The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (91 page)

“You from
Shyria,
then? That why you wearing your desert hat? Keep your
precious mane safe and warm?”

That drew a few sniggers from the
crowd.
Odd,
Kirin thought. No one
seemed to be paying attention, yet not a word was missed.

“I have been many places this
past year,
sidi. Shyria
included. It
is said that their Arak is ten times the drink of our sakeh.”

The tiger scowled
. “Shryian
Arak is weaker than dog piss.
I’ll bring you my sakeh. You decide.”

“Fair enough.” And the man turned
to grab a plain ceramic pot, began pouring the golden liquid into a mug that
had seen better days. Passed it over into the gloved hands. Kirin took it and
swallowed.

He set his molars. Kerris had
warned him, over a year ago.
Blow your
boots off, he had said
. Oh, how he missed him.

“I am also in need of a room, for
one night. And stabling for my horses.”

The tiger narrowed his small
yellow eyes, studying him. “We’re full.”

Kirin cupped the mug, smiled at
the man. “How is your ear?” he asked evenly.

The flash of recognition, and the
tiger straightened, swallowing hard. “One room for one night. Yes,
sidi.
Of course. I’ll have one prepared
immediately.”

And the Captain of the Imperial
Guard spent his last night away from home on a lumpy mattress in unwashed bed
linens. But, like many nights of late, he did sleep well.

***

The House Wynegarde-Grey.

It sat far outside the city, for
they had much land, and from the mountains he could see the smoke from the many
hearths rising up against the purple sky. It was not yet twilight, but it was
winter and therefore, dark. The road from the Inn had been clean of snow and
they had made good time today. Quiz had been quick, eager almost to get home,
and it was all Kirin could do to keep the pony from breaking into a headlong
gallop in his rush to his stall. Little aSiffh was game for a race, but for
Kirin, it was important to take the time.

So when the great house came into
view, he sat deep into the short back, causing the pony to slow and finally
stop. He swung off, stretched, breathed in the wood smoke on the evening
breeze. Stars danced in the heavens above, reflecting like jewels on the snowy
garment below. He felt warm, with the pony breathing on one side, and the colt
on the other. He turned and laid a hand on Quiz’s neck.

“Well, this is it, my friend,” he
said softly, running his hand through the shaggy mane, along the shoulders,
reached down under the round belly for the twine. Two tugs and it was gone, the
blanket falling away like a curtain. Quiz turned his large eyes toward him,
blinking, and suddenly, Kirin felt his throat tighten. He rubbed the wide
forehead, the crescent moon of white, the small pricked ears, very thick and
fuzzy under a winter coat of hair.

“You did very well, Quiz. You are
a wonderful trail horse and a fine herd boss and you took care of my brother
like no one ever could. But your duties are over and you are most honorably
discharged. Go find yourself some wild mountain pony mare…” He paused,
reconsidered. “No, on second thought, find yourself some fine Imperial mare
from some Royal stable somewhere. Make many wild shaggy babies. Be happy and
free. If you ever need anything, you will always be welcome here, for we will
always be in your debt and we will always be your home.”

He was talking to horses. He
shook his head.

“Go.” He pushed the sturdy
shoulder. Made ‘go’ gestures with his arms. “Go, Quiz. Be free.”

But the pony laid back his ears
and squealed. The ears pricked forward, waiting. Squealed again. There was no
answering whistle.

It almost broke his heart.

Finally, the pony tossed his
head, snorted, spun on his heels. He bolted off into the darkness, snow flying
up at his heels. He did stop once to look back at the great house that had been
his home for so many years, at the stone gates and cobbles and hearths and
finally, at the Captain, the last reminder of his master and best friend and
soul mate who had also been set free. And then he squealed once last time and
bolted off again, disappearing into the bluffs and the shadows they cast. He
was gone in a heartbeat.

For some odd reason, the Captain
found tears springing to his eyes. aSiffh nudged him, not understanding, and so
he laid a hand on the colt’s neck, feeling the warmth even through the glove.
More dependable than soldiers, more faithful
than men.

“Home,” he said, and began the
walk down to the gate of the great house.

***

Waking up in your own bed is an amazing thing. I will never take it for
granted ever again as long as I live. The smell of the blankets, the familiar
curve of the mattress, the way the light filters in through the panes of window
glass, the sound of servants cleaning stone and old wood. It was always the
same. I was home but I was alone and nothing would ever be the same.

I am not certain what time it was that I awoke, for truth be told, I
did not care overmuch. No one would disturb me, even after being gone for
almost two years as I had been. And so I took my time, time to scrub the desert
sand from my pelt, to scour the scars that had nearly turned me tiger, to brush
into whiteness the new pelt of my fingers which were soft and flexible now, and
no longer gave me pain. Although sometimes I still feel my claws.

The single queue of mane that ran down my back was gold, and the pelt
of my head was very short and dark. It was not mane, but at least it was not
raw skin, and it also no longer gave me pain. However, I usually slept with the
kheffiyah on. It was now a second skin. I do not know who I would be without
it.

I chose for myself not a uniform, but simple clothing. Tan trousers,
linen tunic, long dark zhiju overcoat, and the sash, almost in pieces now, held
together by gold thread and blood. No sword, only the tanto tucked into my
boot. My cloak, my gloves and finally the kheffiyah, the original one given me by
the Alchemist. It still smelled of her.

Gloves from a mongrel, a Seer, a friend. Tail leathers from a snow
leopard, a Major, a sister. Headdress from a cheetah, an Alchemist, a lover.
Shark-tooth pendant from a grey lion, a Geomancer, a brother. I was a patchwork
of the Upper Kingdom, not at all what I was before. It remained to be seen what
I would become.

Pure Gold could have been a tiger.

I went downstairs to find my mother.

  
-an excerpt from the
journal of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey

***

He watched her for several long
moments as she sat by the great charcoal brazier in the kitchen. Ever since he
could remember, she would be up with the servants, tending them as a
shepherdess tends her sheep. She would not cook nor would she clean, for she
was too well bred - a lioness of the Imperial Courts. But she would be there at
first light of dawn, working on some tapestry or piece of porcelain that
required a lady’s touch. This morning, with her tea at her side, she worked on
letters, holding the brush in he right hand, dipping it in inks as dark as
coal. He smiled.

“Mother.”

She looked up at him, eyes small
and dewy and brilliantly blue. She held his gaze and he suddenly wished to be a
Seer, to read the thoughts that surely ran through her mind. She looked down again,
placed the brush on its porcelain stand, blew gently on the fresh ink, and
slowly, with all eyes in the room fixed on her, she rose to her feet.

She was frailer than before, a
mere slip of a thing. A dried leaf in winter that could be blown away in the
slightest breeze. No one was breathing. Such a thing had never happened.

And like fine, thin, trembling
branches, she raised her hands out to him.

“My son,” she whispered. He
stepped forward and caught her in his arms, held her while she wept. The servants
did not watch – they were too well-trained – and so he held her for
a very long time, until her breathing returned to normal. She looked up into
his face, touched his cheek with a dried trembling palm, smiled. “You are
home.”

“Yes. Home.”

“And your brother?”

Again, that cursed tightening of
the throat. There was simply no stopping it nowadays.

“Away,” he explained. “Exploring
another vast unexplored land. Happy, wild and free.”

“My Kerris,” she smiled. “Always
running somewhere. He is with tigers, I presume.”

“Yes.” He smiled now. “With
tigers.”

“He should have been born a
tiger.”

“Yes.” And he held her hand as
she moved to sit back on the stool that had been her stool ever since he could
remember. A cup of tea was placed silently at his side. It was the way of
things.

“You look different.” Her eyes
were searching. He was glad she was old. Perhaps she would not see.

“It has been a long journey. I am
glad to be home.”

His mother wrapped her thin hands
across his. She reminded him of a bird. “Lyn’ling has much to tell you, my
son.”

He dropped his eyes. “And I have
much to tell her.”

And so they sat for some time by
the warmth of the fire, drinking tea and not talking overmuch, but enjoying the
comfort and familiarity that was home.

***

He moved through the crowded
streets of the city, marveling at how so much had changed in the Kingdom, in
his life, but here, everything appeared the same. The same lampposts, the same
shops, the same wood walls, small windows and stone roads. Houses lived next
door to marketplaces, temples and stables and libraries and inns. He suspected
it was crowded for a reason. Winter in
DharamShallah
was a bitter thing. Ice and wind could kill if they were not blocked by fire,
wood and stone. The elements always warred with each other. It was the way of
things. Cats merely learned to survive in the face of them.

No one recognized him, but there
was nothing surprising in that. He had never been one to encourage that sort of
thing. Had never used his station for status at celebrations or parties or the
like. Had never been seen with the right people, or played politics in a way
that accrued popularity and power. So he moved through the streets with little
trouble, breaking stride only once the steep steps of the palace came into
view.

Pol’Lhasa.
The most beautiful place in all the world, with her high
winged rooftops and blackened cedar beams, with
Kathandu
, the fang of the Great Mountains rising up above and
behind. She could be seen from anywhere in the city, proud
Pol’Lhasa
where the heart of the Kingdom beat. It never failed to
take his breath away, and it did not fail to do so even now. He was honoured to
have served here.

It was late afternoon, but
already growing dark. Or perhaps it was the snow clouds, moving in like wild
horses to cover the city. Regardless, torches burned up the hundred steps to
the concourse proper, where cedar beams towered over everything, and windows
reached to the skies. When he had left, there had been banners heralding the
Year of the Tiger. Now, new banners waved, for it was the cusp of yet another
new year. The Rabbit would burrow because the Dragon would terrify it from the
earth. A Dragon year. The Year of the Dragon.

 
He felt old.

The thought had never troubled
him before, but now, there was no place to turn where he could not escape it.
He wondered if it had been the constant reality of death that had caused him to
grow morbid and dark, but then again, it was just as likely due to the
shattering of his glass, that wonderful, blissful glass that kept him in his
way and happy with the keeping. Kerris had been right. The Bushido was a life
of chains. But it was his life.

And Kerris, wherever he was, was
now a father.

And so he stood near the foot of
those steps, and leaned against the tobacconist’s shop. Scents of pipe and tea
filled his nostrils, and he marveled that, for a carnivorous people, cats had
found many ingenious ways to consume their greens. But then again cats were,
and always have been, an ingenious people.

As the clouds approached, he
wondered what his nieces or nephews would be like, whether they would be told
stories of ‘the way things were’, of their uncle in a distant land, of the
remarkable, terrible journey they had all taken together. He wondered if he
would ever meet them, or tell his mother about them. He wondered at the
kitten’s presentation gown she had embroidered, and whether it might be suited
for a grey striped kitten instead of gold. He wondered whether she would die
not knowing or disappointed.

And all of this for a human. One
single Ancestor who truly should have stayed dead, but whose pursuit of life
destroyed all in his path. Ultimately, that had been the way of things as well,
for the Ancestors had been indeed a bloody, inglorious people. Killing and
death were their only legacy. Death, killing, temples and cats.

He folded his arms across his
chest and sighed, and his breath rose up from his mouth. It was well and truly
dark now, the snow falling lightly all around him. He had heard snatches of
conversations from passers by. A new baby girl, a lengthy illness, a dead
husband. A dedication, a coronation, a funeral. A white Chancellor, a white
tiger. No heads of state and anarchy in the streets. He would believe none of
it. People so loved to talk. He had never been one to talk.

He glanced over his attire, at
the less-than formal clothing, at the utterly ruined sash which he would give
as a gift along with the pearl. Only perfection was acceptable when the Captain
of the Guard was summoned into the presence of his Empress. He smiled sadly.
There was nothing even remotely perfect about him now.