In the Lion's Mouth

by Michael Flynn

  He raised himself on an elbow and looked out through a gap in the trees down a rolling valley of pleasant green and yellow grasses to a meandering stream bordered by towering plane trees. The landscape had been artfully arranged to appear natural: shapes and contours led the eye, colors complemented, sounds soothed and roused.

  The bed conformed itself to his movements, becoming a divan. The songs of the birds changed, became more resolute. He saw one sitting on a perch in a camouflaged cage. It was called a “king löyingmu” in the Confederal tongue. A “lovebird.”

  Domino Tight might not equal Gidula for insight, but that a lovebird’s song greeted his first stirring he thought a message of sorts. As too, the artfully disguised cage in which the bird sat.

  He had not yet figured it out, but he had begun to realize that there was something to figure out. Thus are always the first stirrings of wisdom. Tina Zhi was obviously not as she had represented herself, a minor functionary in the regulation of technology. But he had not yet chased that fox to its burrow.

  Sitting, he examined his shattered leg. He detected no breaks, evoked no pain. He wriggled his toes and was gratified to find those members responding with enthusiasm.

  Tina Zhi entered the patio through doors that had replicated the bower and so had appeared a part of it. Domino Tight glimpsed the interior of a house in black and silver and red: comfortable chairs, a carpet, a ramp curling upward. Then the doors closed and there was nothing but the trees and the yellow lilies and blue hyacinths that bordered the patio. He looked up, but saw no sign of a second floor to which the interior ramp might have led.

  She wore white, translucent robes with billowing sleeves and silver borders. A silver cincture girded her waist. A necklace, also of silver but with turquoise highlights, encircled her throat, and seemed in constant motion. Her short-cropped hair had been silvered as well. Her skin was dusky, her nose long, her cheekbones high. Her body was softened by the fat of youth, yet her eyes seemed immeasurably old.

  “Ah, my Domino,” she said as she swept toward him and gathered him to lay his head in her lap. “You are awake at last.”

  Domino Tight had never seen the point of telling someone what he already knew. “How long was I in a coma?” he asked, thinking it might be a very long time indeed if his leg were so completely healed.

  “Oh, a day, two days. Who can say when we flit from world to world?” Her hands fluttered, her voice trilled. But the flightiness that he had once found so endearing now seemed too contrived. The robes, when they billowed, were solidly opaque; but where they draped, they may as well have been spun glass. As she moved, parts of her body made brief cameos before ducking coyly behind the curtains. Her hair dye, he saw from his vantage point, overlooked no patch; and the complementary nail colors extended to her decorative nipple caps.

  “How did you happen to be on Yuts’ga?” he asked. “How did you find me so quickly?”

  “Oh, love.” She brushed his lips with her own, stroked his forehead, brushing back his curls. “I am never far from you. Love entangles us.”

  “That sun,” he said, nodding toward the great orange disk now nearly atop the sky. “It’s not the Yutsgar sun, and no world lies but two days sliding from her.”

  “An age before an age ago,” she told him in a singsong voice, “the god Aspect decreed that two hearts that had beat as one would beat always together, however far apart they wandered. And this same is true of patches of space.

  Any two states, however distinct,

  May by this admonition

  Coexist in any complex

  Linear superposition.

  And what is true of the tiniest specks

  Must hold for their larger assemblies.

  “For this reason, it is called a ‘quondam state,’ from an ancient word that meant ‘in the past,’ ‘in the future,’ and ‘sometimes’ all at once, because what was one in the past will be one in the future. Do you understand?”

  Domino Tight bobbed his head. “No.”

  “It is Technical, with many prayers in the hailipzimou, and so understanding is not given to all. Thus the mystery must be tightly guarded by those of us in the Gayshot Bo. But the consequence is this: that by entering the quondam state at one place, you may exit from it at another. I entangled with you when first we met and so I can be at your side quondam.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing!” And he thought, Should Padaborn and the others possess this techne, the Revolution is won!

  She kissed him gently once more. “And neither would you have, save that your life wanted saving. There are vestiges, the Seven Wonders, and the world must be guarded from them. Yet necessity—and the Fates—rule us all. I could not let you die.”

  “And I thank you. My life is yours, now and forever.” He pulled her head down to meet his, and kissed her deeply. But more deeply inside him there was that hard nut where no Shadow ever allowed Love’s entry, and affections were wedded always to craft. Seven Wonders? Kept from the world? Another of the Wonders was undoubtedly what had healed him so swiftly and seamlessly. What were the other five?

  “Vestiges,” he said. “That means ‘remains, leftovers, widows.’ Remains of what? The Commonwealth? The prehumans?” His hand found an opening in her robes and ran lightly up her back

  Tina Zhi laughed like wind chimes. “Oh, the storied Commonwealth! Everything wonderful is given to it. But it fell from pride and arrogance, and its pride came from its techne. We use techne judiciously, with what wisdom we can muster—because every change in technique means a change in culture; and when a culture has been perfected, as ours has, any change would lessen that perfection. That is why the Vestigial Virgins guard them from impious use.”

  Domino Tight laughed and drew her to him once more. “You are no virgin!”

  “Oh,” she touched a finger to his lips to silence him, “it is just a name.”

  Was there something in the way she said “name”? Domino Tight shivered, and not entirely from her strokes. “Tell me about these techniques,” he said. “I want to know all about them.”

  She disengaged and stretched out beside him on the divan. She searched him out and held him. The blankets were lighter even than silk; they may as well have been air. “I can make you strong,” she said. “I can make you fast.”

  “I’m already strong and fast.” He laughed.

  “Not like this. And I can let you … see things.”

  He squeezed her gently. “I’m already seeing things.”

  “No. I will give you special lenses that you wear directly on your eyes. With them, you can see my colleagues when we wear our Cloaks.”

  “What cloaks are those?”

  “These.” And Tina Zhi whirled her robes about her, and disappeared.

  For a moment, Domino Tight lay amazed and unmoving on the divan. Then he grew aware of her warmth next to him, the sough of her breath on his neck. He reached and found that which he desired, and heard again the wind chime of her laughter.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am still here. This too, is one of the Seven Vestiges.”

  “But … How is it possible?”

  Tina Zhi hesitated, then said,

  “Light flows like a river

  Through the channels of the fabric

  Around the obstructing one.

  The eye sees straight

  While the light bends.”

  Then, dismissively, “It is Technical. It can be imitated, but not understood. The ancient god Fengtzu wove it on his loom in the age before the age.”

  Domino Tight, who believed in the gods only inasmuch as he scorned them, translated that to mean that long ago there had been a man who actually did understand. “And your special lenses will enable me to see those who wear such Cloaks?”

  He was no longer certain that he wanted the ability to see the Cloak-wearers, for he now understood who Those must be.

  “Yes,” his lover told him, throwing her clothing aside and appearing once more very much in the
flesh. “But none of them may you hurt … save this one.” Her voice hardened again at the last and her eyes grew very old. She flipped her hand, palm up, and it was as if her palm were a holostage—for a tiny figure appeared in the space above it.

  It was a woman of deep chocolate brown and hair bound up in a complex weave that left neck and shoulders bare. She had the solid, muscular grace of a swimmer and in the image was emerging naked from the ocean. The image captured not an instant, but a moment: The figurine stepped toward Domino Tight as she unbound her hair, and it fell cascading to her waist.

  Domino Tight was more charming than wise, but he was wise enough not to voice his thoughts to his lover. By the Fates, he thought, that is the most desirable woman I have ever seen! It would be a sin punishable by the fire to mar that perfect skin. “Why?” he asked, and then asked again with a steadier voice, “Why do you wish her dead?”

  “Not dead.” Tina Zhi laughed. “But if she were hurt … If she bore a scar on her face … That would be fit punishment. Jimjim Shot abetted a foul in one of your pasdarms. You will hear of it from Oschous when I return you to Yuts’ga. That act violated … certain rules that had been laid upon her. Her punishment has been willed.”

  “Willed. By whom?”

  “Are you certain, Domino Tight, that you wish to know the answer to that question?”

  There was something in her voice, a loss of flightiness. It no longer soared. And her eyes had grown hard. There was love in them still, but there was something else beside. Looking back, much later, he thought that was the moment when certainty had him.

  She looked into his eyes for a long and lingering moment. “Ah,” she said sadly. “You have guessed. Well, fear not, my Deadly One. No harm will come to you. My loins ache for you; my heart longs for you. Together, we will foil this one’s plans.” And she closed her hand into a fist and extinguished the glowing figurine.

  * * *

  When Domino Tight was returned to Yuts’ga, he was half machine. Limbs of titanium enfolded him, multiplied his motions, responded to his thoughts and desires. Wearing this exoskeleton, he could race with the wind; he could strike like a hammer. His eyes could pierce the Cloaks that shrouded Those of Name. He wore such a Cloak himself. “I am become like one of the gods of old,” he told himself as he sprinted unseen through the streets of Cambertown.

  “Lyre,” he said over his link, but received no response. The link was dead. High overhead, he knew, his personal satellites had been sanded out of orbit, probably the very night of his ambush. He sampled one of Big Jacques’s channels—and found himself shunted to Oschous’s network.

  What he heard was gibberish, but that was because he had not Oschous’s codes. He waited for what he hoped must come. Further gibberish directed to Big Jacques’s network, then instructions directed to the lyre! Those messages he could read, and without breaking stride, he flipped down the goggles on his shenmat and studied the map thus presented. An old warehouse on the edge of town. Pale green dots showed the movements of friendlies. Red dots showed foes. He studied the dance for a time, then asked his belt node to find the best route and set off on it.

  As nearly as he could determine, Big Jacques was under siege by Pendragon’s men, who had been taken in the rear by Oschous, who had in turn been surprised by Ekadrina in a classic double envelopment. He flipped over to the frequency used by the city police and with trifling decryption learned that the Riff of Yuts’ga had ordered them to stay clear of the brawl. The Riff was not overtly taking sides.

  The heads-up told him that but five of his own magpies lived, Four being senior. Domino Tight thought of pinging him, but decided that if everyone thought him dead in the tavern ambush, he may as well make use of that. So he studied the map, searching out where the pressure was greatest on Oschous and Jacques. He would undermine those attacks; relieve some of the pressure.

  He was on the edge of the battle space when he remembered. Tina Zhi had been hidden from his sight, but not from his touch. (Oh, by the gods! Not from his touch.) And that meant that a ramjet round that augured his body by wildest chance would kill him just as dead as one that had been properly aimed.

  But in for a minim, he told himself, in for the credit. The Cloak gave him an edge; it did not grant invulnerability.

  * * *

  The first body he encountered was that of a magpie wearing a golden chrysanthemum. One of Pendragon’s boys. Domino Tight analyzed the forensics—the placement of the charring and the angle of the fall—and turned to a nearby building set upon a small elevation, long overgrown with saw grass. Domino climbed this until he stood just below the window. One of Big Jacque Delamond’s boys dangling there. Number Six, he saw on the brassard.

  A sniper’s nest to cover the operation center, it provided an excellent field of covering fire, and he gave Magpie Six Delamond kudos for choosing the site. From below came the buzz-snap of teasers, the whine of dazers, and the louder reports of slug throwers. For sheer stopping power, there was nothing like a high velocity slug of metal plowing through the target and transferring its momentum. Now and then, he heard the bang-and-whoosh of ramjet rounds. He saw nothing, of course. Shadows did not act in order to be seen. It may as well have been a pleasant summer’s day, the whines no more than the buzzing of insects.

  To the right, on the north side, was a large block of a building: the warehouse proper. A lower extension ran southward, where sealed doorways marked one-time loading docks. Embraced between these two arms, the foreground lay open. It had once been a car park and staging yard, through the plast-seal of which tufts of triumphant grasses had broken. Not even a shadow could cross that expanse unseen and the defenders by the loading docks and inside the main building had it well quartered.

  A knot of defenders clustered behind derelict containers and jenny-trucks barring the attackers from reaching the docks. Among them Domino recognized Ravn Olafsdottr. On the farther left, at the south end of the lot, stood a smaller building that had evidently once been a guard shack for security inspections of incoming jenny-trucks. If there had ever been a pad for ballistic shipments, it lay outside the security perimeter.

  The besieging shadows had an advantage over Oschous’s boys. The black horses were trying to fall back on the warehouse where Jacques was holed up, and so from time to time they had to show themselves and run; at which point either Ekadrina or Pendragon would try to pot them. Domino Tight studied the pattern, deduced from it whence the shots came, and set himself to observe.

  Patience was rewarded. A tuft of grass moved in a way that the wind wound not. The setting sun rolled out a shadow for which there was no evident caster. An incautious shift by a magpie chanced a glimpse of shenmat. Domino Tight marked his targets, grinned fiercely, and after some self-consultation, pulled a mace from his belt.

  Then he ran down the little hill—Oh! How he flew! The exoskeleton amplified his motions; the gyros maintained his balance. He swung the mace as he closed behind the first magpie, who crouched on his left knee. Brains spattered, the man fell prone without a word. Simultaneously, and with his other hand, Domino fired an EMP burst across the empty lot, to strike a Sèanmazy magpie lying behind the cover of a composite block. The pulse was weak at the distance, but it would have seemed to the taijis that it had come from Pendragon’s ranks.

  In swinging the club and firing his dazer, Domino Tight had shown himself briefly. He closed the Cloak once more, but he knew better than to linger for anyone’s second look. Three more magpies to his left wriggled forward through the tall grass in a triad support formation, infiltrating closer to the warehouse compound. Domino exchanged mace for variable-knife and telescoped the blade to arm’s length. Then he ran across the line of magpies, swinging upstroke-downstroke-up, leaving three throats laughing behind him.

  But the grass rippling in the wake of his progress drew fire from black horses pinned down by the old loading docks. It was called “friendly fire,” but Domino Tight saw nothing companionable in it. He changed course t
o avoid the grass.

  His potshots across the lot into the taijis had begun to annoy the latter, and more than a few were wondering if the mums had switched sides. It was not unheard of. Someone shouted an insult and one of the mums, not yet realizing what was happening on his right flank hollered back. A slug from the black horses entered his open mouth and exited the back of his head.

  “Nicely shot,” said Domino Tight over Oschous’s link.

  (“Who said that?” demanded Oschous’s voice. “Who’s on my links?”)

  Domino resumed link silence, for he had seen the object of his desires. He had deduced from the survival of only five of his fifteen magpies that the ambush behind the Mountain Dragon had been but one in a set of coordinated strikes. And there stood Pendragon Jones, who had orchestrated it. He was behind the guardhouse, shielded from the fighting, but directing his flock over his link.

  A Shadow uses his emotions, Domino remembered his one-time master, Delator Landry, saying. He does not let them use him.

  Domino Tight withdrew his blade to nub position. He took great calming breaths; grew cold inside. The key to creating a future, my magpies, the Landry had said, is to have a clear vision of it. What you imagine, you can achieve. And so Domino imagined Pendragon dying; as in fact having already died. His fate accomplished, his body lies on the ground, bleeding out. Yes, and he must know before that end whose hand it had been that had launched him on the unreturning journey. That knowledge must be the last thing to fade from those eyes on the blood-soaked ground.

  Next, he envisioned a change-path from his present state to the imagined future state, though this took less time to complete than to describe: penultimately, he must do thus; antipenultimately, this. And before that, so. Mentally, he worked his way backward from Pendragon’s cold, dead body to the present.

  Domino Tight had always been fast and ferocious. With his exoskeleton assisting, he moved swiftly, avoiding the grass, dancing from construction block to tumbled construction block, moving ever closer to Pendragon’s position, remaining outside the man’s line of sight by sheer habit. When he landed on the ground two arm’s lengths from his target, he stepped on a strew of crispies.