The Secrets of Jin-Shei (68 page)

“Hello, Xaforn,” Qiaan said, huddled against the wall of the house, her hand at her side. “You could have let them finish me off, you know. Or have you come to bundle me up and deliver me to Liudan yourself?”

Xaforn, sheathing her dagger, dropped to one knee beside her wounded
jin-shei-bao.

“How bad is it?” she said, ignoring the other’s jibe. “Let me see.”

“Bad enough,” Qiaan said. “Perhaps not mortal, but bad enough. I saw it coming, at the last moment, and turned into it—it was meant to go into my back, straight into my heart, but I startled him and he stumbled and he got me lower down instead. Kidney, maybe.” She tried to shift, drew in her breath sharply, let it out with a hiss.

“Don’t move,” Xaforn said. “Let me see.”

“One of them escaped,” Qiaan said, as Xaforn probed into her side.

“I know,” Xaforn said. “I saw him.”

“He’ll bring the rest of them. You’d better go. Unless you have a detachment of Guards out there with you.”

“Rabble,” Xaforn said, dismissing the promised reinforcements, turning to the dead or unconscious men she had left strewn about the courtyard and ripping off a length of material from a good-quality silk tunic one of
them had been wearing. She folded that up into a thick pad and pressed it into Qiaan’s wound, returning her hand to it. “Hold that there. Press as hard as you can bear it. I’ll get a belt or something off one of these brutes to tie it in place. Is anyone else in the house?”

“They sent the servants away,” Qiaan whispered weakly. “They didn’t want witnesses to murder. Not quite. There are more ways than one to get a reward …
aaah
…”

“Sorry,” said Xaforn, not sounding in the least contrite as she busied herself with the most immediate first aid that she could deliver. “I’d rather you didn’t move at all, but I’d also rather we were elsewhere right now.”

“I have an inkling as to where we are, but I’m not sure I could really walk anywhere right now,” Qiaan said. “And I have a feeling that sedan chairs might be hard to come by before the
rabble
come back with reinforcements. You’ve lost the element of surprise, and there were only a handful of them here to surprise. The rest will know that you’re waiting for them.”

“They might think it’s that contingent of Guards that you were speaking of earlier,” Xaforn said, grinning, her teeth a flash of white in the darkness. “Fewer might come than you think. Besides, I wasn’t thinking of walking the streets of Linh-an tonight. I couldn’t help you and protect you at once. But there’s a short cut.”

“How did you find me at all?” Qiaan said, closing her eyes, and leaning against the wall. “What short cut?”

“It’s … never mind. It doesn’t matter that you understand right now. Is that thing tight around you? Can you stand? It won’t be for long, and I have Nhia waiting on the other end. We can get you to a healer as soon as we arrive.”

“Oh, I’m sure Yuet has all her poultices ready and waiting,” Qiaan said, with an affectionate laugh which quickly turned into another sibiliant intake of breath as she tried to struggle to her feet.

For a moment Xaforn froze in mid-motion, but then continued reaching to drape one of Qiaan’s arms around her own shoulders for support.

“Yuet is dead,” she said bluntly.

“Whuh …
what?”
Qiaan gasped, shocked. “How? What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Xaforn said, after a brief hesitation. She was surprised how fast her own throat had closed at the mention of Yuet’s name, how little control she had over the sharp pain of that loss. “Later. We’d better get out of here now. We’re going to …”

A small sound made her snap her head around, listening. A footfall. It had been a footfall.

And there was another.

There was still a chance, she could
shift
… the ghost road almost shimmered before her, its shape nearly solid.
Nhia! Nhia’s face! Think of Nhia’s face, dammit!

“Too late,” Qiaan said softly.

“Those aren’t thugs,” Xaforn said. “Whoever is here is trained. They’re too quiet.”

“Go,” Qiaan said urgently. “Go, leave me. I am not worth your death.”

“You underestimate me,” Xaforn said. She let Qiaan back down, very gently, and loosened the sword she wore. “Be quiet, and don’t get in my way.”

“Insane,” said Qiaan, and choked on what might have been either a laugh or a sob.

“Selfless to the last,” returned Xaforn, the words double-edged, both a retort in their ancient, time-honored verbal duel and a genuine compliment.

“Get out,” Qiaan hissed sharply, hunching over her wound. “I will not have you on my conscience too for the rest of my life, however long that might turn out to be.”

“I leave here with you, or not at all,” said Xaforn.

“Why, damn you?”

“Because you’re my cat,” Xaforn said simply.

She seemed to raise her sword at nothing at all, but a sudden grunt indicated that it had connected with a warm body. After that, things moved too fast for Qiaan to follow, even if she had not been slowed and fogged by her pain. She could sometimes glimpse figures locked in combat, briefly silhouetted against the wash of muted light that still spilled from the house; every now and again, by the shadow of its swinging braid of long hair, she could even identify Xaforn as one of the antagonists. She could hear calls of attack, or grunts of pain, the shuffle or hard stamp of feet, the whining sound of metal rasping against metal or a ringing clash of naked swords. She thought she heard Xaforn call out something, and perhaps another voice reply, but she could not be sure. Everything was a blur of sound and movement, darkness against light, cries of pain and triumph and sublimation of battle-frenzied motion in the night.

And then there was silence.

“Is it over?” Qiaan whispered, to nobody in particular, just to hear her own voice.

“No,” said Xaforn, close beside her.

“Are you all right? Cahan, there must have been dozens of them.”

“A handful,” Xaforn said briefly. “They’re Guards.”

“Guards?”
Qiaan gasped. “If they’re Guards, they’re ours … they’re
yours.
Can’t you just call out, tell them who you are? Why are they fighting you?”

“Because they have orders to kill you,” Xaforn said, and her voice was very gentle. “And I won’t have it.”

Qiaan’s breathing was very shallow. “You are fighting your beloved Guard? Over me?”

“For a long time,” Xaforn said in a voice almost dreamy, “I found you merely annoying. Then the cat happened, and you named me
jin-shei,
and I started liking you. Then, for a while, I envied you. I might even have fallen in love with you for a time, I don’t know. At some time or another I thought you were aggravating, arrogant, egotistical, supercilious, or conceited. And other times when I realized that you were one of the most gallant, unselfish, valiant, courageous people I knew. And then there were times I realized I didn’t know you at all. And when you vanished, and your name started being dragged out as the banner behind which anyone who stood against the things I had vowed to defend could gather, I did not know what to think—except for one thing: I knew, underneath everything, who you were. Who you are. I will not let you get slaughtered here like a sacrificed pig. I will not. You are
my
cat, and there is no honor in it.”

Qiaan was weeping softly. “I do not deserve that sacrifice,” she whispered. “Go, Xaforn, for the love of Cahan, in the name of …”

“Don’t tell me to go in the name of
jin-shei
,” said Xaforn, “because I would be forced to do the unthinkable and refuse you.”

“They are gone,” Qiaan said. “Go, you have a chance. Go. Leave me. I’m probably more than half dead already—don’t waste your life over defending dead meat. It’s not as though you can save my life. Even if you get us both out of here, I’m dead. Liudan will …”

She felt the tip of Xaforn’s braid brush her cheek, and then Xaforn’s lips gentle on her brow.

“Hush,” said Xaforn. “They are back. I thnk they have brought reinforcements.”

She melted away into the night once more, and Qiaan heard her cry out as she leaped at an enemy in the shadows, a battle cry. Qiaan’s throat was closed tight; that was a cry full of knowledge, a deep and full awareness of exactly what Xaforn was, what she had been born to be. She had been trained as a killer, but she was now ready to die in defense of another life, in the name of that honor that she held so dear, in the name of friendship, in the name of the bond of sisterhood with which Qiaan had once, quite unwittingly and with no inkling as to what its price would be, bound her over the shared connection of a black kitten rescued from oblivion.

The courtyard was full of scurrying, shadowy shapes. They were all converging on single point, aimed at a single beating heart.

“No!”
Qiaan screamed, strength returning to her for one moment, just enough strength to shout with full voice.

The last thing that lodged in her sight was a glimpse, almost in slow motion, of the silhouette of a long braid swinging across the dim light from the half-open door, and then Xaforn’s face, caught full in that light, as half a dozen men converged on her at once. It should have ended there, but it was as though the Gods themselves wanted to make sure that Qiaan saw, that Qiaan knew. A path opened through the pack of men, just for a moment, and Qiaan saw her lying there—the slight body stretched out by the door of the house, flooded with light, the long black braid snaking on the ground beside her. And then the men closed in again, the shadows swallowed it all, and Qiaan closed her eyes.

They needed an army to take her,
Qiaan thought with bitter pride.

And then true night descended at last, and she knew no more.

W
hen Qiaan woke again, it was to throbbing pain—in her side, behind her eyes, and in the empty hollow place where she knew her heart used to be.

“Stubborn,” she whispered, throwing the word out as she so often did before to be riposted by something trenchant and witty by Xaforn. But she was met with silence—the silence that she would be met with from now on.

Xaforn was gone.

Gone.

The sheer impossibility of that took her breath away. It took an army. She had faced a small army—an army of trained Guards, at that—and held them at bay, until overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

“Oh, Cahan,” Qiaan sobbed suddenly. “It should have been me. It should have been
me …
”

She blinked away the tears that blurred her vision and looked around, orienting herself. She was in a bed, a reasonably comfortable if rather rudimentary bed, with a warm coverlet over her. The wound in her side had been tended and neatly bandaged, as her exploring fingers became aware of before she discovered, the hard way, that the wound may have been tended but was far from healed. Wincing, she let her eyes travel down the shape of her body under the coverlet. Beside the bed was a rather battered chair, at the foot of the bed a plain scrubbed table which held a bowl, now covered with a piece of clean cloth, and a small untidy pile of what looked like healers’ supplies. The walls were bare, gray stone. There was a window, high up, with three iron bars set in it. Opposite the window, a sturdy wooden door was set flush with the wall. It had no handle on the inside.

A prison, then.

Oh, Xaforn. They may kill me fast, or they may leave me in here to rot. And it was for this that you snuffed out the bright flame of your life.

There was a muffled sound beyond the thick door even as Qiaan was bleakly contemplating it, and it swung open into the room to admit a wizened old woman with wispy white hair and gums so toothless that her cheeks had fallen inward, giving her face an oddly skull-like quality

“You’re awake,” the crone said, and her voice was surprisingly rich coming from such a frail and unprepossessing vessel. “That’s good. I was beginning to worry about you.” The door had been closed behind her, but she now turned and banged on it with both fists. It opened a crack, and Qiaan thought she glimpsed a slim form in a Guard uniform just outside. The crone exchanged a few remarks with the guard on duty, too softly for Qiaan to hear, and then turned back to her patient, the door slamming shut again behind her.

“I’ve asked them to bring some boiling water, and we can try one of my herbal teas,” the crone said. “You’ve been through a rough time, but you’re young, you ought to mend quickly.”

“Where am I?” Qiaan whispered hopelessly.

“The Guard Compound holding cells,” the crone said, rummaging through the pile of things on the table. “Bandages, clean bandages, I know I left some in here … ah, here we are. Now let me see. It is time to change your dressing.”

“Please,” Qiaan began, but the crone tutted at her and turned her expertly so that she could get at the stab wound. “What is your name?” Qiaan persisted as the healer removed the old bandage, cleaned up the wound with water from the bowl that had been on the table, and replaced the bandage with the new poultice she had prepared. “You have to help me. I need to see someone. I need to talk to one of my … I need to speak to Liudan, to the Empress.”

“Lie still, child,” the crone said.

“Please,” Qiaan whispered. “What is your name?”

“Xinma,” the crone said, finishing off and pulling the coverlet back into place. “My name is Xinma and I cannot help you—it is for the Empress to ask to see you if she sees fit to do so, and not the other way around. All you have to do right now is concentrate on healing. Now, that wound aside, is there anything else that you are suffering from?”

“I have a headache,” Qiaan said.
And my heart is broken.

“We can fix that. The herbal tea will help you sleep. You need to sleep. Sleep heals everything.”

A knock heralded the arrival of the required hot water; it was passed into the room in a small earthenware pot, through the smallest possible crack in the door.

Qiaan actually found the strength to laugh. “What do they think I will do, make a break for it?”

“Unlikely, at least for a while, my dear,” the crone said without looking at her, emptying a packet of herbs into the pot and stirring the contents with a blunt wooden paddle until the brew met with her satisfaction. She decanted some of it carefully into a small cup and returned to the bed. “I’d better help you with this, for now,” she said, lifting Qiaan’s shoulders slightly with one arm and bringing the cup to the patient’s lips with her free hand. “Here, sip. Maybe in a few days I can strap you up and you can actually sit up for a bit—it will be easier to eat, anyway.”