The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (94 page)

“But you, Yahn Nevye, you have
done a terrible thing...”

A circle of flame erupted around
the jaguar and people shrank back or scrambled out of its path. For his part,
the man called Yahn Nevye steeled his chin but did not move.

“Your mind is strong but not
strong enough,” the Seer said. “I have seen Chancellor Ho, Jet barraDunne and
you in a winter garden, discussing how to compromise the success of the journey
in the Year of the Tiger, and the employment of a
kunoichi
in that
regard.”

The crowd was silent.

“Your plan did not go quite as
you had predicted. I have sent a message to
Pol’Lhasa
petitioning for
Agara’tha,
Namroh’Lin and
the entire Order of the Arts to be brought under the control
of
Sha’Hadin,
and therefore, as the last surviving Council member,” he
smiled.
“Me.”

And the flames died as quickly
as they had come, leaving a circle of black on the floor. He rose to his feet
and looked around the Lantern Room.

“For those of
you—Alchemist and Seer alike—who wish to begin to write a new
chapter in the history of the Gifts and the Arts, I welcome you to stay. For
those who cannot accept this, go in peace, but go. Change is coming swiftly
upon us and we must be ready to meet it with all of our strength and heart and
will.”

He bowed slightly. It was
returned by most in the room. Not by Yahn Nevye, the jaguar. And not by most of
those in black.

benAramis turned, his robes
swirling dramatically and he left the Lantern Room at the Major’s side. She was
shaking her head.

“Theatrics,” she snorted. “You
are a politician now.”

He slipped a long arm around her
waist. “To be honest, I wasn’t thinking of anything other than the tragedy of
you and a cold bed.”

She grinned wickedly and they
left the Lantern Room for warmer places.

***

It
had never been done. It was scandal. It was blasphemy, but Thothloryn Parillaud
Markova Wu, Twelfth Empress of the Fangxieng Dynasty, Matriarch of
Pol’Lhasa,
and Most Blessed Ruler of the Upper Kingdom, brought a man-not-her-husband
through the Throne Room, up the winding stairs to the Imperial Residence on the
very top floor of the Palace. The most sacred place in the entire kingdom.

It
was another world here in the rooms of the Empress, for in fact it was her
entire world. She had lived her life here on this the very top floor, would
leave only on the day they carried her out in a funeral palanquin for burial in
the Tombs of the Emperors. The ceiling was very high, with polished beams
curved to follow the winged roof line of the palace, and painted in places to
resemble clouds, or stars, or suns. There were trees in ceramic pots, pruned
and twisting like large bonsais, and orchids growing from bowls hanging from
the beams. Peacocks strutted across carpets from Persha and between statues of
gold from Hiraq. There had been a mongoose too, once upon a time.

So
long ago. A lifetime.

Servants
watched but said nothing as they passed and he was amazed at their lack of
response. As one-time Captain of her personal guard, he was appalled at lack of
security, but then again, much had changed in these two years. It was beyond
him.

She
paused at a set of rice paper doors.

“My
Prayer Room,” she said. “We can discuss your journey inside. We will not be
disturbed.”

“Excellency,”
said Kirin, still not believing that he was, in fact, there. He clasped his
hands tightly behind his back. “The Chancellor...”

“After
two years, you wish to spend your words on the Chancellor?”

“No,
but—”

“Well,
then?”

She
slid the doors open and slipped inside, peering at him with golden eyes. “I
will be in here. Come if you will.”

And
she disappeared.

He
cast his eyes around the room, saw a young sandcat polishing a set of ebony
candles. She looked up at him, smiled very slightly before bending back to her
work. There was no one else in the room. It was entirely empty, other than the
maid girl and the peacocks.

He
took a deep breath and crossed the threshold into the Most Holy of Holies, the
Prayer Room of the Empress, and slid the door closed behind him.

***

There
were cushions everywhere—reds, purples, golds and blues, and the walls
were silk and paper. She was on her knees, blowing across the tip of a stick of
incense before carefully placing it in a bronze bowl. He didn’t know what to
think, even less what to do, so he stood, hands behind his back, desperately
trying to control his breathing. Never in his life had he imagined himself here
and he was surprised to find his heart racing as if it would rush right out of
his chest.

Finally,
after what seemed like hours, she rose to her feet and turned.

She
was glorious.

“Excellency,”
he began. “I regret to inform—”

“Not
now,” she said.

“But—”

“Ling,”
she said. “My name is Ling.”

He
was certain his mouth hung open a moment.

“Say
it,” she said. “It was your wish. Your one wish.”

He
dropped his eyes to the floor and fell silent.

“It
is my wish as well.” She stepped forward again. “Say my name.”

His
breathing was growing heavy. His chest was pressing in on him from all sides.
He shook his head.

“Your
husband—”

“He
is dead.”

It
was stronger than the blow from a fist. He couldn’t help himself. He looked up.

“Six
months ago. The mal’haria.”

“I
am sorry.”

“No,
I am sorry, Kirin-san. I am so sorry for all of this.”

And
to his utter surprise, she reached out a hand, brushed his jaw with the tips of
her jeweled fingers. It was a strangely intimate gesture. He felt light-headed,
knowing her eyes were fixed on him but he could give nothing away.

“This...is
different.”

“It
was broken and has set wrongly.”

She
frowned, moved her fingers to touch the hem of his kheffiyah and he knew what
she meant to do. He moved his own hand, stopping her.

“No.”

But
she took his hand instead, hidden as it was within its glove of thickest
leather and he cursed himself, tried to pull away though she held fast, her
eyes flashing at him in rebuke. As she began to press his fingers, he felt his
cheeks burn with heat.

“Please,”
he hissed. He wished he had never come. His legs were shaking and he wasn’t
sure how much longer they would hold him.

Slowly,
she slid the glove from his hand, dropped it to the pillows on the floor.

The
tips white where the pelt had grown back, closed in over the nubs that once
held claws. On each finger, the last segment of bone was missing and the flesh
soft and pulpy.

He
saw her eyes fill with tears.

“Dogs?”
she asked, her voice barely a whisper and he hated himself at that moment. “I did
not know.”

She
reached for the kheffiyah again and he closed his eyes, took a deep shuddering
breath as she slid it from his head. He heard her gasp, her sharp intake of
breath and he dropped to his knees amid the thick cushions of red and purple.

The
only sound in the Prayer Room of the Empress was the sound of his breathing. He
lowered his head in shame, did not care enough to stop his own tears. She would
see him now for the creature he truly was. He should have let Kerris do it, so
many months ago. Kerris had been ready, he had been willing. One sure stroke of
the katanah, perhaps two and his disgrace would have been over, his death
swift, honour restored. Perhaps they would have even told a story of the man
who had made a Khan and lived—a man who had once been a lion.

It
was yet to be seen the manner in which she would choose to kill him.

Then,
a most unexpected thing. Her lips on the top of his head in a kiss.

Now
her fingers running down the last bolt of mane left, smooth as silk in her
grasp, her touch like that of a feather on his cheek, his jaw, his chin.
Lifting his face with both hands now so that he was forced into the liquid gold
of her eyes.

“Ling,”
she said one last time. “My name is Ling.”

“Ling,”
he breathed and he reached for her and pulled her down into the cushions.

***

It
was like a strange but pleasant dream as he walked the stone corridors to his
room. For twenty years, he had walked them and the memories were familiar and
yet somehow, not. The last time he had walked through these particular halls to
pause at this particular door, there had been a snow leopard at his side, her
many daggers and swords itching to cut him into pieces on the stone floor. As
he gazed down at her long marbled hair, he was thankful that things had improved
in that regard. She was a passionate woman. She might still be the end of him.

“What?”
she growled, feeling his eyes.

He
smiled. “There will only be one mattress.”

“I
am small.”

“You
said it was itchy.”

“Life
is hard.”

“I
love you.”

“Pah.
Theatrics.” But he noticed the hint of a smile as she laid her hand on the wood
of the door to push it open.

yellow
eyes falling into white, dragons and arrows and blood

Slowly,
he turned.

“That
was impressive,” said Yahn Nevye from the end of the hall. “Your little trick.”

Ursa
turned as well, tail lashing. He could hear her growl.

“All
my tricks are impressive, brother,” he said. “To which are you referring?”

“The
ring of fire.”

“Oh,
you should see what I can do with water. Or, in fact, with stone. I could bring
this entire corridor down on your head if it didn’t mean someone might be
inconvenienced on the floor above.”

The
jaguar stepped toward them, hands clasped behind his back. “I didn’t think you
approved of the Arts.”

“Life
has changed. Can you speak to falcons yet?”

The
tawny face was impassive. “The Arts will be welcomed at
Sha’Hadin
under
your watch?”

“Men
of good conscience and noble character will be welcomed, whatever their
calling. That, of course, disqualifies you.”

“I
have an open mind,
sidi.
A new thing for you, perhaps?”

“I
have always had an open mind, brother. Accident of my birth.”

“Mongrel
and
Brahmin.”

“Exactly.”

“Seer
and now, Alchemist. Perhaps Jet barraDunne’s dream is upon us?”

“Jet
barraDunne’s dream?”

Ursa
made to move upon him but he stopped her with his hand.

“Shall
I tell you about Jet barraDunne’s dream, brother?”

Nevye
steeled his chin but said nothing.

“Jet
barraDunne’s dream was to set a
ninjah
to compromise an Imperial
mission. Jet barraDunne’s dream was to see the torture of myself and my wife at
the hands of a Legion of dogs. Jet barraDunne’s dream was to see a new Khan
made in the Lower Kingdom by the death of a Captain of the Imperial Guard.
However, both we and the Captain live while Jet barraDunne and our enemies
burned to ash in a circle of flame. What then does that tell you about the
dreams of Jet barraDunne?”

“Are
you threatening me, brother?”

“A
man need never revenge himself. The body of his enemy will be brought to his
own door.”

“I
will not leave.”

“Well,
you
are
already at my door.”

The
jaguar swallowed.

“Good
night, Yahn.”

And
he pushed open the door and stepped inside. Ursa glared at the man down the
hall.

“I
will kill you myself,” she hissed. “I will break your neck like a chicken and
stuff your body in a mattress until you begin to stink. Then I will toss you
into the crevice of
Nanchuri Glacier
and no one will ever know what has
become of poor Yahn Nevye, the man who could not speak to falcons.”

He
set his jaw.

She
closed the door behind her.

***

Even
after these last few years, it is a most unusual thing for me to wake up in a
place not my own. I have never been as Kerris is, where inns, monasteries,
forests and caves are simply a part of my experience. I have always been a creature
of habit, of routine and of preference. But I must admit that waking here, this
morning, covered in nothing but red silk and surrounded by cushions, was an
exhilarating thing.

I
committed blasphemy last night. Happily, freely and passionately.

Chancellor
Ho will order my death and I will wholeheartedly kneel under any sword he may
choose.

          
-
an excerpt from the journal of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey

“Leave
it,” said the Empress and he could see her kneeling by a low table, the light
from two paper lanterns illuminating her work. She was writing, dipping her
brush in small pots of black and red ink, and he marveled at the sight of her,
clothed in a simple kimonoh without sash, hands and feet bare and as black as a
winter sky.

He
had never seen her hair. No one had ever seen her hair. It was always covered
by a headdress of some sort, usually gold, frequently with tassels. He had
never imagined seeing it, had never allowed his mind to go there, but now, as
she sat like a little sparrow in the cushions, her hair was loosed and fell
like a curtain of black silk to her waist. It caught and reflected the lantern
light, shone blue like a moonlit lake.

He
remembered the feel of it under his fingers.

“Leave
what?” he asked finally.

“Your
kheffiyah.” She did not look up, merely continued painting words on paper.
“There is no hiding in this room.”