The Silk Map (40 page)

And then—astonishment—Lord Katta returned!

Yet could I trust him? He seemed less certain of himself than when we parted and more apt to take me for granted than to take me into his confidence. Had the Charstalkers influenced him? Their insinuations into a mind might be more subtle than those manifestations that produced fire and peril. They might lurk deep within a mind, subtly turning it toward evils of which an individual might not be consciously aware.

I kept such councils to myself, even as I returned to Qushkent.

I will not insult you by giving you a verbal tour of the city, for who could ever forget the winding road up the mountain slope, nor the vast statue-towers of the Gate of the Falcon and the Hawk, nor the Bazaar of Parrots with its hundreds of tents and its eponymous birds upon golden pillars relaying news and prices? Who could not marvel at the mix of architecture in a city with echoes of both Mirabad's minarets and Yao'an's pagodas? Or the towers of day, twilight, and night, known better as the towers of the Blackbird, the Crake, and the Owl? Or at the House of the Pigeons, whose winged messengers flutter in and out through all daylight hours? Or the thousand shining windows of the Palace of Larks?

Not you, who forget nothing.

So I will restrict myself to what could not be glimpsed from the heights. We made our way to the Alley of Babblers. I was carried between Persimmon Gaunt and Imago Bone, who though somewhat at odds at that moment, cooperated in playing the role of exotic servants. Lord Katta was the traveling merchant, Snow Pine his bride, Widow Zheng his mother-in-law. There were those who recognized and hailed Katta, but he kept his pleasantries brief so that we might install ourselves within the Caravanserai of the Dancing Flame. By now it was twilight, and the evening ceremonies of the Nightkindlers had begun, in which offerings are burned to combat the coils of Lightrender, the evil one. Even in this intellectual district of a cosmopolitan city, the call of the local religion left the common room quiet. In the courtyard where the camels and horses and herd animals stayed, prayers began, addressed to a vast brazier. Our party had the much smaller flame of a firepit to ourselves, our nearest companions a solitary, turbaned man from Anoka reading from the holy book of the Testifier, a fur-capped mercenary from Madzeu sharing drinks with his own memories, and a pair of romantically inclined young women of Qushkent holding hands in a far corner. No one even asked why my companions shared space with a carpet, perhaps assuming Katta was simply cautious with his merchandise. Nevertheless I was careful not to speak.

Thus, I could only listen as Katta said, “I am told the balloon has descended only to the garden within the Palace of Larks, there to consult with the ruler, whose title is kagan. No Karvaks have been seen. Nor anyone else from the balloon.”

“They must be seeking the way into the CloudScar,” Zheng said. “If the kagan knows of a way, and the Karvaks can bargain the secret out of him. Karvaks are said to be very persuasive.”

“It is easy enough to enter the CloudScar,” Katta mused. “Simply leap the outer wall, or plunge into one of the many civic garbage chutes. Surviving the plunge is another matter. No one has ever heard of a person returning from that journey.”

“They don't need to take it,” Snow Pine said. “They have their flying gers. I don't understand why they are bothering talking to the kagan when they could simply descend.”

“Perhaps they've tried,” Bone said. “Perhaps that's why there is only one balloon now and not three.”

“The winds whip fiercely within the CloudScar,” Zheng said, “or so it's claimed. And none knows what the terrain is like beneath.”

“I would consider stealing the balloon,” Bone said. “But I too would rather know that the journey was survivable first. A tunnel through the mountain sounds more appealing.”

“The Silk Map showed a line running from the beak of the mountain down into the valley,” Gaunt said. “So what could it be?”

“I would assume it is a passage of some sort,” Bone said. “A tunnel leading from the beak deep through the rock, emerging at last below the clouds.”

“What is at the beak, in any case?” Snow Pine asked.

“A shrine,” Katta said, “said to be a holy site, blessed by the Flame Saint himself. Within it lies a post and an ox-cart.”

“Excuse me?” Bone said.

“Legend has it that Qushkent was long a trading city, its defensible location making it a good stopping point for caravans. Many tribes contested the location, often in bloody ways. At last the Flame Saint prophesied that the next person to arrive aboard an ox-cart should be the kagan of the city. Soon after there came a trader named Timur and his family aboard such a cart. Timur was bemused and pleased to become ruler of a city. The cart he gave to the priests, who placed it in the shrine. The Flame Saint did a peculiar thing, however; he tied the cart's rope to a post, weaving a most intricate knot. There is a legend that whoever can untie the knot will soon reach paradise.”

“That sounds suggestive,” said Gaunt.

“But ominous,” said Bone.

“The knot must have a connection to Xembala,” said Zheng. “Something about it must be linked to the path.”

“How do we get there?” Bone asked.

Katta said, “The region leading to the shrine, the part of the mountain that overhangs the void, is named the Necropolis of Nine Years. Its only access is from the Palace of Larks, reserved for the kagan's family, and the Tower of the Crake, commanded by Nightkindler priests.”

“Necropolis of Nine Years?” Gaunt asked, her interest in graveyards of all sorts apparently piqued.

“Each tomb in that place,” Katta said, “is built above a shaft, and each shaft has a trapdoor. An intricate ledger is kept of each body, and after nine years to the day of interment, the lever is pulled, and the corpse departs this mountain for the clouds. Another legend has it that one day the mountain of bones beneath the clouds will rise to touch the city, and Qushkent's days will be at an end.”

Bone scratched his chin. “This suggests a means of getting to the secret tower. I don't suppose the officiants who operate these levers have nicely concealing full-body robes. Could we possibly be that lucky?”

“Yes,” Katta said. “The Nightjar Psychopomps, a specialized order of Flame Priests, wear robes the color of charcoal, only a shade brighter than night.”

“Aha,” Bone said.

“However,” Katta said, “only women are allowed within that order.”

“I see.”

“They also wear a ball and chain, the silver chain representing the River of Stars, the iron ball embodying the Pit Where Light Screams, the dark heart of the universe.”

“Hm.”

“And their faces are covered with intricate scars representing the hidden motions of unseen planets.”

“Um.”

“And they are required to sever their right arms, for the evil one, Lightrender, was once named the right arm of Stargrace, the creator spirit.”

“Er.”

“That all said, you may have a good idea.”

“You think so?” Gaunt asked.

“Only three sorts of folk may enter the Necropolis of Nine Years without suspicion—the kagan's people, the Nightjar Psychopomps, and families of the recently departed.”

“Well,” Bone said, “I suspect it's safer to pretend to be a bunch of robed priests than anything else. So, let's say we steal or mimic the right costuming. We tuck our right arms inside and wear makeup for scarring. We go to the tower—”

“And there our journey probably ends,” Katta said. “Very few even among the priests are allowed to venture within. I think I should call upon an old friend knowledgeable about the priesthood. This I will have to do alone.”

“Not alone, O master,” I said, startling the others, for they had convinced themselves I would not speak.

“Deadfall,” said Katta. “I return to the Tower of the Crake. It is safest for me to proceed alone.”

“I can be inconspicuous,” I said. “You may need protection.”

Katta sighed. “Very well. I cannot deny you are useful, as a guide and as a combatant.”

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.

“Can the rest of us be of use?” Gaunt asked.

Katta said, “I think resting and gathering your strength would be the best use of your time.”

“I must be working on Living Calligraphy,” Zheng said.

“I recommend you wait until we know more about our plans,” Katta said. “You stated you could only prepare one scroll in a week's time.”

“So are you our leader now, Katta?”

“I surrendered the need to lead people long ago. If anyone chooses to follow me now, it is because I follow footprints that greater beings than I laid down. Follow, or not, as you would.”

With that Katta carried me out of the caravanserai as though I were a mere thing of cloth. I might have questioned whether he truly dodged leadership as he claimed, but I needed to be quiet. Already I feared the reader, the drinker, or the lovers might have overheard more than they should.

For the most part trading was done in the Bazaar of Parrots, and the soldiers slept in the Citadel of Helmetshrikes, yet the Alley of Babblers was lively until late, and we attracted no special attention, even though I billowed about Katta's shoulders in a fashion unusual for a cloak. At last we reached the Tower of the Crake, which borders several districts and marks a divide between the lower-class neighborhoods and the upper-class areas collectively called the Perch. The tower had many hidden ways and subtle doors, and I helped Katta reach one such, an access concealed in plain sight behind a cluster of rose bushes. Katta used a key given him by his friend Ozan, and with a click and a shove we were once again inside the tower.

The shadowy passage wound up the tower and contained the isolated cells of Nightkindler priests. Without need of sight, Katta ascended to the proper cell and knocked.

“What? Surgun!”

“Ozan. It is good to see you.”

“I thought you might be dead. When the Karvaks arrived yesterday, I thought, ‘This is surely a Surgun moment.' Yet you did not appear.”

“I have indeed been close to death,” Katta said, embracing the clerk, “and that is one of many reasons I desire your company now.”

I was soon thrown over a chair that swiftly became strewn with other clothing. I have by now observed much human romance, and I confess it holds little fascination for me; meanwhile it seemed I was free to conduct my real business of the night.

Soon I was flowing under the space beneath the door and exploring the tower. Before long I found myself within the great space of the library, seeking the upper range where Ozan had showed Katta certain ominous books. From time to time Nightkindlers passed by, either on guard duty or hastening to one late errand or another, for a sect that so emphasizes light within darkness has more than the usual number of evening rituals. I was careful to time my eccentric flights to moments when the library was empty of humanity.

At one point I found a cart full of unshelved books, and chanced to find one whose binding was white in color. I clutched it, curling one corner about it, for I saw a use for it elsewhere.

At last I reached the range of dark volumes arranged in a diamond shape, and found my target: the bright volume in its midst.

Pulling it out was no difficulty. Reading it was, however; while I possess analogs of human sensory apparatus, these magical senses do not allow me to see in the dark. In any event, I intended to put the book to use elsewhere.

I shoved in its place the book from the cart. It was not a perfect fit, and did require some squeezing; but I can exert a great deal of force if needed.

And now, speed was of the essence. I retraced my path and returned to the exterior door. Luckily it was easy to open. I left the door ajar and furtively slipped back to the caravanserai. There, my companions were still in conversation.

“In Abundant Bamboo,” Snow Pine was saying, “I told people I was mourning my husband, and that it was hard, but that I would be all right. I told them in a particular way, heartbroken but strong and brave-looking, so that they would leave me alone. If I said I did not mourn, they would not trust me with myself. If I appeared to mourn too much, they would not trust me with myself. How could I explain that it was different every day? There were days when it was like a mountain on top of me, and days when I barely remembered him at all. Mostly I felt an ache, but one that kept me wanting to live. But what I did not want to do was be food for people's need to prove themselves good.”

“To say ‘flawed people,'” said Bone, “is merely to say ‘people' with an extra syllable.”

“How are you now?” Widow Zheng asked.

“I feel alive. I feel I might be able to hold A-Girl-Is-A-Joy again. Knowing that I am trying my best, I am sometimes able to enjoy what I see around me.” She giggled. “I fought mummies! And a giant sand-squid-thing! I sailed beneath the sands, and rode a dragon horse above them! No one can know what wonders tomorrow has up its sleeve.”

“We had best turn in,” Gaunt said with a note of regret. “Tomorrow's wonders may be exciting indeed.”

I shuffled up the wall to the sleeping rooms, as my business was elsewhere. I was fortunate that an open window allowed me access to Gaunt and Bone's room. There I took the book and shoved it under what I guessed to be Persimmon Gaunt's pillow, for her writing implements were placed nearby. Then swiftly as I dared, I returned to the Tower of the Crake.

Had I been capable of whistling I would have done so as I shuffled into Ozan's chamber and made myself an innocent carpet again. I was just in time, but Katta and Ozan were busy dressing, and neither seemed to notice.

“Remember that I did not see you, Surgun. Dalliances are one thing, but disloyalty is another.”

“I know that you are loyal to your pyrarch in spirit, Ozan. But I was never here.”