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

(Book 1 from Tails of the Upper Kingdom)

All
rights reserved.

ISBN-13:
978-1478127093

Copyright
© 2012 H. Leighton Dickson

To Brynn, Graeme and Meg,

(my own little lion cubs)

It was hard to believe that a man
could see twenty-three winters before he began to live. It is harder even to
believe that his life began all at once, on one night, with the occurring of
three obscure and apparently random things: the death of a bird, the flash of
golden eyes and the first of One Hundred Steps. But for Kirin Wynegarde-Grey,
it did happen, just this way. His life began, as all great and terrible things
do, in the Year of the Tiger.

***

It was almost the close of the
Second Watch and the falcon soared high above the Great Mountains. She was
small and speckled with the familiar mask of peregrine grey and the wide
fantail of the raptor. Bells streaked from the leathers that wrapped her thin
legs, securing a parchment in place. She scanned the land below, her wing
dipping slightly as she spied the first of the torches lining the road into the
city. She had flown all night, navigating the violent winds that blew through
the mountains but now, with her destination in sight, she tucked in her wings
and dove like an arrow.

Still the swiftest creature of
earth or sky.

Suddenly, without chirrup or cry,
the falcon died. Her tiny head twisted back, her wings folded neatly over her
spine. She never pulled out from her dive and plummeted to the ground within seconds.
A snowdrift became her tomb, silent and unadorned, save for the single small, dark
pit to mark the bird’s passing.

In a Hall far to the North
somewhere, a priest died as well.

It was the close of the Second
Watch.

***

He could see his breath when he
paused at the top of the One Hundred Steps. The Imperial banner flapped above
him in the darkness and lanterns burned all around, throwing golden light into
the night sky. He was very high up and it was not quite dawn, so he turned back
to look across the rooftops of the city at his feet.

It was the quiet hour before
sunrise and a few windows were already glowing from lamps within. Smoke could
be seen curling from every chimney. The winter had been cold and hearths were
kept fed long into the night. But winter would not last forever. Now, as he
stood under the Imperial banner, he could see the first streaks of purple
behind the mountains and he knew that they were greeting another morning in
peace.

This was
DharamShallah,
the Jewel of the Upper Kingdom.

This was the Roof of the World.

Towering above it all, the palace
of
Pol’Lhasa
slept like a baby, cradled in the arms of her Mother, the
Great Mountains. She needed no fortified walls, this Palace. The peaks
themselves were her guardians, daggers of white against the morning sky.
Kathandu
herself was guardian, her snowy
cliffs serving as battlements, her glaciers deadly moats. Bitter winds and
treacherous paths were nursemaid and sentry, allowing only the chosen to enter
the courts which were the heart and soul and will of the Upper Kingdom.

He felt a rush of pride, which
warmed him more than the hearths or the lanterns. He turned and made his way
underneath the pillars of the Outer Court. Leopards watched him as he passed
but said nothing, and large ebony doors swung open to allow him through. He was
a lion and he wore a sash of Imperial gold. Of course they would let him
through. They knew him well, these leopards – Kirin Wynegarde-Grey,
Captain of the Empress’s personal guard. Like his father had been before him,
and his father’s father before that. His was a noble family. His was a royal
house.

In this early hour, the Palace was
awake but quiet. Leopards lined the walls, eyes roving, swords and staffs
ready. Servants moved along the corridors on slippered feet, carrying baskets
of linens and food. Ministers moved to and from their offices to the tune of a
lone koto, bowed at night, not plucked. It sounded like the Palace breathing.
At this hour, when most cats were sound asleep in their beds, a few worked to
keep them safe and unknowing and fed. It was the way of things.

There was more work to be done now
at the cusp of a New Year, when celebrations were planned for the entire
Kingdom. New Year’s festivals were monumental occasions, this one especially as
the Year of the Ox withdrew into the waters and the Tiger prowled onto the
Celestial stage. The Ox had been a good year, a productive one and stable.
Policies had been made, alliances built, and the Wall had advanced into
Shyria
, half a world away. But the Tiger
meant other thing, for Tiger years were turbulent, full of social upheaval.
Things would change during this year. Society would change. For a man charged
with the security of the Empress and such a Kingdom, ‘change’ was not a good
thing.

And he was a very young man.

He strode past the Seven Candles, a
prayer room for the ministers and chancellors of the Court, and he smiled.
There were far more than seven candles in the vast scarlet room, with torches and
incense pots and kettles. He held his breath as he walked past, for incense
always gave him a headache. Already there were several ministers engaging in
early morning rituals. Rituals of cleansing or forgiveness, of sanctification
or supplication. Prayer wheels were spinning, holy beads were counted,
parchments written and burned, prayers rising up to the heavens on trails of
smoke. It was a room filled with talismen and idols, purified water and sticks
of incense. They were a religious people, a favored people, and they held fast
to many holy things. Cats are, after all, a holy people.

The Minister of Fields spied him,
bowed slightly. He nodded but continued walking. With his station, he needed
bow to no one save the Chancellor or the Empress. He hoped he would see her
today.

His boots echoed as he trotted down
a winding staircase made of polished teak and he raised his tail slightly so
that the tuft would not sweep the wooden steps. They had servants for that sort
of thing and he despised getting dirty, even if it was only his tail. Soon, he
was in the Hall of Warriors.

Which was really a misnomer. It was
more a hall of diplomats, of government officials overseeing the armies of the
Kingdom, and it was located on one of the lower floors of the Palace. Less colourful
than the rest of
Pol’Lhasa,
it’s floors
were grey stone, its walls and doors carved wood. He loved this Hall though,
loved the smell of the cedar and teak and the leather, loved the shine of the
swords, the gleam of the armor lining the walls.

At the far end of the hallway, a
panther stood outside his office, holding a scroll. Kirin’s heart leapt in his
chest.

“Kirin-san,” came a voice to his
right, and he turned to see Master Yeo Tang St. John, Minister of Horses, in a
doorway. St. John was also a lion, and he wore robes of Imperial gold. His mane
was shot with silver and pulled back into an elaborate top-knot. Kirin rarely
wore top-knots. He preferred a simpler style, his mane pulled off his neck in a
simple queue. It fell down to his waist, straight as a razor.

St. John bowed slightly. Kirin did
the same, out of respect.

“You have the drill plans?”

St. John spoke in the Accents of
the Old Courts but his voice was reedy, not at all like a normal lion. In fact,
a little more like a horse.

“Yes,” Kirin said. “In my office.”

“I will need them soon. I hear you
have asked for twenty more horses.”

That shouldn’t have been a
surprise, but he found himself confounded every time.

“No,” he sighed. “I have not asked
for more.”

“Chancellor Agarwal said that
Master Turlington said that Major Laenskaya said—“

“I have not spoken with neither
Chancellor Agarwal nor Master Turlington since the Moon Festival, and Major
Laenskaya…” He did not smile. “Major Laenskaya does not
speak
to anyone.”

St. John grunted, made a move to
slip back into his office. “I will need those plans soon.”

“You will have them.”

The door clicked shut.

He shook his head.

Two more doors clicked open,
Ministers of Fireworks and of the Armory, and he reigned in his impatience to
speak with them. It was the middle of the 3
^rd
Dynasty, when the
Sacred Empress was still young. In fact, she had not yet chosen a suitor and
her people were growing anxious. They needed assurance, as much as they needed
diversion. So, it was with all seriousness that he, the Captain of Her Guard,
was occupied with the Drill Ceremony for the upcoming Festival. The Drill
Ceremony required precision troupes to ride Imperial horses through a
succession of patterns. There would be fireworks of course, and dancing
dragons, and speeches - a spectacle designed to enthrall the entire city, held
in two night’s time. All to impress a potential suitor arriving from
Cal’Cathah.

He smiled as he thought of it. Had
he
been Sacred-born, he would have no need of such horses, nor fireworks, nor
speeches.Or had
she
been lioness...

But that was blasphemy and Kirin
Wynegarde-Grey was no blasphemer.

And truth be told, he did not mind
making arrangements for ceremonies such as this, for it reminded him of the
blessed price of peace, for the succession of the Monarchy, and the
perpetuation of the Pure Races.

And so he spoke with the Minister
of Fireworks and the Minister of the Armory, before finally setting off toward
the panther at his door. He cut an imposing figure, twin swords at his hips,
dark golden mane fanning down his back like a cloak. He was the ideal Captain
for such an army, being tall, square-shouldered and regal like his father
before him. The
Bushido
was strong in him too. He was
Shah’tyriah,
the warrior caste and the
Way of the Warrior shaped his very being. In fact, he was in many ways like his
father, possessing the same quiet authority, the same sober intelligence and
the same deep, soft, rumbling voice accented in the tongue of the Old Court.
Indeed, it was said that much of his authority came from his voice, for when he
spoke he used few words and his men were forced to listen carefully for his
orders. He had never been heard to raise his voice, never been seen to lash his
tail, never been seen to unsheathe his claws. It was simply not his way.

He was a lion among lions, ideal to
command such forces of men.

(And, according to the ladies of
the Royal Court, he was also rather pleasing to look upon and he was often the
subject of their fancies. Another thing that pleased the ladies of the Royal Court,
was the fact that, like the Empress, he had not chosen a suitor, which was also
and often the subject of their fancies, and his mother was constantly beset
with offers. I know this for fact. His brother has told me many stories.)

He recognized the panther for he
was one of the elite and personal bodyguards of Her Excellency, the Empress.
Kirin had handpicked their number himself. He himself had trained them. But the
man’s name was escaping him and he made a note to look into it at a later date.

“Sir,” the panther said and handed
him the scroll. It was unopened, but it needen’t have been. It was common
knowledge that none of the Queen’s Panther Guard could read. Kirn’s eyes
flicked downward, to the Imperial seal of coloured beeswax. Red dragon entwined
around a golden cat over a black lotus.
Her
seal.

Kirin steeled his heart, took the
scroll and entered his office, closing the door softly on the Hall of Warriors.

***

The panther could hear the sounds
of humming.

After searching for hours along
dark, bleak corridors, he had finally found the door.
Agara’tha
was
notorious for its caverns. It was a labyrinthine monastery carved into the
deepest rock. Its floors and walls and ceilings were granite, with veins of
marble and amber occasionally breaking the blackness. Torches burnt from
infrequent perches, anchored into the rock with heavy iron casings. And the
incense was everywhere, heavy and heady, making him dizzy and wondering if he
hadn’t in fact been searching for days.

Yellow smoke seeped from beneath this
peculiar threshold and with a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come.”

The panther pushed the door open.
The ebony was warm under his palm. As he expected, the chamber was thick with
incense, clouds of orange and scarlet billowing from a central hearth. It was
an unnatural flame. He shuddered. The Alchemists were just as unnatural. He
hated coming here.

A figure sat, cross-legged, with
her back to him, facing the hearth. Clothed in absolute black, she was almost a
part of the shadows herself, silhouetted as she was by the hearth’s brilliant
light. A burst of white erupted from somewhere and the incense folded
dramatically around her like a shroud.

He cleared his throat.

“I am looking for Sherah al Shiva.”

“You have found her.”

Her voice was deep, throaty, and he
imagined it was due in part to the large amounts of smoke she breathed daily.
It only added to the mystique, however, and the Alchemists were fond of their
mysteries.

“I have a summons,
sidala.
From the Palace.”

“Leave it by the door.”

 
“Hand to hand,
sidala.
It bears the Royal seal.”

There was only the briefest of
pauses, while she turned her profile to him. It was long, elegant, proud -
Aegypshan
.
Small dark spots ran the length of her hairline, framing her face, gracing her
neck and disappearing beneath the wild crush of mane along her back. A black
streak ran from the inside of her kohl-rimmed eye, down her nose to curl on her
cheek like a serpent.

Cheetah.

“Hand to hand,” she repeated. “Very
well. Choose.”