the dialect of the Eastern Realms, and Artifice realized the brutes were far more intelligent than they appeared.
“Give us gold,” barked the chieftain. He displayed yellow fangs in an obscene grin while his blood-bright eyes examined Mordeau’s fine robe, stained as it was by mud and sweat.
“Can you not see that I am a priest of the Empty Hand?” said Kantoh. “We have no gold, nor any other riches.”
“We remember your impoverished city,” said the chieftain. “But these are outsiders—we have seen the gold glinting on the arms of their women.”
As if on cue, a trio of beast-men entered the glade, dragging Helena, Omina and Tierra by the hair. “Let them alone!” Artifice bellowed. His captor wrapped a stinking paw over his mouth, pressing the blade against his neck. It was true: the actresses wore bangles, earrings, armlets and necklaces studded with precious jewels in gold settings. They were gifts from admirers and patrons, brilliant spoils from a half-dozen city-states.
Mordeau’s eyes widened in horror. “Give it to them!” he ordered. “All of your jewelry and any gold you’ve brought along.”
The actresses stripped themselves of their trinkets and piled them on the thick grass. Mordeau poured his own pouchful of golden coins atop the pile. Artifice did the same, but he dared not remove the silver chain around his neck that supported an amulet of graven bronze. The Red Isle amulet. He hoped the collar of his tunic concealed it. Surrendering it to the beast-men would be to surrender his own life.
“Do not give them gold,” Kantoh told Mordeau.
“What choice do we have?” said the showman.
“You don’t understand—gold is a curse to—”
“Silence!” roared the chieftain, raising his great axe. Kantoh met the monster’s eyes, and Artifice could see that the bald monk held no fear of death.
Two of the creatures dragged an unconscious actor into the glade, his face bruised and bloody, and they stripped him of his rings. It was Pholi, but Artifice could not tell if he was dead or alive. The chieftain roared, whirling his axe in triumph. His warriors gathered up the pile of gold and jewels, stuffing them into leathern bags. As quickly as they had come, the beast-men disappeared into the green shadows of the jungle.
Artifice raced to Helena’s side. Her cheek was bruised, but she was unhurt. They were no longer lovers, but they shared a bond that he could not deny, no matter how many paramours she dallied with in the city-states. He thanked the Lost Gods that she was all right.
“Why did they not kill us?” she whispered.
“Because of the monk,” Artifice said. Somehow he knew that Kantoh’s presence was the only reason the brutes didn’t slay the men and take the women for themselves.
The woodfolk climbed down from the trees, inspecting their shattered harps, drums, and woodwinds that had been trampled by the beast-men. The twigs growing from their smooth foreheads bristled in agitation, or perhaps sorrow at the death of their precious instruments. Some of them sat down in the grass and wept as they fondled the broken tools of their trade, their slight bodies gleaming lavender, scarlet and azure in the jungle’s watery light.
The worst of the injuries was Pholi, with a vicious cut along his scalp, followed by Lucius and his arrow-pierced shoulder. Norbal and Dero returned to the glade unharmed, having hidden themselves among a tangle of massive tree-roots. At Mordeau’s prompting, the Faire set up camp and gradually restored their upset belongings.
“Perhaps this command performance was not such a good idea,” Artifice told Mordeau. The showman lit his long pipe and sat down on a mossy log. The smoke calmed his quaking hands, and Artifice wished they’d brought some strong drink along. Their wagons could not travel through the thick foliage, so they left them behind when they entered the wilds of Neptu.
“Perhaps not,” said Mordeau. His eyes sparkled in their beds of wrinkles. “But we’ll stay in this glade tonight, treat our wounded, then move on in the morning.”
Kantoh sat cross-legged on the ground before Mordeau. “You should not have given them gold,” he said.
Mordeau sighed, exhaling a stream of purple smoke. It drifted upward, a lonely cloud exploring the green canopy.
“What else could we have done?” Artifice asked.
“I might have talked them into leaving us,” said the monk. “The touch of gold is a curse to their kind. It drives them to madness. I should have warned you… I am sorry.”
“Will they molest us further?” asked Mordeau.
“Not likely,” said Kantoh. “They will go back to their caves to worship their new wealth, before going out to seek more.”
“How long until we reach the Hidden City?” asked Artifice.
“Not long,” said Kantoh. “But your wounded might slow us.”
Mordeau grinned. “I have some small skill in healing,” he said.
Mordeau’s kind magic would speed the actors’ recovery. It was one of many techniques of sorcery Artifice had been learning from the old showman since entering the Eastern Realms three years ago. Mordeau was grooming him to take over the Faire, although Artifice could not imagine what Mordeau would do after retirement. The old man lived and breathed theatre, and his troupe had wandered the world for decades before Artifice came along. These days Mordeau served as little more than a master of ceremonies, while Artifice wrote new plays, directed the Players, and wove most of the clever magic that brought their theatrical spectacles to life.
Since crossing the Spine they had played the great cities of the East, and word of their powerful performances had spread far and wide. The common folk of the city-states greeted them as strolling demigods when their bright wagons rolled over the horizon, often mobbing them with flowers, gifts and shouted prayers. Likewise, the eastern monarchs and emperors grew to love the Glimmer Faire.
In Oorg, City of the Questing Mind, the Faire awed the philosopher-kings and their subjects with one of Artifice’s newly scribed plays, The Legend of King Holmed and His Seven Sons, which left intellectuals and commoners awash in their own tears. The day after that performance, the Lords of Oorg declared they would no longer hoard their vast knowledge. They opened their palatial libraries, pledging to educate each child of Oorg and rid that city of its fierce class divisions. The Glimmer Faire’s performance was hailed as the balm that soothed the city’s internal division, ending the incessant riots.
The Faire traveled to diamond-studded Thwimzwa, City of Wine and Song, where the decadent folk of that metropolis thrilled to Artifice’s Shame of the Gods. To the playwright’s astonishment, the performance resulted in a mass revival of religious movements. A yearning for spiritual exploration spread across the city like wildfire. The Sultan of Thwimzwa began the building of a new temple as the Faire departed, and gave up his steady diet of drugs and wine for the joys of worship and contemplation. The Sultan also released thousands of political prisoners from the dungeons where they had languished for years. These broken men, given a second lease on life, traveled across the Eastern Realms spreading tales of how the Glimmer Faire had transformed the evil Sultan into a virtuous holy man. Artifice began to realize the true power of the Great Art, the tremendous sway that the Glimmer Faire’s performances could have over men’s hearts and minds.
Next, the troupe played Yong Daiya, City of the Squirming Toad, where a performance of Wind, Sky and Stars inspired the people to abandon their amphibious god. The Empress of that swamp-choked city cast a ban on human sacrifices and ordered the demolishing of the Toad Temple, where the blood of her people had fed the god’s appetite for millennia.
She declared a new god for the people of Yong Daiya, the nameless Sky God who looked down on all of earth from his cloud throne. His worship would involve song, prayer and celebration instead of blood offerings. The Faire departed bearing many fine treasures, gifts from the enlightened Empress.
Mere word of the Glimmer Faire’s approach caused two warring city-states to declare a truce that their kings might view a performance. The armored warlords of Taringol, City of the Mighty, and Zellum Kah, City of the Brave, had battled for ages. Yet the monarchs were so moved by the Faire’s performance of The Brothers Who Sailed to the Moon, they decided to forge a permanent peace. Signing a treaty of brotherhood, they dedicated their cities to a new era of mutual cooperation. Artifice had never been more pleased with his work, and Mordeau then proposed making him the Faire’s new leader.
In LaZulla, the fabulous City of Jade Stones, the Architect-rulers thrilled to the Faire’s One Thousand Nights of Pleasure, a drama that inspired them to release their womenfolk from veiled bondage. The LaZullans had treated their females as little more than cattle, but their sympathy for the determined queen of the play seemed to alter their view of the fairer sex. A royal proclamation declared all women of LaZulla to be full citizens. The city’s celebrations were still ringing through the jade-paved streets when the monk Kantoh approached Artifice at the Court of the Architects with an extraordinary invitation.
Artifice had heard rumors of Shantarra ever since entering the East. The “invisible city” some called it, Shantarra the Hidden, a city of spiritually advanced citizens who supposedly lived in accord with the secret of ultimate enlightenment. The unassuming monk in his colorless robe was the first evidence of the city’s actual existence. The Architects of LaZulla received the monk as the highest of holy men, though Kantoh refused their offers of food, drink and other tributes.
“Word of your glorious performances has reached Shantarra,” said the monk. “Never before have we invited foreigners into our city. Yet our Grand Master bids me guide you there to perform for him.”
Artifice and Mordeau discussed the invitation at length. “It is a singular honor,” said Artifice. “Shantarra is said to be a fabulous place, existing half in our world, half in the realm of legend. To refuse the invitation would not only offend the city’s Grand Master, it would mean turning our backs on the greatest legend of the East.” Despite Mordeau’s concerns about traveling through the wilds of Neptu, Artifice accepted Kantoh’s invitation. The Faire left its wagons in the care of the LaZullans and followed Kantoh into the forbidding jungle.
Farther now from civilization than he had ever been, Artifice found himself dreaming of Narr the Golden, his home on the far side of the Continent. He sorely missed its gleaming towers and hanging gardens, the comradeship of his fellow Quills, the glory of the southern sea at dawn, and the educated ladies who collected his poetry. But since the city’s council of Sorcerer Kings had ordered his death for writing a seditious text, he could never return. He fingered the serpent-carved talisman hanging at his chest. The power of the Red Isle amulet kept him hidden from the raging demons that pursued him across the Continent, the infernal bloodhounds of the Sorcerer Kings. Would he ever be able to take off the amulet and enjoy the comforts of Narr again? For all he knew, he might never make it out of this deadly jungle. He spoke nothing of his longing for Narr. But he yearned to return someday to the world’s greatest and most fabulous city.
It was a dangerous dream, so he kept it to himself.
***
Kantoh gathered the roots of jungle plants and odd fruits as he led the caravan along the hidden path to Shantarra. He walked barefoot through the wilderness, and Artifice soon gave up trying to spot the markers of the route. Several times he attempted to engage the monk in conversation, but Kantoh spoke very little. His explanations were like riddles.
“Why don’t you carry any food or water?” Artifice asked.
“In the abundance of Nature all things are provided,” answered Kantoh.
“Why go barefoot in the jungle?”
“The lion walks without shoes and is at one with the forest.”
“How did you catch that arrow?”
“If I had not, it would have slain me. How could I fail to catch it?”
They came to the base of a great, soaring cliff. Thousands of feet above, the jungle continued to bloom and flourish. Many miles to the south a great waterfall fell from the upper jungle, and Artifice heard its low roar above the screeching of parrots and insects.
Kantoh led the company into a cave where crude stairs wound toward the heights. They emerged from the earth into a fresh jungle paradise. Riots of rainbow-tinted flowers filled the corridors beneath the mighty trees, and tiny white monkeys danced among the branches. At the lip of the great precipice, the Glimmer Faire looked back at the orange sun as it sank into the West. The jungle stretched as far as Artifice could see, even from that great height. Rivers wound through the lowlands like glittering black serpents. Artifice remembered the sunsets of Narr, so very far away: the glow of the great orb setting the ocean aflame, painting the golden spires crimson.
The clever woodfolk had rebuilt most of their shattered instruments, and they played an intricate symphony as the caravan continued marching on.
Shantarra’s colors emerged from the mist. The majority of its structures were built of greenish stone, supplemented by sturdy brown wood. Shantarra boasted no pompous banners or jewel-encrusted turrets to steal the sun’s glow. The city grew from a massive hilltop like a natural extension of the earth itself. Below its green slopes lay a patchwork of fields and orchards, and a deep, blue river flowed nearby. Unlike every city Artifice had seen, there was nothing ostentatious about Shantarra: no flourishes of proud dominion, no insignia of royal holdings. The Hidden City radiated an aura of simple, agrarian harmony.
The people of Shantarra came through the fields to stare as the Faire passed. The woodfolk struck up a lively tune, and the Shantarrans smiled and waved. Their dancing children laughed and pointed at the bright-skinned woodfolk, dark eyes gleaming with wonder.
These people have never seen Westerners before, Artifice realized. Certainly not woodfolk of Zang, whose elder woodland lay far beyond the Spine. Beyond the city’s gate, charming wood-and-stone houses lined a concentric array of streets where jungle trees were pruned into fantastic shapes. Helena held Artifice’s hand as they followed Kantoh toward the great temple at the city’s heart. Despite himself, he smiled along with her as they basked in the pleasant warmth of the city folk’s attention. Mordeau blew multi-hued smoke rings as they walked among the bedazzled Shantarrans.
The Temple of the Empty Hand stood in place of a royal palace, a great ziggurat surrounded by four lesser pyramids. Even the temple was bare of gold, jewels, or any other precious substance. The city was not impoverished, despite what the chieftain of the beast-men had claimed, but its masterful statues, architecture and public works of art were crafted of modest materials. These people lived free from the curse of wealth, Artifice mused, content to use the mundane materials of the earth, and able to elicit greatness from them. Perhaps Kantoh’s philosophy was not so difficult to understand after all.
Beneath the branches of a gnarled tree in the temple’s courtyard, the Grand Master sat in contemplation. The waters of the temple pool danced nearby from the flow of an underground spring. Kantoh bowed low before his lord. The old man’s face was round and pleasant, distinguished by many wrinkles about his narrow eyes, his head shaved bald like the rest of his order. The Grand Master smiled greatly and a boundless joy radiated from his countenance.
“The Glimmer Faire,” said Kantoh.
“You have come a long way,” said the Grand Master, his voice like the sighing of summer wind. “We are honored.”
“The honor is entirely ours, Great Sir,” said Artifice, and he introduced his company one by one.
A trio of novices led the troupe between statues of coiling dragons toward a collection of modest rooms, and
brought them simple food. Artifice slept deeply and dreamlessly that night, free from the swelter and stench of the jungle.
In the morning, Kantoh led Artifice and Mordeau on a tour of the temple grounds. In a great, flat yard hundreds of bare-chested monks gathered for their morning rituals, dividing into lesser groups. They watched this activity from the walkway atop the temple’s outer wall. The monks were dancing, or exercising, their movements fluid and full of quiet grace. At times they defied gravity, their legs and arms weaving through the air like the swift blades of swords. Some spun themselves through the air to land yards away on their naked feet, like two-legged cats. Others writhed like serpents, their fingers striking at wooden targets like the fangs of vipers. They carved strange patterns in the air with hands and feet, as if working some elegant sorcery. Various animal tattoos adorned their lean arms and chests.
“These are the Initiates of the Empty Hand,” explained Kantoh. “Each group you see here studies an individual Way. Some of us master several Ways.”
“Unarmed combat,” said Mordeau.
“Much more than that,” said Kantoh. “Each of the Ways embodies an aspect of Nature’s bounty. Each of the world’s creatures teaches us how to survive. Being human, our gift is to learn and emulate them, thus becoming one with Nature.”
“You don’t train with weapons at all?” Artifice asked.
Kantoh smiled. “The tiger carries no weapon, nor does the lion, the snake, the eagle, or the griffon. The path of Nature is to be self-sufficient. To follow the principles of the Empty Hand is to follow the wisdom of Nature that exists within every man.”
Artifice perceived the patterns in the strange dancing of the monks. He saw now the leaping tiger, the striking eagle, the roaring griffon, and other life-forms mirrored in their movements. A stinging scorpion, a wheeling raven, a kicking mantis. In one corner of the yard, amid a circle of dragon-carved pillars, two monks battled one another, twin visions of calm dueling like mute cobras.