The Silk Map (46 page)

As Bone tied off the ironsilk rope, Gaunt spoke to the entities within her sword.

Our time is desperate
, she thought.
If any of you wish release—but not you, Charstalker—tell me your names. And if you are grateful, use whatever power a spirit possesses to disrupt the activities of those beyond that door
.

Several voices assented.

Soon, many nimbuses of light rushed through the door, and the sounds of agitated soldiers and guards made her smile.

Now there is only you and I
, said the trapped Charstalker. Her smile faded.

“I'm ready,” Bone said.

“So am I.”

They heard clicking at the door as he finished tying her off. She could see the tension in his face, as he forced himself not to rush the job, ready until the last moment to accept surrender, if he could not secure her properly.

He finished.

The door burst open. Warriors of city and steppe competed with each other to see who would reach the rogues first.

Gaunt and Bone shared a look and a smile.

They jumped.

 

We thought it was about time

Your personal demons and mine

Got a room.

We splurged.

You only get so many personal demons in this life.

The room was up in Riverclaw—

We packed our personal demons onto the Golden Epoch Ferry

In one of those big family cabins that isn't really so big

With the fold-out beds and bunks and the concealed weiqi board

And told them to be good

And remember to write

And not to miss the whistle for the Foreign District

(Our personal demons were foreign devils after all)

And we waved goodbye, arm-in-arm, from the docks at Abundant Bamboo.

I like to imagine

Your personal demons and mine

Jockeying for the best view out the windows

Upsetting the top-heavy boat a little

And the neighbors a lot.

I like to envision

Our personal demons

Drinking cheap wine

The kind we're embarrassed by

Even when we're stone drunk

And somehow turning weiqi

Into a game of chance.

We found a room for ourselves too

We did not splurge

It was our usual one

At the Inn of the Five Bats

Which may take its name a trifle seriously

But nocturnal rustlings

Made agreeable counterpoint

To our own.

I like to envision

Your personal demons and mine

Having a good time too

Even though they cast alarming shadows

And made weird screechings

And scratched the furniture

And had a lot to say to each other

Of an incendiary nature

I'm sure I don't want to know.

We said a lot of things too

Things you only say

On a quiet morning

When you know youth's left for summer lands

And death's sailed from the winter port we'll visit last

And we're a continent away from both

With just each other

And it hasn't all been said

But maybe it doesn't have to be.

I suppose

Your personal demons and mine

May feel they've been tricked

And may take it out on strangers

They may speak loudly

And act condescending

And make fools of themselves in nice restaurants

And kick doors and break windows

And wonder why nobody loves them

And weep steaming tears

Claw in claw

And refreshed, look for a gambling den.

We should bring them back, we agree

Sipping tea.

Any day now.

But they worked so hard

And needed their rest.

All our personal demons

Need a break from us

Once in a while.

—Gaunt, untitled, Xembala

As Bone fell, his first thought was,
Whatever possessed me to think this was a good idea? I cannot even blame the Charstalkers
.

At least the approach of death was beautiful. In a surprising cold silence the shelf of the mountain seemed to fall upward like a thrown stone, blaze of blue above it, birds prickly dark specks tracing strange messages he'd never understand. Three Karvak balloons bobbed like children's balls, while a fourth swelled beside him like an ocean wave. Spears of darkness swished near them without hitting them, and he blinked his relief at the missed arrows even as he thought,
Four balloons?

White engulfed them. Misty light made him think of various visions of the afterlife. Perhaps he could compare it with the real thing very soon.

He reviewed everything he'd done with the rope up above. It seemed to him he might have paid more attention to his work, enemy warriors notwithstanding.

What was Gaunt saying?
I love you? How could you?
Hard to say.

They reached the end of their rope.

The preternatural elasticity saved them from death upon whatever unseen rock lay below and propelled them back up above the cloud layer, where the Karvaks were waiting.

Bone saw the balloon looming above, the gondola-ger attached and soldiers looking down with what was surely a mirror of his own expression.

We're going to hit
—

Somehow Gaunt had freed Crypttongue. As they shot close she slashed the balloon. Impact ripped the sword from her grasp, but they were safely past.

Safely . . . the mountain shelf rushed toward them like a giant gray hand. It suddenly occurred to Bone he hadn't allowed for the possibility of impact at the upper end. He shut his eyes.

Luckily, they were slowing down. Would they hit?

They hit.

They were fortunate, however. It was like falling hard from a ten-foot drop, but no worse.

Bone and Gaunt swore imaginatively, their curses trailing off as they fell once more.

When next they emerged, the Karvak balloon was plunging into the mists northward like a daylight moon disappearing behind clouds. As they rose they saw more balloons emerging from behind the avian scowl of Qushkent. Their ascents and descents were slowing, and Bone did not think fresh archers would have trouble shooting them now.

Down again, up again . . . yes, the pace was slowing, and the balloons descending.

“Cut us loose?” he managed to say. “Lowest point?”

“Why—the hell—not—” he thought she might have said.

He worked out a dagger and began cutting at their ropes. He did not tell her that he could only be sure of freeing one of them at a time, and that she was going to be first. This meant he was perhaps sending his love to her doom. Yet a brutal logic had been inculcated in him on the streets of Palmary, working from his feet up to his brain. You picked
possible
death over
probable
death, and having reached that conclusion, sending your friends to possible death was a kindness.

He timed it well. “I love you,” he said on a downward plunge and cut her loose.

She was entitled to a scream. She did not make one. Gaunt was gone.

And Bone was rushing up and away from her, into the presence of three Karvak balloons. He was surprised to find they were firing no arrows. Then he saw the peregrine falcon winging toward him.
I hate that bird
, he thought. He still had a dagger in his hand, and as he rose he waved it at the falcon, in between slicing at his lines. At the uppermost point of his ascent, it came rushing at him, pausing long enough for Bone to see the message tied to its foot.

The bird shrieked menacingly, but Bone knew that was for show. He responded by waving his dagger and cursing.

It followed him down, for no natural creature can match a peregrine falcon in its stoop.

At the bottom of the plunge he finished the job and cut himself free. He tumbled like a sack of potatoes for perhaps five feet before hitting a rocky surface.

He screamed, as Gaunt had not.

Yet he remained conscious enough to know the bird had alighted beside him. Unable to see the falcon, Bone said, “You have earned a stringy thief as your meal, if you wish it.” Or perhaps he said it. Perhaps he simply groaned.

It did not peck at him. Bone reached out for the bird.

“Bone!” Gaunt was calling out of the mist. “Imago Bone! What are you going on about? And are you in one piece?”

“We have a messenger,” Bone said, unravelling the note from the falcon's foot.

“He's lost his wits,” came the voice of Widow Zheng.

“
No
,” followed the rasp of the dead woman, whose form was claimed by the spirit of Swarnatep. “
There is a living thing beside him.
”

“Bone!” Gaunt called more urgently, stepping closer.

“It is all right,” he said. Upon his claiming the message, the bird soared once more, so completely gone it was as though he'd imagined it. Yet the paper remained with him. It was impossible to read, here in the sunlit mists, so he pocketed it.

“Bone.”

“Gaunt.”

Fumbling, they found each other, embraced in the cold, bright whiteness. “You are unhurt?” Bone asked.

“Bruises. Abrasions. Terror. You?”

“Much the same. Swan's blood! Painter's tears! We really survived that.”

“Don't be too sure. This could be the afterlife.”

“
No
,” put in Swarnatep.

“So,” Zheng said in the silence that followed. “There is still an ironsilk rope.”

“Hanging like a sword over our heads,” Gaunt said. “We must go.”

“But go where?” Bone said.

“
I have senses you do not
,” Swarnatep said. “
I will guide you. Will you take my hand, Widow Zheng?
”

“I—yes.”

Gaunt took Zheng's hand and Bone hers. He wished they'd had enough rope to make a proper line. Still, being alive at all was something of a shock. Everything from this moment might fairly be seen as the cream on the milk.

The surroundings did indeed resemble cream. Shivering, they crept onto a series of rocky slabs that a kindly or imaginative observer might have considered steps. Stone rose on either side, dark suggestions of form. In such an environment it was easier to credit the teachings of the Undetermined, that all observed reality was emptiness decked out for the ball, and all willful creatures the dancers. He might have asked Katta about that, and it occurred to Bone that Katta also would have made a good guide in a situation where sight was untrustworthy. He hoped Katta would escape Deadfall—and that Deadfall would escape whatever madness had possessed it.

Widow Zheng interrupted his thoughts. “Swarnatep . . . how long ago did you know—me?”

“
I do not know how much time has passed
,” said the dead voice. “
A short while from the Leviathans' perspective. A long while from ours. The Heavenwalls were still being built.
”

“Did I hurt you in some way?”

Silence.

“Speak, if you would. I've loved many men. I've even tumbled with Art Quilldrake once or twice. A woman once too, if truth be told. I've also loved with no hope of response. I can sense such a thing in others. Did I hurt you?”

“
You did not mean any harm. If a man is blinded by the sun, is the sun at fault? Can the sun choose not to dazzle? No one who inspires love from afar can be said to cause hurt.
”

“Some, upon knowing they are admired, use the admiration cruelly. Some who are beautiful privately see themselves as wretches and admirers as fools worthy of contempt. I may have behaved in this way, in my youth.”