The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (109 page)

“Under guard?” Kirin frowned.
“The man is a member of the Council of Seven. The woman serves with me in
Pol’Lhasa.
Why should they be under guard?”

Captain Oldsmith-Pak exchanged
glances with Nevye.

“I’ll take them,” suggested the
jaguar. “I, I should take them.”

“Yes, please,” said the lion.
“Take them.”

Kirin frowned again. This
behaviour was very strange.

“Then take us,
sidi,”
he
said.

“Right,” said the jaguar and he
pushed himself off the wall. “This way.”

Kerris grinned. “Brilliant.”

And they all trotted up the many
stairs that led to the keep of the Battle Tower of
Shen’foxhindi.

***

It is an amazing thing to note
that for brothers so different, there are times when they were remarkably the
same. They were, after all, sun and moon, Yin and Yang, opposite spokes of the
same wheel. The four of them followed the jaguar up the winding staircase that
led to the keep and there were leopards, fully armed, at the door. They stood
aside as the Shogun-General pushed open the door and strode in.

The room smelled of incense and
five pair of eyes looked up.

What would have been smiles and
greeting quickly dissolved into the song of steel when, in one smooth motion,
two lions pulled katanahs on three of the guests.

Quickly, Sherah al Shiva dropped
to one knee as Kerris’ blade froze inches above her neck.

Likewise, Setse shrank under the
Blood Fang, her brother pulling the bow from his back, an arrow aimed directly
between the blue eyes of the lion.

“No!” Sireth benAramis rose to
his feet. “Captain, no!”

There was silence in the keep,
save the breathing of lions.

“I should kill you now,” snarled
Kerris. “What you did to him, to me, to all of us. I should take your head off
right here, right now!”

Sherah did not look up.

“Kerris,” said Fallon quietly,
taking his arm.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill
you.”

The woman said nothing.

For his part, Kirin was
transfixed. The Fang was silent, its red blade gleaming in the sunlight from
the window, yearning to spill canine blood. The Fang was silent but the lion
was not, and his growl was deep, almost visceral. The Scales of the Dragon
whipped from side to side and the archer leaned back, pulling the string taut
on the bow.

“Captain,” warned the Seer.
“They are not your enemies.”

“This is wrong,” Kirin growled.
“This should not be.”

“Why is she here?” snarled
Kerris again, his blade hovering ever so close to the cheetah’s spotted neck.

“They are not your enemies,”
repeated the Seer.

At his side, Ursa did not move.
Yahn Nevye could not, for he was caught in the drama of the sight, knowing that
it could quite easily be his neck on the line, and that at some point, if this
was
the
same lion—Jet barraDunne’s
lion—it would be.

Bo Fujihara watched it all with
small, quick eyes. He was a smart man. There was far more going on here than
simply the presence of Dogs.

Slowly, like a dancer, the girl
with one blue eye lifted to her feet.

“Ulaan Baator,” she whispered.

Her brother growled something
but still she moved forward. She moved like a breeze, quiet and soft, forward
again until she stood directly in front of the golden lion in blood red armour.
She took the point of the Fang in her palm, pressed it until it raised a drop
of blood between the pads. She moved it then to the layers that covered her
heart. All the while, she kept her eyes fixed on the lion, did not look away.

“Kuren Ulaan Baator,” she said
again. “I knew. I saw.”

All eyes were on the lions and
the women at the points of their swords. No one dared speak, no one even dared
breathe until a very strange thing happened.

A baby cried.

No one moved. It was a most
unexpected thing. It did not belong in the room, this night.

“A baby?” asked Fallon.

There was a second cry and a
tiny figure flailed from under the hides.

“A baby? Who has a baby?”

“I do, little sister,” said the
Alchemist. She did not move, her eyes were fixed on the floor, Kerris’ blade
still a breath away from the arch of her neck. “It is my baby.”

“You have a baby?”

“Yes,” she said. “His name is
Kylan.”

“Kylan?”

The baby wailed and thrashed and
a tiny fist could be seen from the blankets. Kerris gripped and regripped the
katanah, uncertain and unsure.

She finally looked up, golden
eyes pleading.

“Please,
sidi,”
she said.
“My baby.”

“Her baby,” said Fallon and she
squeezed his arm. “Kerris, please.”

With a lash of his grey tail,
Kerris sheathed the long sword and stepped back, allowing the cheetah to turn
and gather the infant into her arms.

“Captain?” urged Sireth but
Kirin’s gaze was fixed now on the cheetah. She held the child to her chest and
could not bring herself to look at him.

“Sherah?” Fallon moved over to
the woman who had once been a friend, lowered herself next to her to get a
better view. “Did you say his name was Kylan?”

“Of course,” said the Alchemist.

“That’s Namyanese,” she said. “I
learned it in the University.”

Sherah said nothing.

“It means unicorn, doesn’t it?”

In fact, no one said anything.
No one said a word. No one dared.

Fallon looked up at the warrior
in red.

“It means Kirin.”

There was not even a breath in
the room.

It was a very long moment before
the golden lion lowered the Fang and slipped it into its sheath. He turned and
exited the room.

The breathing returned some time
after.

A
Council of Ten

I have loved Ling from the
moment I met her. It was in the Imperial nursery—I had perhaps four
summers, she perhaps two. The first thing I did was to stop my lessons, lower
my brush and stare, not because she was the daughter of the Empress, not
because she was accompanied by peacocks, but because of her eyes. I had never
seen anything like them. Her face was ebony, her cheeks dotted with red paint,
there was even a bead of jade on her forehead, but all I saw were her eyes.
Large, deep and brilliant gold. I was lost from that moment on.

The first thing
she
did was push me down and pull my tail. I suppose she was my Empress even then.

This
woman has golden eyes.

She sits on the snowy parapet
surrounded by candles that flicker with unnatural light. They are Alchemy
candles. They are not dampened by the snow or put out by the wind. Her hair is
loosed and rises and falls around her face, calling like come hither fingers. I
remember the feel of it under my hands, which is surprising because my hands
were bleeding and raw at that time. Or perhaps it is a trick of the mind. She
is good at that.

It is dawn and I have spent
the night alone, wrestling with my fear. I never used to wrestle with things. Life
was understandable, my path straight. But then again, I never used to have
fear. Fear changes things. That is one thing I do understand.

I could have killed the dogs
last night. I think I would have had it not been for the baby.

I don’t know what to make of
that.

Kylan is Namyanese for Kirin.
Can this be possible? It was one night and I was almost dead. At least, I think
so. I barely remember. What does that say about me? What does that say about
her?

She is a liar and a deceiver.
Kunoi’chi. Untrustable, a shadow. What is she doing with the dogs? Why did she
bring them and here, of all places? What does she know that no one else does? I
should ask her but she would answer in riddles. The Jade Fang could take off
her head. Bushido would demand it. It would be a clean kill, an honourable
death. It would be poetry.

I think about asking her but
I see movement in the snow at her knees. It is the baby, the one with the
bicoloured eyes. I will not look on him for I may be forced by Bushido to kill
him too. I have never killed a baby. I can’t imagine it would be difficult, not
even if he is my son.

She turns her head, sees me
watching from the shadows of the battle tower. There is a strange tightening in
my chest and I wonder at that. We hold the look for a very long time before she
turns back to the candles and the baby.

I linger a moment longer
before returning to the tower and my fear.

--an excerpt
from the journal of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey

***

The space beside him was cold
and he opened his eyes. In the light of the high window, Ursa was dressing,
slipping into the many layers of undyed fabrics that were her clothing. A linen
shift and woolen yukata tied off at her narrow waist. Wide silk trousers
wrapped to the knees with strips of leather. A sable coat rolled at the neck,
her cloak of winter bear, long and white and almost as glorious as her own
pelt. He watched her tuck the knives, daggers and throwing stars into every
slip and fold, watched her cinch her leather obi and slide the dual swords
home.

“Where are you going?” he asked
from the floor. Their presence at the battle tower of
Shen’foxhindi
had
been unexpected. No arrangements had been made for sleeping but blankets and
bedrolls had been provided. A private corner was a precious thing.

She turned her pale eyes on him
as she bound her hair high over her head.

“Captain Oldsmith-Pak has agreed
to have me fitted.”

“Fitted?”

“For a uniform. There’s a
commissary outside the gates with a seamstress on duty.”

“For a uniform. I see.” He
pushed up to sitting, pulled the blankets up on his shoulders. She had been
angry last night and his body was still aching from the bruising. Her
lovemaking was rarely tender. Lately, her temper made it violent. “Perhaps I
could accompany you?”

“No,” she said. “It is a
military thing. You are not military.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I will get you a bo.”

“I don’t want a bo.”

“You are Kenshi. You should have
a sword.”

“I don’t want a sword.”

“A dagger, then. I will get you
a dagger.”

“You
are my steel.”

“I will get you a dagger.”

He sighed as she paused at the
door.

“Did you see him?”

“Him?”

“The Captain—” She shook
her head and her tail lashed behind her. “The Shogun-General. Did you see that
he would be here?”

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing.”

“It always remains as to how
things play out. I never saw it in detail, just that we would meet when we
found the dogs.”

“You should have told me.”

“Perhaps.”

He could see the muscles in her
jaw ripple and twitch.

“He wanted to kill them.”

“Yes.”

“He should have.”

“Perhaps.” He cocked his head
like a falcon. “What would you have done?”

She stared at him a long moment.

“Helped him.”

She whirled and was gone and he
sighed. The stone was cold behind his back. He could hear Mi-Hahn’s thoughts as
she swept in to the aerie at the highest point of the tower. There were many
falcons and kestrels in the keep – army birds all—and they did not
mind sharing. He could hear the songs of the Oracle inside his head, felt her
young but strong heart beating like a drum. Not a war drum, however. A dancer’s
drum, a beat of timing and rhythm. He could feel the elements swirl and dance
around the grey coat, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey, could feel them waiting for his
commands and he wondered if the lion had finally accepted his gifting, if he
could master them the way he was born to. He could feel the touches of Yahn
Nevye’s mind as the man struggled with his privacy, wanting to understand and
yet terrified of being understood. He could feel the magic of the Alchemist as
she too danced around the edges of his mind, defiant and proud and so very
dangerous.

In his mind’s eye, he could see
the Captain—
no,
Shogun-General. His wife had been quite correct.
Could see him standing by a tall window, watching the sun rise over the Lower
Kingdom, could see the bolt of mane fall like molten gold down his armoured
back. The lion wore much armour now, more so than before and he wondered at
that.
“I prefer to keep the world out,”
Yahn Nevye had said so long ago.
He wondered if Kirin might now say the same.

Ten thousand enemies were coming
from the north. A world of enemies were waking in the west. There were only
nine of them here, ten including the
Chi’Chen
ambassador and he could
not see the end of it. Eye of the Needle, Eye of the Storm. Death and fire,
bones and eyes.

And that would only be the beginning.

He closed his eyes and was gone.

***

Her eyes were gold.

Gold like a field of western
wheat.

Gold like the sun gleaming
over the wasteland of Gobay.

Gold like the manes of lions
braided into the Khargan’s hair.

Her eyes were not the eyes of
the People and she pushed him down with long, strong hands.

The first pink streaks of
moondown in the sky, slashes of blood in the cold flesh of the night.
Long-Swift sat up quickly, glancing around at the sea of sleepers stretched out
beyond the horizon. Their backs were rounded and dark and covered with a
dusting of fine snow. Some were waking but most were still asleep, sentries
stood and breathed the wind for scents of yak or goat or cat. He threw a quick
glance at the tent where the Khargan slept alone for once, no wives or Oracles
to keep him entertained.

He shook his head and swallowed.

He had dreamed of the woman last
night, the singer of the songs that had been in his head for days now. She was
a witch, a wraith, a spirit dancer, slipping through his mind like memory but
one he did not, could not, remember for she was also the Enemy and while he had
killed his share of the spotted and striped men who guarded the borders, he had
never in all his years killed a feline woman. Indeed, he had never even seen
one.

Her hands had been strong, her
magic stronger. He had been captivated first by her singing, then by her eyes,
more powerful than the army, more intoxicating than their wotchka. She was
hypnotic and therefore dangerous.

But he didn’t dare tell the Khargan.
Not this. He could tell no one this. The Bear would wring out his life with his
massive hands for dreaming of the Enemy in this way.

It had been a very good dream.

He grinned, shook his head one
last time and rolled to his feet.

***

When Jeffery Solomon awoke,
he knew he was dreaming.

He opened his eyes, waited as
his pupils sought to focus. The lights were dim, the white noise a comforting
drone and the air was warm and smelled of ozone. His limbs were still heavy
from the pulse, fingers and toes tingling and he was surprised to see the hairs
on his chest standing up with static charge. He wondered if it had been a
Dazzler that had taken him down. Consistent, he thought, with the MAIDEN
technology of the fence and he wondered if the ‘bones’ that had chased them
were in fact people in carbon-fiber armor.

As his unfocused eyes drifted
upwards to the ceiling, he realized two things. Firstly, that the ceiling was a
mirror and he could see himself reflected in its concave surface and secondly,
the fact that he was laying on a cot, naked.

He couldn’t help himself. He
started to laugh.

It was understandable,
really. He had survived a privileged childhood in an underprivileged world and
then survived the mercenary institutions of higher learning that had led to his
many degrees and doctorates; he had survived the many plagues that that
stricken the populace before he went under as Supervisor 7 of SleepLab 1 in
Kandersteg Switzerland; had survived hundreds of years (if not thousands) in a
state of disambiguation and had survived the subsequent waking that had killed
six others; he had survived on vitamin squares and protein powder and ice and
had survived the raising of the Humlander and swarming of the rats and the
crossing of an entire continent; had survived several months living in forests
with cat people and on seashores with cat people and on the ocean with cat
people, had even survived a ship-to-shore missile that had blown his ship out
of the water and here he was after all that miraculous survival, laying on a
bed, naked.

It was - he had to admit -
obscenely funny.

When he could move, he waved
at the ceiling. It was an
Arc en Ciel
or ArcEye, a surveillance system
that had been ‘state-of-the-art’ when he went under. ArcEyes had thousands of
tiny mirrored sensor-screens that would transmit images to and from the concave
surface, recording the activities in the room while projecting blue skies or
gently-moving clouds or stars at twilight. This ArcEye was old – only the
mirror remained, and from this angle, he could see the bronzing of the screens.
He wondered if he was actually being observed or if this were now merely a
ceiling, nothing more than a distorted relic of a distant age.

Slowly, carefully, he swung
his bare legs over the side of the bed and sat, waiting for the vertigo to end.

“Hello,” he called out to the
empty room. “Hey, can I get some clothes, please? I’m not modest, but honestly,
folks. We haven’t even met.”

There was a sound, a faint
ping from behind the wall and soon, a door swung open. Ramshackle, he thought.
With an ArcEye system, doors should slide to form a seamless part of the wall
but this gave him a world of information about the level of technology about to
walk through that swinging door.

Two figures came in, soldiers
obvious by their black uniforms and face shields. They had very large, imposing
weapons and flanked the door as a team of others came through, wheeling a cart
with them. It was carrying a variety of instruments, some he recognized, others
he didn’t, and his eyes flicked from the cart to the people moving it. They
paused as a woman in black fatigues and goggled cap pushed past to stand in
front of them, folded her hands behind her back.

To a man who had not seen
another living example of his species in five thousand years, she was the most
beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Shi Main nin,” she said.
“Por qué the hell shi nin zhe monstruos?”

“What?” he said.

“Zhe Monstruos. Estaban tamen
de yaoming shesi’er?”

“Chinese and Spanish?”
Solomon frowned. “What the hell?”

“Zhegin hell.”

He blinked slowly. It was a
dream. It had to be.

The people with the cart
moved forward, began to poke at his arms, his throat, his chest. Drawing blood,
scraping skin, plucking hair. An older man with a shaved head and filthy white
jumpsuit tugged on the wire at the back of his skull.

“Hey,” Solomon growled. “Paws
off the wire.”

“Wire?” said the woman. “Ni,
Feed.”

“Yah, the Feed into Satcom.
Hey, can I get some clothes? Anything. Just not one of those ugly jumpsuits.”

The woman jerked her head and
a bolt of grimy fabric was presented. He grinned.