The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (42 page)

As
the lions set about their work, Fallon sat by the brazier, hugging her knees
and smiling, thinking she was the happiest she had ever been in her life.

***

When Solomon came that night, he
was very optimistic, jovial even, and had actually asked if this had been the
idea of Fallon Waterford, ‘Scholar in the Court of the Empress.’But then, as he
began muttering about data bases, flash screens and global positioning beacons,
political maps versus geographic ones, and a myriad of unlikely word
combinations such as ‘continental drift’, his mood changed. He would need a day
to access it all, for something called the ‘Tem Power Sell’ was low. He would
be ready for them tomorrow night, he promised, and had mentioned his excitement
at finding a ‘Hum-lan-der’ intact and operational. By the time the connection
had faded, Fallon was convinced that this man was no ordinary tiger.
If,
she
suspected deep down inside, if he was tiger at all.

She
suspected he was dog.

That,
she also suspected, would be a definite problem.

So,
on this night of little victories, she bedded down restless, trying in vain to
stop her mind from wandering and spinning in darker directions. That night, in
her dreams, the pheasant farm by
Parnum’bah
Falls
was gone.

***

The sky was red. Clouds stretched
across it, long purple fingers covering the last glimpse of the sun as she laid
her sleepy golden head on to her pillow, the Great Mountains. On a normal
evening, the sight would cause the Captain to marvel and wonder and even wax
philosophic if he had the time. He was such a lion. But this hour, any of these
hours of late in fact, he was in no mood for marvels or wonders or
philosophies. These past hours, there had been no room for sun.

Today,
they had made
Roar’pundih.

Roar’pundih.
Once a jewel among dogs, if such a thing were possible, now a thorn in the
paw of the Upper Kingdom. This thorn had not been pulled. Rather, it had been
patched, bandaged over and left to fester and rot. The land in the last few
hours had told them as much. Fields of grass, dry and parched, rubble and
twisted metal and stone. The Mountains seemed angry, snappish and small.
Indeed, it seemed as if she were a different Mother, one with brittle claws and
yellowed teeth. Or perhaps, all the years of canine infestation had simply made
her that way.

Or the rats.

They
had started the Wall in quiet good humor since morning, determined to maintain
the course of the night before and, indeed, they had made good time. But the
deeper they journeyed into the
Phun’Jah,
the deeper their spirits had
fallen, kites with no wind. Towers had become more frequent along the way and
they were manned almost every 100 paces. Leopards, for the most part, but there
had been some tigers, some jaguars, and some of the smaller Races, ocelots and
servals and sandcats. More than a few snow leopards too. They had not spoken
but he knew they watched. It was their job to watch.

So
it was in the middle of this red evening that the huge battle tower came into
sight, tall and gleaming, her stone and brickwork worn smooth from years of
wind and sand.
Roar’pundih
. As they drew near, Kirin could see the
stories, scorch marks and oil slicks and broken carapaces along its length,
stone scars from too many battles. Not so different from the land and
surrounding mountains, he thought, but high above, the Imperial banner still
waved, and he had taken some measure of comfort in that.

They
had been ushered into that great red tower by the commander, a greying lion
named Nehru Tripp-Jonesthon. They were fed the same meal as the previous night
and so they sat, mugs of hot tea in hand, parchments and inks and chalks
scattered around the brazier, waiting for Solomon to come.

“They
rushed to their hut once they heard what had happened, but it was too late.
Pure Gold had tasted the poisoned plum, and lay, still as stone, on the cold,
hard floor. And this is how the young Rajah found her... “

Once
again, Kerris had managed to enthrall his audience, for this time, even the
Seer seemed caught up in the ages-old tale,
Pure Gold and the Seven
Chi’Chen.
It was a sad tale, poignant when well told, and more than once,
he had seen his brother bring veteran soldiers to tears. Despite his many
flaws, Kerris was a brilliant storyteller.

“They
built for her a glass sarcophagus, embellished it with gold and rubies and sea
shells, and laid it out in the depths of the jungle, to be guarded day and
night by all seven monkeys. The young Rajah stepped down from his palanquin the
moment he saw her, placed his fingers to the glass that covered her. He wept,
for she was as beautiful in death as she had been in life, and it was with a
lilting
Chi’Chen
blessing that he knelt down to kiss her lips. The Old
Rani’s magic was too powerful, however, her secrets too dark, and with a
terrible breaking heart, the young Rajah took the poisoned plum into his own
golden hands and bit deeply of it. They laid him next to his love and sealed
the sarcophagus with anhonda paste and tree gum and left it to the vines of the
green, green jungle. And so there they have laid for a thousand years, less a
day, covered in gold and rubies and sea shells...”

His
quick blue eyes scanned his audience, searching for those most caught. They
fell upon the tigress.

“Perhaps one day, the spell will
break and the lovers will rise. Perhaps one day, someone will find the
sarcophagus, but it is said to be guarded by the spirits of seven dragons now.
Until then, however, and even today, and perhaps forever more, they lie
together in a sleep as still as stone, deep in the green, green jungle, covered
in gold and rubies and sea shells...”

The
silence was praise enough, for true storytellers prefer a hush over a cheer.
Kerris lifted the tea to his lips, waiting to see who would be first to break
the spell he had woven. It would not be the tigress, he was sure of this. She
was staring into her mug, shaking her head, fighting back tears. And although
he had seen this reaction in many, many ladies on many, many occasions, this
time was different. He wasn’t entirely certain why.

“Admirable, Kerris, as always,”
said Kirin. “The kabuki is also effective.”

“I beg to differ, dear brother,’ he
said. “Kabukis are rarely effective.”

“Mmm,”
purred Sherah. “A man can never play a convincing woman.”

Kirin
turned to her. “You think not? With the face made white, and the lips red? And
the wigs and kimonohs? I think it rather amazing.”

“A
woman is more than white face and red lips,
sidi.
No man can plumb her
depths.”

“But a Kabuki is not meant to
capture depth,
sidala.
It is a treat for the eyes. Nothing more.”

“And
you have just made my point, Kirin. Kabuki is a treat for the eyes,” Kerris
sighed. “But a well-told story is a treat for the soul.”

“Hm,”
said Kirin.

“It
is a stupid story,” said Ursa. She slid a glance at the Seer. “I’m sure
you
like it.”

“I
do,” said Sireth. “I think it’s lovely.”

“You
like k’zlaki.”

“In
fact, I don’t like k’zlaki. But I do like kittens. And this is a lovely story
for kittens.”

“Pah.
Kittens, stories and k’zlaki. I don’t know which is worse.”

Sherah
rolled onto her belly, crossed her ankles in the air, cupped her chin in her
hands. Her golden eyes were glued to the Captain, her gaze stickier than
anhonda paste and tree gum.

“You like kabuki,
sidi?"

Kirin
cleared his throat. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if her question were
more personal than one’s taste in theatre. He chose his words as he would
swords.

“In truth, I have not seen many.
This one, yes, when I was a child. A few others...”

“Perhaps
you shall take your children some day.”

It
was an innocent comment, he told himself over and over, an innocent topic.
So why did it boil his blood so?

“Perhaps.”

“If
I
have kittens,” said Fallon in a quiet voice, “I will tell them this
story, but, differently.”

Kerris cocked his head. “How so?”

She
looked up at him, her eyes serious and round.

“I think I would make Pure Gold a
tiger.”

Everyone
stared at her, just like they used to at home. Except Sireth benAramis. He was
smiling.

“Well?
Why not?” Fallon sputtered, “It’s not fair! The stories are always about lions
and lionesses!Why can’t I tell stories about
my
people? Why does everything
have to be about lions?!”

No
one had a response for her, and she glanced from face to face, begging to be
told if and how she was wrong. The Captain seemed to be wrestling with the
question on his own and avoided her gaze. Kerris seemed amused, intrigued even,
that she would have the nerve to ask. She could see the wheels behind his eyes
turning. The Seer reached over and squeezed her hand.

“You
will have many stories to tell your kittens, my dear,” he said. “But a great
many of them
will
have to do with lions.”

And
then it came.

whoompf

Kirin’s
head snapped up.

whoompf
whoompf whoompf

He
was on his feet in a heartbeat, pressing a hand onto the dark window glass, the
Major at his side.

One
by one, cauldrons of blue flame leapt to life all along the Great Wall.

“Rats,”
he growled. He swung around to the people behind him. “No one is to leave this
room. Kerris, bolt the door and open neither it nor the window unless either
myself or the Major commands you do so. Is that understood?”

It wasn’t a question.

And
with that, he, the Major and the remainder of the leopard Guard strode out the
door and Kerris slid the bolts home.

***

Rats are a terrible thing. It is
said they are born in the depths of the earth, formed from clay and worms and
decayed monkey flesh for indeed, they have some marked similarity to monkeys.
Mostly in the arms and fingers and face, but with the teeth, the jagged claws
and the whipping, scaly tails, they are the worst of all animals. They
sometimes move on all fours and sometimes on two and the big ones come almost
to the knees. They do not speak, but rather chitter and squeal and the scraping
of their limbs over rock lives in nightmares all throughout the Kingdom.

They
move by the hundreds.

It is also not sure why they move
as they do, what causes the massive swarms of creatures to destroy villages and
farms alike. But the only thing that is sure to stop them is oil, brute force
and fire.

Like
a single living thing they swarmed up the Wall, a mass of shiny blackness and
Ursa could see the leopards of
Roar’pundih
fighting to stop their
advance. They poured great vats of boiling oil, they loosed flaming arrows into
the slick, and even as the creatures burned, others came, crawling atop their
dead like stepping stones. Everyone with a sword was into the fray, and she
could see her Captain, swift and methodical, swinging as a farmer harvests
wheat, severing heads and limbs and torsos with lethal grace. She admired his
technique.

She
thought, with a frown, that he seemed to have more than his share to battle.

With
both swords drawn, she waded in toward him.

***

“Wow,”
breathed Fallon, hands and nose pressed up against the glass. “They can’t stop
all those rats not like that. There’s, there’s too many.”

“There’s always too many,” said
Kerris, beside her. “You stop them any way you can.”

She
bit her lip. From up here, even with the blackness of the night sky, she could
see it all silhouetted in the flames. The great cauldrons burned blue, blue
being the color for rats, orange for dogs, yellow,
Gowrain
. She was sure
in the far Southwest, in the lands of
Aegyp
and
Sahood
, the
cauldrons burned a different color for
bab’Hundi
. It seemed every
creature wanted its share of the Upper Kingdom. From what she had seen on this
remarkable journey thus far, she could understand why.

A
rat slammed into the window glass at her face and she screamed.

***

This was wrong,
he thought
to himself.
Pivot, swing, swing, strike. All wrong
.
There were too
many, too many and this time, they moved with precision. Dodge, step back,
strike.
It was as though they had a goal, an aim to their usually aimless
invasions. Teeth dug into his leg, just behind the knee. He sent the short
sword back, heard the squeal, swung the body into the face of another, impaled
them both before stepping back again. Far too many and their goal, it seemed,
was him.

Another
now, the same knee. Pain threatened to blind him but he pushed it from his
thoughts. There was room for nothing save the fight, save the analysis of their
offenses, which was separate but the same. Even the knowledge that their bites
brought with them poison and disease, even this he pushed from his thoughts. He
brought the hilt of the long sword down, splitting a skull the size of a
baby’s, slicing so many more as he followed through, the motion mirrored by an
opposing sweep of the short.
Step, pivot, swing, swing.
He could hear
the army of
Roar’pundih,
shouting commands and pouring oil by the
vat-load. Smoke and fumes were heavy in the air, and the stench of burnt flesh,
and blood. His own blood. He could taste it in his mouth. Yes, it seemed they
were after him. But why?