The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (32 page)

“Wow,” she whispered. “That was
easy. Much easier than, oh, say, back at the Inn. Now that was
not
easy.”

“Such
is the way of lions,” purred Sherah.

It
was nearly dark now but the great shape of the Wall rose high above them, its
geniculated cornice black against the purple sky. Torchlight beamed from small
windows and the scent of curry and lamb wafted down on the breeze. It set
tongues watering at once.

Three
guards awaited them at the gate. They were leopards, naturally, but educated
ones, for the parchment had been opened, read and tucked deep inside a bronze
sash for safe keeping. Out on the Kingdom’s front lines, reading was not a
luxury. The three bowed with perfect precision.

Kirin
dismounted. “You have carried out my instructions?”

“As
best we could,
sidi,”
said one. “I
have summoned others from nearby towers to assist with the horses.”

Kerris
was at his brother’s side in an instant.

“Linements and wraps for each leg,
straw bedding, and once they’ve rested, strong mash, ground organ meat and
fresh water.” He rubbed Quiz’s crescent of white. “They’ve worked hard for you,
today Kirin. They deserve as much.”

“I
know.”

The
Captain turned to his party, just now beginning to slide from their saddles and
onto solid ground. They were weary, it was obvious, but Kerris was right. They
had
made good time that day and he would see to it that cats, as well as horses,
would be rewarded.

“These
men will see to the horses. We have other things awaiting us.”

“Ooh,
yes, ‘amenities’,” grinned Fallon as she dismounted. “Oh wouldn’t a good scrub
be nice? A good scrub, fresh clothes and warm slippers. I feel scratchy all
over.”

Sherah
smiled at her.

“Then
a nice soft bed, full of feathers and tea. Not – not tea
in
the
bed, mind you. Just
with
it. Beside it, you know. Beside the bed.”

“You are very amusing, Scholar.”

The tigress passed over the reins
and staggered on wobbly legs into the tower.

“And a book, a big fat book, and
supper. Wow, look at that Wall...”

Kerris
fell in between them, catching both women by the elbows.

“Did you say supper?”

The
screech of a falcon drifted down the stairwell and Sireth paused before
entering. He glared the leopard.

“You shouldn’t tie her like that.
She’s hungry.”

“She’s
always hungry,” growled Ursa behind him.

The
guard did not react, unsure if the man speaking was priest or prisoner.

“She bit several of my men.
Sidi.”

“Good.”

Ursa
shoved him and together they disappeared through the doorway. Kirin shook his
head and followed.

***

A
high-heeled white boot hit the stone floor.

“Ursa, how um, how exactly do you
walk in those things?”

“Very well.”

“Heh.
That was funny.”

Fallon Waterford wrinkled her nose
and looked around the room. It was not large, to be certain, but it was cozy. A
wood stove burned in one corner, casting golden shadows across the bricks and
toasting the linens at its hearth. The ‘amenities’ had been most satisfactory,
in her estimation. Fresh, hot tea had been provided and a guard stood outside
their door for their clothing, which would be taken to the garrison town and
cleaned and fire-dried by morning. Curried lamb and dumplings, noodles and
cabbage awaited them up the winding stone stairs that led to the very top of
the tower. The very roof of the Wall.

She
pulled off her own suede boot and stretched her toes, enjoying the feel as her
claws stretched as well. In the jungle, back at her father’s farm near
Parnum’bah
Falls,
she was barefoot most of the time and she preferred it that way. In
fact, back home she would most often be found in one of her father’s old tunics
and little else, for because of her penchant for tree-climbing, experiments and
dissections, it was impossible to keep her own clothes in good repair. Life at
the University had changed many things.

She watched as the Major peeled her
uniform of white doe-skin and threw it to the floor. Fallon shook her head in
amazement. Even such simple motions caused the muscles to ripple across the
snow leopard’s back. The marbled pelt was striking to behold,
much more
elaborate than tigers,
she thought. Bars and bands and rosettes of silver
in glorious patterns, like snow-ripe clouds on a moonlit lake.
Yes, much
better than tigers.

Sherah
had also stripped from her cat-suit of black and the vestments made tinkling
sounds as they struck the stone. Fallon studied her markings as well, the
cheetah pelt of butter-cream, the spots tiny and regular, accentuating her
narrow waist and the swell of her hips and the long, thick curve of her tail.
Her throat and belly were milk-white, her chest full. A woman’s chest. Fallon
frowned as she looked down at her own.

“Good
thing I don’t have kittens. They would die of starvation.”

Turning,
Sherah smiled.

“They grow bigger.”

“Oh,
no I don’t think they will.”

“Pah.
Who wants kittens,” growled Ursa as she grabbed a brush of hog bristles and
began to scrub the fur of her arms. “Better to be dead than to have kittens.”

“Well,
I
would love to have kittens, but I wouldn’t want them to die of starvation.”

“They
would not starve,” said Sherah as she too began to brush her long spotted legs.

“So?
How do you know?”

“I
have had kittens. They grow bigger.”

“What?”
Fallon’s head shot up. “You’re married?”

“No.”

“Pah.”
Ursa rolled her eyes. “Bastard kittens. Better to be dead.”

“How
many kittens?”

“Four.”

The cheetah did not bother to look
up but she smiled as the bristles ruffled the smooth hair of her feet.
Elegant
feet,
thought Fallon.
Not like my flat skinny stripey ones.

“Wow.
What are their names?”

“I do not know.”

“Pah!
Bastards.”

 
“Sherah, don’t you know your own
children?”

“They were taken as newborn, to
monasteries other than
Agara’tha.”
She paused as golden eyes slid up to
meet emerald.

“Alchemy begets alchemy,” she
purred. “My skills are strong. They breed true. It is a great honor.”

“And
the sires - all cheetahs?” asked Ursa.

“Two.”

“Bastard
mongrel alchemist kittens. That should not be allowed.”

“Wow.”
Fallon sat back on her stool, arms draped across her knees. She let out a deep
breath. “Wow.”

“Bad
enough to be a Pure-born child, let alone a mongrel. This very thing is the
cause of all the problems in the Kingdom.” Ursa pulled a rough linen tunic over
her head. “It is a weakness.”

“Children?”
Fallon frowned again, thinking of her own family, happy parents who had
welcomed as many daughters as the jungle would give them. “Children are a
weakness?”

“Stupid
girl! What did I say?
Bastard. Mongrel. Alchemist. Kittens.
What don’t
you understand?”

Fallon shrugged. “You.”

“Pah.”
Ursa snorted and tossed her head, her hair whipping across her back. The
conversation was ended.

“Pay
her no heed, Scholar,” Sherah said, her eyes gleaming. “Perhps she needs a cup
of tea.”

***

In the Upper Kingdom, there are a
great many rituals and ceremonies. Ceremonies for taking tea, ceremonies for
taking a wife, ceremonies for writing letters to people in faraway lands. So,
then, for a people graced with such glorious pelts, pelts that are the envy of
all other Nations, it is not unusual for there to be a ceremony involved with
the art of brushing. All is taken into consideration - the correct brush with
the correct bristles, the correct pattern for brushing first against the hairs,
then with, and most of all, the consideration to help a friend when brushing
the back. The back is difficult, most difficult to reach with claw or comb, and
it is a great gift to offer one’s service in this very deed. Brushing is a
fastidious business and cats are, after all, a fastidious people.

“Lower,
lower, now in the middle, there! That’s it, Kirin, aaahhhh...”

“Kerris,
your foot.”

“Sorry.”

The
Captain could not help but smile. His brother so loved to have his pelt
brushed. As a child, he had spent hours letting their mother brush and brush
and brush. When other kittens were anxious to get about their studies, or dash
outside for a game of sham’Rai or Chicken-poke, Kerris was just as happy to let
himself be brushed. Feed him and brush him and Kerris would purr well into the
night.

“Your
wounds are healing well, brother.”

“They
itch like mad warthogs.”

“The
stitches will have to come out soon.” Kirin tapped the bristle brush into his
palm and laid it on the stool beside him. “There. You are done.”

“Oh
please, just a few minutes more.”

“No.
I wish to go over the maps before supper.”

Kerris
straightened and stretched, rolling his grey head ‘til his neck popped.

“Ah, maps and supper. Can’t say
which I’m looking forward to most. What about him?”

He inclined his chin towards a
corner of the small chamber where the Seer was sitting, slowly folding a long
orange sash seven times.

“Make
the offer if you wish. I have no time.”

“Right. Go then. We’ll be up soon.”

He
gathered his uniform, snatched the rough wool cloak that completed the tunic,
wide trousers and warm hide slippers he now wore, and strode swiftly from the
room, closing the door behind.

Kerris
glanced back to the Seer. For the most part, he was still clothed in loose dark
linens, remnants of life in the Cliffs of Thousand Eyes. He had taken great pains
to remove the leather robe and the wide sash that had wrapped him at shoulder
and hip, and folded them both as if they were the Queen’s very bedclothes.
Likewise, gloves and boots had been placed at right angles to each other,
symbols of higher, loftier things. Such concentration on trivial matters seemed
a waste of time to Kerris, especially when a pot of curried lamb lay waiting
upstairs but he knew that most people relished their rituals,
needed
them almost, to keep the shoots of their lives contained. It was the way of
things.

So,
with a puff of breath, he pulled his new tunic overhead, grabbed the bristle
brush and crossed the room.

He
bowed deeply, enjoying the form, if not the formality.

“Might I have the honor?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ah.” He frowned, looked around the
chamber, rocked back and forth on the pads of his feet. Finally, he sat down on
a wooden bench. “You see, there you have me. What am I supposed to say to
that?”

“I don’t know.” Sireth shrugged.
“But I do not wish you to brush my back.”

“Why
not?”

“Why
should I?”

“Didn’t
you brush each other’s backs in
Sha’Hadin?”

“Yes.”

“So? What’s the difference?”

“You
are not from
Sha’Hadin.”

Kerris
leaned back against the cool brick wall, laced his hands behind his neck. He
grinned.

“Shame on you.”

Now,
the man did look up, tilting his head like a falcon hearing a faraway sound. “I
beg your pardon?”

“Can
you see out of that other eye? The good one?”

“Of course.”

“And
can you see color with it?”

“Yes,
of course.”

“And what color am I?”

benAramis sighed. “Grey.”

“And
how many grey lions are there in the Kingdom?”

“I
have no idea.”

“Two. Exactly two, although I do
believe Robin neeCornWallace’s mother may have dabbled once or twice with a certain
white tiger. No stripes mind you. He’s as grey as quarried stone. But even
still that makes only two grey lions in all of the Upper Kingdom. Far less than
the number of mongrels, I’d wager.”

He sat forward, still grinning.

“So then, what makes you think I
care whether you have spots or stripes or for that matter, purple monkeys
tattooed on your back? Am I such a typical lion that I should care?”

“You
are far from a typical lion,” said Sireth quietly.

“And
you are the highest ranking mongrel in the history of the Upper Kingdom. So
let’s call it even, shall we?”

The
Seer smiled. “You are very different from your brother, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey.”

“I
am indeed.” Kerris smiled back. “But don’t think to poorly of Kirin,
sidi
. He has a hard job and he prides
himself on doing it well. Offence is a small price to pay for peace.”

“Yes.
Thank you for your counsel.”

“But
you still don’t want me brushing your back.”

“No.”

“Fair
enough then. Do you still want to know about Ancestors?”

Sireth
almost fell off his stool.
This man was sharp, sharper than he let on.

“Yes,” he said, forcing himself to
breathe evenly. “Yes I do.”

“Well,
what do you want to know? It is a rather broad subject.”

His
hands, gloveless and spotted, were shaking.

“What did they look like?”

“Well,
that depends. The glyphs in
Aegyp
are far different than the glyphs in
the Land of the
Chi’Chen.
The statues in the jungles of
Hindaya
not at all like the ones in
Shiam.
Can’t tell about the ones in
Hiran
or
Hirak.
They have most of their heads smashed off.”

He leaned back again, began chewing
on a thumb claw.

“For the most part, I think they
looked rather like us. Two legs, two arms - for the most part I say again, for
some of the statues, seemed to have many arms, like Khali.” He shuddered at the
thought. “Now where was I? Oh yes, two arms, short noses, like us, not like
dogs. Um, no tails, two eyes—”