by Scott Lynch
I realized almost immediately how naïve I’d been. The exercises in concentration that I’d assumed were some sort of precursor to being judged worthy of instruction in Mourning Song’s battle arts were actually his way of re-sharpening my awareness of the only truly useful skills I possess. I’ve wielded them well in earning my modest living here— my script is more pleasing to the eye, my figures more accurate, my tutelage in facts and dates more vigorous. Sedoa is a rough city, but a busy one, and a capable scribe needn’t go hungry.
Here I am and here I stay, Andus Cadwallader of the Street of the Ox and Anvil. Of the others mentioned in my tale, you may now know more than I, honorable reader. The Brass Halves are out there somewhere, recovered from their injuries and perhaps wiser. Winter Sky has vanished on her own business. I heard a rumor that there was a mask waiting for her in the Empire, but whether she has gone east to accept it, I cannot say.
Peace and luck to you, honorable reader, and good fortune under moons and sun. I have found my place in which to live and be small, and small I intend to remain. For I have lived with greatness, and stood among those who cast shadows on the world like storms before the sun, and knew how to make artful gestures of everything including their own deaths.
Gods save me from artful gestures! Let me keep my ragged edges, and scribe well enough to live and have a few comforts despite them. Let that be my excellence in the last detail.
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Scott Lynch is the author of the Gentleman Bastard sequence of fantasy novels. He lives in Wisconsin, where he serves as a volunteer firefighter. He is outranked by one cat and one girlfriend, acclaimed SF/F writer Elizabeth Bear.
IN STILLNESS, MUSIC
by Aaron Rosenberg
He paused many times, the fire’s light flickering across his solemn features, the silk fluttering between his fingertips. The weight of those fetters was far beyond their thin skeins, and he could feel it bearing down upon him, quenching the music and laughter of his soul. Yet, after each moment of reflection, he resumed his task, winding them about with precise care. The night was already grown full, and he had much yet to do. The decision had been made, the die cast, and he would see it through, no matter how it tumbled his fate. Such was his choice.
The silk called, its soft rustle like the fluttering of many tiny wings, and he smiled sadly at the irony, but his fingers did not pause again in their steady work, and at last he was done.
Now, to begin.
He gave no salutation or obeisance when escorted in, for such was not his clan’s way, and he had seen the scowl tighten the broad features of the man he faced, throwing every line into sharp relief. Glints of jade shone from ear and brow, nose and lip, and clattered as fingers tapped upon the handsomely carved table.
“You have a message?” the man demanded, arrogance in every syllable, unquestioned authority couched in his posture, in the way he sat back in the ornate high-backed chair as if at ease yet remained coiled, ready to pounce.
Melodious Flight inclined his head, as much to acknowledge the question as to honor the man, though he knew such a person would take it for the latter. That was of no consequence, and if it eased his mission, it was a happy coincidence he would gladly accept.
“Do I address the Jade-Encrusted Noble?” he asked from beneath his peaked straw hat. The question was a mere formality, the man’s grunt as much answer as he’d expected, yet the forms must be observed.
“Where is it?” came the demand, a second later. “Out with it, man!” This from one of the Noble’s men, the same who had led him into this sumptuous chamber, a rough-hewn man whose fine vest and well-oiled hair did little to disguise his brutish nature. “Hand it over!”
Melodious Flight did not answer with words. Instead he raised his walking staff, politely ignoring the gasps as those around him drew back. Only the smallest smile touched his lips as he raised the long rod to his lips, his fingers finding the indentations with the ease of much practice, his mouth pursing slightly.
And then he played.
His fingers danced about, the butterflies tattooed upon them fluttering with each note, and for a brief, joyous instant Melodious Flight lost himself in the music. But this message was brief, and required only a single refrain—as soon as it was done he raised his head and spoke, his words mingling with the lingering song:
bridges fire consumed a path now devoured
time hurries apace money runs on hooves
“What? Damn!” The Jade-Encrusted Noble’s fist slammed down on the table, cracking its delicate lacquer, his face flushed with anger. A map hung upon the wall behind him, and he rose with a powerful thrust of thick legs, the gem-studded hems of his long silk robes swirling at his silk-slippered feet as he turned to study it, every muscle taut. One hand rose, as if the jade upon it carried it aloft, and a finger stabbed at the scroll where an image of this very ranch had been daubed.
“Without that bridge, it’ll take an extra week or more to get to market,” he mused, tracing the route his cattle would need to take. “I’ll lose money with every day!”
“Can’t we take some other route, boss?” the rough man inquired, the words bursting from his heavy lips like futile cannonballs, to crash into the tension of the air and scatter across the fine wood of the floor.
“There is nothing faster, you idiot!” his master snarled, not bothering to turn. “Unless—” Now he did whirl about, but his gaze snared not the rough man but Melodious Flight instead. “You!”
Melodious Flight bowed in response. He had not yet lowered his staff, and it rested in the crooks of his arms as he raised both hands before his face, the butterflies there settling as if at rest.
“How did you get here so quickly, if the bridge is gone?”
In reply he fitted the instrument to his lips once more, his butterflies stirring to flight as he played and quieting when he sang:
where water once ran families take root
only paths remain clear to sharpened eyes
“The old riverbed? Hmm.” Jade flashed along that snaking path, following it from the point closest to the ranch, down and down and around, to just beside the cattle town where Melodious Flight had received this commission. “Yes. That would work nicely.” Now the man’s cold eyes, the same pale green as his ornaments, sought his henchman. “Tsang, tell the men to ready the cattle. We leave at first light.”
The man called Tsang shifted, his booted feet betraying concerns his face would not reveal. “We’re taking the riverbed? Boss, there’s a whole village there, clear across it, just around the bend. Ain’t no way the herd’ll fit past.”
“Then we will go through.” The oil lamps that lit the room reflected in the cattle baron’s eyes, full of avarice and impatience and little else.
It was another man, this one short and reed-thin, his narrow eyes as quick as the slender fingers dancing upon the handles of his pistol and his braided whip, who raised the objection: “My lord, the cattle will hurt themselves smashing through those houses. We could lose hundreds or more, and if enough are injured they’ll clutter the path, slowing the whole drive.”
It was clear to Melodious Flight that the man’s master started to snap at this unwanted reminder, but bit back the attack with an effort. At last he nodded, though the jerkiness in even that simple motion betrayed the rage roaring beneath his skin. “Yes, thank you, Nimble. You are correct. We cannot risk the cattle.”
For an instant, the tightness Melodious Flight had not realized encircled his heart relaxed, and air seeped once more into his lungs where he had been withholding it. This is none of my concern, he reminded himself sharply, his butterflies shifting in protest as his fingers tightened around his staff where it now stood beside him, its hollow metal tip resting firmly upon the ground. I have delivered my message. My task is done. I can do no more.
Yet still he stood there, listening, his body at rest but his mind awhirl. And his stomach clenched anew when the lord declar
ed, “Then we must sweep those ramshackle huts from our path. Burn them out, Tsang. Tonight. I want the riverbed clear by dawn.”
Tsang nodded, bowed, his yellow eyes already alight with the promise of fire to come, and turned to go. As he did he nearly bumped Melodious Flight, those same eyes widening at the sight of the Wandering Star clansman still standing there patiently, and then flicked back to his master in mute question.
The Jade-Encrusted Noble did not miss this exchange. “Yes, yes, here,” he snapped, and tossed a coin across the room. Its worn metal caught the light as it twirled, and Melodious Flight snatched it from the air, butterflies closing about it and quenching its cool reflection. He dipped his head again, then turned on his heel and strode from the room, his staff tapping the floor beside him in counterpoint to his footsteps.
All the way out of the sprawling manor house, across the wide yard, and even through the handsomely carved prayer gates, Melodious Flight tapped. His thoughts still danced and his heart still fluttered, unsure of the way to go. If he were wise, he knew, he would simply continue walking. There were other towns, other villages, other self-styled lords, all in need of messengers. The Wandering Stars were famous for the sanctity of their assignments, and for never interfering with the world around them. They traveled, and they carried, and they appreciated beauty in its many forms, even adding to it from time to time, but they did not get involved in the everyday affairs of other men. They could not—the world expected, even demanded their indifference, paid for their neutrality.
Yet he had passed through that village on his way here. He had seen its children at play, its men and women at work. He had listened to the rhythm of hands and feet and voices raised in harmony, eking out a meager existence there where water had once roared and fish had once sported, raising beans and soy and wheat in the mud that had been left behind, content with their lot and grateful for what they had together. They had brought new life to a cracked remnant of something old and departed, making it their own and giving it new purpose as a place to live and play and love and work. And now that would be washed away by a new torrent, this one of flesh and horns and hooves, driven by greed, powered by arrogance. Should such a thing be allowed? Could it be ignored?
Melodious Flight did not know. But he had only one night to find the answer. And whichever choice he made, he knew it would linger with him for the rest of his days, a new note in the melody that was his soul.
The sun was setting when Melodious Flight made his way into the village again. Work was ceasing for the day, the farming winding down as the light fled, cook fires rising instead and carrying the tantalizing smells of stew and bread and rice to him. Men glanced up, saw him, noted his hat and his staff, spied the butterflies upon his fingers, and gave him space, not shunning him but not intruding either. Women looked as well, their gazes lingering on his lean frame, his strong chin, his dark eyes shadowed beneath the hat’s brim, but they did not approach either.
The children, however, knew no such boundaries. Laughing and screaming and shouting they descended upon him like a cloud of insects intent on devouring him whole, but instead of consuming they adhered, clinging to his hands, his sleeves, the hem of his worn tunic, even his staff. They ringed him and danced about him in a spontaneous paean all their own, their steps untimed and unplanned but full of the natural rhythm of youth and enthusiasm.
Melodious Flight felt a smile tug at his mouth as the music of their feet and their voices washed over him. He gently detached hands from his staff, raised it to his lips, and began to play. The song that burst forth wove between those little feet and those chubby hands, mingling with their cries and squeals, adding depth and harmony to their exultations, crafting a tapestry upon which their glee could be displayed. He lost himself in the melody, his feet unconsciously moving with theirs, and together they danced through the small village, from one end to the other and back and then around, slowing at last near its center. The children fell about him then, looking up at this tall stranger with awe and delight, begging for another song until their parents gently tugged them away.
A motion to one side brought Melodious Flight back to himself. He turned and found a man standing there, older than most of the others, his hair more white than gray, more gray than black, his features seamed deep with dirt and care, but with mirth as well. The man bowed, and Melodious Flight dipped his own head in return, far more willing to give this old farmer such a mark of respect than he had the puffed-up lord he had addressed earlier. The man’s hands were cupped around a covered pot, its rough earthen form blending with his own weathered skin in the dusk shadows, and he held it forth in mute offering.
Melodious Flight’s stomach rumbled its assent even as he shifted his staff to one hand and reached forth the other to accept, his butterflies hovering along the pot’s bottom edge and shivering slightly from the warmth they felt within. Satisfied, the old man bowed once more and backed away, turning back to a circle of friends and family who were watching closely the Wandering Star that had landed in their midst.
Melodious Flight settled the staff into the crook if his arm and lifted the lid off the pot. The smells he had noted earlier rose to him again, wafting over him full force from the simple meal within, and his eyes crinkled with delight. Allowing his legs to fold under him, he settled to the ground right where he stood, the staff resting before him, the pot nestled in his lap as he drew chopsticks from his belt. Then he dipped into his satchel and from it produced a green-tinted bottle, the glass gleaming even in the dimness. The cork he tugged loose with his teeth, and he took a deep swallow, then sought out the old farmer once more. The bottle was raised in clear offer, and the man was not slow to accept, stepping forward with surprising speed to snag it. He, too, enjoyed a long swallow, and beamed with delight as he wiped his mouth with the back of one calloused hand and held the bottle out to be returned. But Melodious Flight shook his head and waved a hand, the wings fluttering outward to encompass the whole village, and a sigh of pleasure rose from those gathered.
The food was simple but filling, well-cooked and well-seasoned and fresh. The bottle returned to him twice, and each time he sent it on its way again after a swallow, to greater cries of happiness from those about to receive it. By the time he had finished his food the bottle was empty and the sun had fled, leaving twinkling stars and a cobalt sky in its place.
Melodious Flight rose to his feet, the empty pot covered once more and resting still upon the ground, and nodded to the old man and the others who remained. The children had already been taken off to bed, or were asleep in their parents’ arms as he approached one of the cook fires that still flickered. A space was made for him there, and the villagers watched without a word as from the pouch at his belt Melodious Flight drew a small bundle. They said nothing as he unrolled it, revealing several wide ribbons of silk, and they stirred but did not interrupt as he began, slowly and carefully, to wrap each finger in turn, hiding his beautiful butterflies from view.
He had made his choice. A Wandering Star could not interfere. So he would still his wings, cloak himself in silk and shadow. And then he would do what must be done. He would do what he knew in his heart to be right.
The Jade-Encrusted Noble had tossed him a coin, as one might throw scraps to a dog. These people had honored him with their food and the warmth of their fire, commodities they could ill afford to give away yet did not hesitate to offer. There were payments, and then there were treasures. He would not allow such a treasure as this to be destroyed for one man’s greed. He would not have been able to forgive himself for walking away.
It was hours later when they came. The fires had long since burned out, and the villagers were abed. Many had settled as if to keep him company on his vigil, but Melodious Flight had waved them off, his fingers strangely plain without their customary friends. He had not explained what was happening, but the old man had nodded and led the way, rising and bowing before turning to one of the huts spaced out across the worn-smooth ground, and
soon enough the others had followed suit, leaving Melodious Flight alone with the cool night air.
The silence was broken by the sound of men riding horses, and his sharp ears picked out another sound as well—the crackle of torches as they sizzled against the dark.
He rose and met them twenty paces beyond the first hut. His staff was nestled across his arms, his hands before him, the silk wrappings like cocoons from which he hoped his butterflies would rise anew come the dawn.
The men slowed to a walk and then a stumbling halt when the torchlight caught him there. After a second one nudged his horse forward a pace and called down, “You’re that Wandering Star was in earlier. What’re you doing here? You’d best move out a’ the way.” It was the rough man named Tsang.
Melodious Flight’s mouth and fingers found his staff, his hands settling along it, and he played for a second, though his motions felt clumsy through the silk and the music itself seemed sad and muted. Nonetheless it served to couch his words:
water quenches fire music staunches flame
melody stands guard wisdom dictates flight
The men stared. Then one of them, hidden safely behind his friends, let loose a burst of laughter. Hoots and hollers and guffaws followed.
“You’re telling us we should skedaddle?” Tsang asked, arms resting across his saddlehorn, the torch held negligently in one, a coil of braided rope in the other. His eyes gleamed red with fire. “Or, what, you’ll ‘quench’ us?” He laughed, a crude sound more like a snort, though even as he threw his head back his eyes never left Melodious Flight. “I know you think you’re bad an’ all, with those little moths on your hands, but there’s twelve a’ us and just the one a’ you.” He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I think it’s you ought to run, with that little flute a’ yours. Afore we light it and insert it where it don’t belong.”