The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (63 page)

“I will cut this here,” he told
his soldier. “My blade is sharp. It will heal well.”

Oded nodded, but he had lost so
much blood that Kirin wasn’t certain he understood. Ursa was scrambling down
the bluff, and he waited for her to join him before he moved over to their
guide. He looked away for just a moment, catching Ursa’s knowing gaze. She
handed him back his long sword. He slipped it in its sheath.

“Lay still,
sidi.
Too much movement is not good.”

The sharp green eyes met his.
There was pain and shock, and considerable fear. He grasped at Kirin’s arm,
breaths swift and shallow. “My wife…you promise…my sons…”

“Yes,
sidi.
I promise.”

There was nothing more to say.
Kirin pulled the shortest of the short blades, the
tanto,
a blade he rarely remembered using during his career, often
forgot he had, from its home in his boot, pressed its tip flat against the
ribs.

“Give me your hand,
sidi.”

The half-gloved hand, now more
red than tawny, fumbled but managed to find a grip on the hilt. The Captain
folded his own hand over top.

“You have served your Empress
well. She will know of your life. And of your death.”

Together, they tightened their
grip on the leather-wrapped hilt.

“Your wife and sons will know of
your honor. You are released.”

He waited. He always waited.
People knew when it was time. The rapid breathing slowed, grew strong and
steady one last time. The sharp green eyes met his, held, and together, with
one swift sure stroke, they slid the blade upwards into his heart.

It was quick. It always was.

His hand grew warm.

Fingers sought out the spot, the
place on the throat where heart met soul. There were beats, then fewer, then
none. He rose to his feet, not bothering to wipe the blade of the short before
sliding it home. He turned to look at the Major.

“Help me with the leopard.”

She nodded once and took a stance
beside Oded. All soldier now, the Captain faced him.

“Give the Major your arm.”

Weak as he was, the leopard
obeyed and Ursa firmly took the stump in her own bloody hand. She braced
herself and stretched the arm out straight. Oded tried to muffle a cry but it
was impossible, and the Captain took up his position between the two. The
katanah left its sheath once again, paused for only one deep breath then sang
through the air, cleaving the bone cleanly above the elbow.

Oded fell backwards and Kirin
turned to the Major. “Clean it with the jaguar’s sakeh, then bind it tight. Use
whatever you can find.”

She nodded once and disappeared. In
few short strides, the Captain was at the rear of the caravan.

Sireth was kneeling over Luke. He
was shaking his head. Kirin strode right up, grabbed handfuls of the Seer’s
robes and yanked him to his feet. He spun him round and shoved him backwards into
the rock face.

“You were wrong,
sidalord
Seer! I thought Sireth
benAramis was never wrong!”

“I…I…”

“You said it was a dream,
not
a vision! You said they have a
different sense!”

The Seer stared at him,
wide-eyed, blinking. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t—“

“You didn’t what?”

“Captain…” It was Fallon. She was
staring at him from the Alchemist’s side, cradling her in her arms. “It’s not
his fault.”

“Oh, but it is,
sidala.”
He turned back to the Seer,
raised both katanah and tanto up to the man’s eyes.“This is Oded’s blood here.
This is Rhan Agoyian’s blood here. Their blood is on your head,
sidi.
As is the blood of Luke and Wing.
Wear it well,
sidi.”
He drew both
blades downward, wiping the red onto the Seer’s dark linens. “Perhaps you will
now set yourself to learn the difference between a dream and a vision
.”

He pushed himself away, sheathed
his blades and stepped toward the Scholar. She gaped at him. “That was…that
was…”

“Immaterial to you,
sidala
. The Alchemist? Does she live?”

“Um…” Fallon looked back at the cheetah,
unmoving and bloodied but breathing. “I think she’ll be fine. It hit her pretty
hard…”

The Captain bent down and
gathered the woman into his arms, straightened himself. He turned to his
people.

“We leave now. Is that
understood?”

“Um, shouldn’t we bury—“

“Now.”

“Okay…”

And he carried the Alchemist to
his horse and mounted with her, spurring alMassay ahead down the high mountain
path in these not-so-big mountains. And the sun rose a little higher in the sky
over these this last of the Dry Provinces, which had indeed proved their
reputation true yet again. The Great Mountains, it seemed, were not the only
things that died here.

It is impossible to believe that
people do not need to talk to each other.

For three days, the party rode,
sleeping little, eating less, rationing the last of the water until the falcon
returned, followed by a troupe of soldiers sent by the Magistrate of
Sharan’yurthah
. As requested, the
Magistrate had sent supplies, food, water, fresh clothes, and all of this was
used up without a single word shared between the six that now traveled to the
Edge of the World.

Not a single word.

Now, perhaps you might say that
after so many months in each other’s company, they simply knew each other too
well to need words. Or perhaps you might say that they needed to conserve their
strength for the ordeal that still awaited them. And you might be right, to a
certain extent, but perhaps you might also know that these would only be
excuses for what was really happening, and what was really happening was not a
pleasant or honorable thing. Although in reality it might have been a good
thing.

You see they were broken beyond
belief but too stubborn to admit it.

The Alchemist can be excused from
this particular sin, as she slipped in and out of sleep for the majority of the
trip into
Sharan’yurthah.
She had
many sins, this particular cheetah, and was as stubborn as the all others, if
not more so, but for this particular stretch of obstinate silence and the
reasons behind it, she was innocent.

The Scholar was shocked and
horrified and seriously revisiting her decision to hate the Captain, and
refused to talk to him because of his actions toward the Seer and of course,
Kerris.

The Seer was shocked at himself,
at how he had not seen the attack, and the words of the Captain had struck him
to the very heart. He had slipped into a melancholic mood and had spent most of
this last leg of the journey riding his horse with eyes closed, meditating.

The Major was furious with her
Captain for his harsh words, with the Seer for accepting them, with the Scholar
for being unhelpful and girlish, with the Alchemist for being wounded and
therefore drawing the Captain deeper into her dark world of secrets, and with
Oded, for not simply dying like the others and needing her help in many small
things.

The Captain was, as you might
know by now, a complicated individual, but to put it simply, he was undone. He
had been pushed far beyond his boundaries in both the physical and emotional
realms, and the revolutionary idea of ‘his own glass’ had turned his controlled
and orderly world upside down. You see, the very nature of polishing anything
necessitates friction. Without friction, nothing is worn away and nothing can
become smooth or clear. Sometimes, just the simple act of recognizing that one
is wrong is the first painful step to correcting it.

First is luck, second is destiny.
(Third is feng shui, fourth virtues and fifth education but these are
immaterial to our story.) And yet the Captain had spent his life as if he lived
in the reverse, as if his was the destiny and not his brother’s. He sat now, on
this the second night since their arrival in
Sharan’yurthah
, on the very edge of the known World, he wrestled
with himself, his fears, his values, his righteousness and he realized that for
the first time in months, he was very, utterly and completely alone.

He sighed and looked around the
dark, beautifully appointed room. The walls were cedar, intricately carved and
stained so that they shone in the lamplight, and through the arched window, he
could see the lights of the city. It reminded him of his chamber in the Palace
of
Pol’Lhasa.
This was no palace
however, and not even a Governor’s mansion. The capital was
Damath’cash
and that was farther to the
south, safer and more insular than
Sharan’yurthah,
with more amenities than this northern stronghold border town. But still, the
Magistrate lived well here in his high-walled estate, with color painted upon
color and arched doorways and fine rugs everywhere. For the first time since
TheRhan
he had taken tea from a
porcelainecup, eaten meat roasted from an ox, slept on a mattress stuffed with
down from native geese. And yet, he couldn’t remember a time in all his life
that he felt more miserable than he did now, and he knew is his heart of hearts
why.

He had lost himself.

It had been coming, he’d known it
from the start, from the moment he hesitated with the elder ocelots on the road
to
Sha’Hadin.
Something about this
journey sought to master him, to make him abandon his honor in favor of another
prize, and it was a desperate, hollow thing. There was an ache inside, for his
heart was being pulled in too many directions and he was missing much. Usually,
it was acceptable but now, with so many dead and those alive left so broken, he
wrestled with the cost.

There was one small thing he
could do, however, so he rose from the floor, snuffed out the lamp and headed
out into the hall to do it.

***

The corridors in this fine house
were all the same, high-walled and stained cedar, but he found the Seer’s room
easily by the presence of the snow leopard sleeping at the foot of the door.

When she opened her eyes, the
look she gave him froze his blood. He had caused that, he knew, had turned her
heart away just as he had the Scholar’s. He made it a point to make it up to
her at a later date.

“Major, you have your own room.”
The first words spoken in days.

“My duty is to protect the Seer.”

“Major,” and with an unexpected
rush of tenderness, or perhaps it was guilt, he knelt down beside her. His katanah
clattered against the coolness of the tile floor. “You need to sleep. I need
you rested and sharp when we leave this place.”

She said nothing.

“I need to speak with the Seer.”

Her eyes flashed at him, but
still she said nothing.

“So if you will allow me to take
this watch from your shoulders, I would very much like for you to go to the
room appointed you and sleep until dawn. He will be safe.”

Her chin rose, ever so slightly,
and he knew what she was thinking. It pained him because he himself had authored
it.

“You do not believe me.”

“No. I do not.”

His hand fell to the hilt of the
long sword, and he pulled it from its sheath. He offered her the handle. She
eyed it, then him, before taking it. She held out her hand for the short, which
he also gave up. Without them, he felt unclothed, defenseless. Tucking each
under her arms, she held out her hand for the last, not sword but dagger, the
tanto.
He slipped it from his boot and
again hilt first, offered it to her.

She grunted. “You still have your
claws.”

He tried to smile, and flexed
them to their fullest, long and sharp and dark, dark gold. “I cannot surrender
these. I’m afraid you’ll simply have to trust me.”

She grit her teeth. “If you kill
him, it will dishonor me.”

“Yes.”

“And if you dishonor me, I will
kill myself to restore honor.”

“I will not kill him.”

“You should not have said what
you said.”

“I know.”

“You should not have wiped the
blood on him. That was dishonorable.”

“I know.”

“Sometimes…” she cut her words
short, looked away, wrestling with his rank and her fury. But when she looked
back at him, there was something in her eyes, a cold, sharp blade of its own.
“Sometimes, you are wrong.”

Now it was his turn to look away,
and the muscles in his jaw rippled as he worked to control his responses. The
Bushido
never took offense. There was no
dishonor in being wrong, only in the handling of it.

There is only desire and the sorrow that it brings.

He nodded.

“Sometimes I am wrong.”

And she rose to her feet, a tiny
silver shadow wrapped with so many weapons – her own and now his - and
marched off down the hall, her precariously high boot heels making sharp angry
clacking sounds as she went.

He sighed, pulled himself
together, and pushed into the room of the last Seer of
Sha’Hadin.

***

His back is stiff and his legs ache from too much time in the trees,
but he has a good load today, both of husks and canes, and the curved mashettee
bumps lightly against his thigh as he walks. At least the rattan isn’t heavy,
not as heavy as bricks or wood or bodies or any of the other loads he has
carried in his lifetime, and this way, he can choose his own canes for the
chairs. He can control the length, diameter and quality, and it feels good to
have this much control over any area of his life.

The forest is thick and dense and hot, but he loves it all. He loves
the mangroves and Sundari trees, whose stumps can easily be made into play
forts for kittens. He loves the vines that reach down from the overhead canopy,
which can easily swing a kitten for hours and hours on end. He loves the
mangoes and papyuahs and bananas, especially the bananas which his
father-in-law has taught him to roast in sugar-cane and honey, which can keep a
kitten happy and sticky for hours.

And most of all, he loves a certain kitten, a little girl kitten with
great golden eyes and long black hair in many braids with a pelt liberally
sprayed with tiger stripes and cheetah spots, a kitten who calls him ‘daddy.’

He pauses at the edge of the forest when his home comes into view, a
very small kachkah house that he is gradually changing over to a pukka, with
more stable stones and clay tiles. Up on stilts to weather the rainy season and
occasional flood, it is still mostly wood, bamboo and thatch, but it keeps them
warm and dry and together. It is about a two day walk from
Shathkira
, just close enough to be profitable but far
enough to be safe.

He sees her dark shape split from the shadow of the doorway and she
steps out onto the verandah, Soladad perched on one hip. He can tell
immediately that something is wrong. Carefully, he lays down his bundle and
crosses the clearing towards the house.

Shakuri smiles at him, but her eyes do not.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says. “He says his name is Nemeth. He says
he is your brother.”

And a man with the uniform of a soldier and the face of a lion steps
out of the doorway and into the light…

“Sidi,
no!” but it was too fast and he was unprepared as the Seer
grabbed his throat and rushed him into the far wall. Kirin was stunned, amazed
in fact, at the strength of the man. Now, with a flip of an arm, he was sent
flying through the air to hit the floor with a thud. Naturally, he rolled with
it, coming up in a crouch, prepared for the next attack but none came.
benAramis stood stock still, breathing heavily, taut as an over-wound spring.

“You?”

“Yes,
sidi,”
Kirin said from his crouch on the floor. He did not know if
he should move yet. “Just me.”

“Not that,” the man snarled and
punched a finger at him. “Not
that!”

“Not what?” Kirin frowned, not
certain now whether the man was himself again or not. “I do not understand.”

“I have let you take everything,
Captain. But I will not let you take
that.”

Slowly, Kirin rose to his feet.
The odd, one-eyed gaze followed him, almost a challenge.“I was not trying to
‘take’ anything,
sidi.
You were
meditating. I tried to rouse you, but you were not… answering.”

“So? You felt free to intrude on
my meditations?”

“I merely touched your hand.”

“Do
not
do it again.”

Just like the days back at the
monastery, before battles had been fought, won and lost, at each other’s side.

“I wish to speak with you.”

Sireth snorted, a sound more
likely to come from the Major than him, and he drew himself up to his full
height. “Oh, so we are speaking now, are we, Captain? Your
Bushido
is a capricious master. Have you had enough of silence?”

“I have had enough of death,
sidi.
Which is why I wish…no, I
need
to speak with you.”

The man folded his arms across
his chest. “If you are insisting we continue this journey, then I can assure
you that you have not seen the last of death.”

Kirin sighed, nodded, looked at
his feet. He was a soldier weary of fighting. He was weary of death. He was
very, very weary.

One did not need to be a Seer to
sense this. “Very well. If you wish to speak with me, then you must find me, for
I am going drinking. Stop me as Captain or join me as friend. Your choice.” And
he paused only to blow out the lone candle in the room and stormed past, his
long legs taking him out of the room in a heartbeat.

Kirin shook his head, but
followed.

***

It was very dark in the streets
of
Sharan’yurthah,
for the curfew
gong had been sounded hours ago, and the gates of the city drawn tight. There
were regular patrols however, pairs and trios of soldiers going about their
business, whether on or off duty or a combination of both. Several stopped to
rebuke them, to send them back to their abodes for the night, but once they
spied the flash of Imperial gold, all left them well enough alone.

Kirin followed only a pace or two
behind, again finding himself surprised at the length of the Seer’s strides. He
felt like a kitten trying to keep up. The man did not seem to know where he was
going, or if in fact he was going anywhere at all, for he kept his head down
and simply walked as if working something through. But suddenly, he stopped,
and the Captain had to backpedal so as not to run into him. The Seer looked
left, down a long dark clay-tiled street and continued to stare for several
moments. It housed an Inn a good ways down. It was obviously an Inn by the
lantern perched above a sign – the
Yellow
Scorpion.
He turned and marched toward it, the Captain lengthening his own
stride to keep up.