The Eighth King (The White Umbrella Testament Book 1) Page 21

  “On what grounds, Your Grace?”

  “I recently experienced a vision during training,” said Tenshing. “The Pretender facing the Priestkiller Worm, impotent. This follows on a petitioner of some days ago, a plowman of Dhakamma. He described to me a sign—of such a humble origin that it is laughable, yet of such accuracy that it chills the blood.” And he described the story of Thogmey and the mandala of his great-grandfather, King Tenshing Panchama. The King’s Lama nodded as the King spoke, bright eyes grasping every word. “Come, Lama,” said Tenshing when he had finished. “No one living knows the deities’ minds better than you. What should I believe?”

  “All men know that the deities do not speak with such directness,” said the King’s Lama, “not since the Priestkiller Worm made them turn their eyes from the world in shame. But even a callow youth would tell you that the vision is a product of an overbusy mind, and that the plowman is a fraud.”

  “I do not seek the counsel of all men,” said Tenshing, “still less of a callow youth.”

  “Perhaps you should. It is said that the Reflecting Pool Mind is just the novice’s mind.”

  “Find me a callow novice who is master of the Reflecting Pool Mind, and I will heed him like a father.”

  This drew a sad smile from the King’s Lama. “I would welcome your august father’s counsel now.”

  “Lama, he has been gone some time, but I have not forgotten him yet. He would welcome your counsel more than you his, I know it.”

  “Only because his charity exceeded my own. Your Grace, how can you think the deities have spoken? It would be a singular event in centuries. It would shatter the Regretful Pact, and war would rend the Rafters of the World again. How can you believe this of them, knowing the consequences?”

  “War afflicts the Rafters of the World already,” said Tenshing, “and what has the Regretful Pact to do with that? The Worm’s faction was put down long ago.”

  The King’s Lama smiled again, though it seemed only to deepen the sadness of his deep-lined face. “As you say. Your Grace, sometimes even the realm’s highest priest cannot improve on the wisdom of men and callow youths. This is something that your august father, for all his own wisdom, had difficulty understanding. Oh, he was keen enough—but too convinced, on occasion, that what he thought should be, must be.”

  Tenshing’s brow darkened. “That is elliptical, Lama, and nearly treasonous. Have you an incident in mind of which you wish to apprise me?”

  “Well,” said the King’s Lama, “he never did see the danger of your friendship with Esho.”

  “Very well.” The King stood, not bothering to bar a scowl from his countenance. “I do not understand why you have chosen to lacerate me in this fashion, nor how my father’s failings pertain to the question at hand. But I know enough to take my leave.”

  “It was not my intention to lacerate,” the King’s Lama murmured, and he stood to abase himself. When he was done, he sat back down in an odd posture, his long-nailed hands atop the stacks of books to either side of him. Tenshing reflexively took in the titles: One was a book of prints, titled Victories of the Green Crescent Deity, open to a colored engraving of the deity hoisting the demon Hamalay aloft on the legendary Green Crescent Halberd. The other, he noticed with some incredulity, was a recent novello, covered in plain canvas over pasteboard, its only adornment the title: The Victims of Blackmother: A Tale of Detection in Picaresque. An expression of disgust must have crossed Tenshing’s face; the King’s Lama met his eyes and shrugged.

  By the time Tenshing left the chamber, his hurt at the Lama’s strange conversation had given way to perplexity. It did not take the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions to understand that the Lama had been evasive in his speech, yet he had not said enough for the Eye to divine the cause of his evasiveness.

  Training in such conversational maneuvers was a standard part of the lama’s repertoire, and thus of itself not remarkable. What was remarkable was what Tenshing would not have seen for himself, but the Eye did for him. Tenshing had asked what incident had occasioned the Lama’s unfavorable opinion of his father, Tenshing Saptama. The Lama had brought up the incident with Esho—and, Tenshing had to admit, not wrongly; it had been an avoidable tragedy.

  Yet it had been a lie. Whatever had impelled the King’s Lama to his disparagement of the old King’s judgment, it had been something else, something unsaid. And, although the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions could no more divine the details of that unsaid incident than it could know the mind of the Unborn Deity, it could not fail to register the emotion that flooded the mind of the King’s Lama when he thought of it—a profound, soul-freezing fear.

  The historian entered the Kings’ Archive hesitantly enough, but he seemed to relax on seeing Tenshing immersed in an ocean of books. “Your Grace,” he said, “it is a privilege to lay eyes on such rare volumes.”

  “So I thought,” the King said, “when I began this work. Now my mind brims with scraps of exotic libels and garbled praise of my ancestors, and my sentiments have undergone some small evolution. But, privilege or not, here you stand, summoned to discuss a sensitive matter. Do you know what it is?”

  The historian’s face went as flat and dull as stone. Tenshing was astonished to see the tendons stand out on his neck like cables, his hips and knees loosen as if to prepare for swift movement. “I would not presume to anticipate what Your Grace might regard as sensitive.” The dullness of his face blunted his voice as well.

  Tenshing turned the full force of his gaze on the historian; every gradation of the shadows on his face, every macron and cedilla of the lines on his face, leapt out in answer. “Are you a collaborator with the insurrection?”

  At this, the historian’s features reversed their peculiar transformation by stages: his weight shifting, his muscles loosening, the life returning to his physiognomy. He practically laughed. “The Lotus, is that what you suspect me of?”

  “The Lotus indeed, freeman,” said Tenshing sharply. “Are you guilty of it?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  Tenshing examined the historian for some seconds, but no more was forthcoming. “Is that all?”

  “To that question, yes, for having said it, I know you know its truth; but as to other inquiries, I am at your service.”

  “Tell me this, then: Are you guilty of any offense that endangers the throne or the people of Rassha?”

  “I fled with my fellow infantrymen at Goat Ridge, Your Grace, and perhaps the throne of people of Rassha would have been safer had we held the line. I do not believe so, but it is not mine to say. Otherwise—” He shrugged. “I can think of nothing.”

  It was the truth. “Very well. I had no suspicions of treason, not until you reacted so strangely to the statement of my goal in bringing you here. May we continue?”

  “I apologize; on occasion, I am not master of my mind and visage. Please describe the sensitive matter in question, Your Grace, and I will lend all the aid I can.”

  “You are a military historian. I am not. I am apprised that your charge of study includes familiarity with the great campaigns of all the White Kings. Is this accurate?”

  “Exquisitely.”

  “Does that include familiarity with the Kings’ own movements and associations during those campaigns?”

  The historian shrugged. “It depends on the campaign. White Tenshing’s movements are largely unattested, save in part by the Pongyo Gorge Testament, although the Thousand Arm Deity is not bound by academic standards of punctiliousness—”

  “A lama newly promoted from acolyte was tasked to record White Tenshing’s actions for posterity,” said Tenshing. “The journal has resided here since the Orchid Palace was built; I do not believe it has been copied. I have read it front to back and back to front. Please continue.”

  “Red Tenshing’s movements are well documented after he escaped the Earthen Sky; agreement is not perfect, but in general the well-attested movements constrain the more controversial ones. As to hi
s associations—well, there is the matter of the Alabaster Songbird—”

  “Built a boy under the qipao,” said Tenshing, unable to keep a brief note of annoyance from his voice. “I esteem my ancestors, freeman, but I have not blinded myself to their peccadilloes. Come, though, I crave the scholar’s hard-earned knowledge, not easy opinions on petty controversies. Did Red Tenshing visit the camp followers? Did Tenshing Silverhand or Keen Tenshing visit the front incognito? Did any of my ancestors intervene or observe border conflicts at which they were not widely reported?” He waved a hand at a stack of books. “I cannot sift through these myself, any more than a duelist hard-pressed in combat can consult a manual of the fence for the apt maneuver. Do you now understand what I require of you?”

  The historian considered his words before proceeding. “A duke may retain a fencer. I say a duke because there is little a fencer can do that a King cannot do himself. A duke may retain a fencer—but no amount of speed, no library of strategic knowledge, can avail that fencer head to head against a wolf pack.”

  Tenshing looked irritably at the historian. “You paraphrase On Dispute.”

  “I do so when I may; for I better serve the realm by applying the well-made tool, rather than that of my own shoddy innovation. Your Grace, is it possible that I am the first to counsel you to abandon this inquiry? You expect too much of history. It is not crafted to meet your needs.”

  “Then what is?”

  “What sword can slay a wolf pack? We must betimes make do with approximations.”

  “I know a sword that can do it.”

  The historian smiled thinly. “I know that sword too. And, fairly chastised, I offer you a weapon to cut through this problem. But it is one you have already attempted to deploy, thus far to no avail.”

  “What is that?”

  “Put the Pretender in front of you. Put him to the question, and use your vaunted powers of percipience to decide the issue.”

  “You say I have done this to no avail,” said Tenshing. The historian stiffened a bit. “Well, you are right. How, then, would you manage it?”

  “Before any thought of managing, I would first contemplate why my prior efforts failed.”

  “You mean to suggest that the Pretender fears to have the truth put out,” said Tenshing. “I do not discount the possibility, yet I think there are others. He may believe my attachment to the throne so strong that I would not respect the truth. He may believe that I simply wish to trap and kill him.” The historian shrugged eloquently, as though to suggest that the strategy merited consideration. “The challenge is to set out a proposal that he has no reason to refuse unless he fears the truth.”

  “That is not so simple either, Your Grace. He would have no reason to refuse to admit you, alone, into his pavilion. Yet such a show of deference might not sit well with your subjects, who have suffered at his hands.”

  “His soldiers are my subjects too, freeman.”

  “And they have suffered too. Here, I have it. Offer and make public the testimony of an impartial witness.”

  “Who is impartial?” said Tenshing. “Let him come before Gyaltsen and declare his neutrality, and we shall see how long he lasts. This is no time for uncommitted minds.”

  “The Green Morning has brothers on both sides,” said the historian. “The organization itself has not declared a side. Surely there is one among them well-schooled in the Eye of Ten Thousand Apprehensions. You could not silence such a person, not without turning the society against you. The Pretender will know that, if he has wit enough to master the Rigors Martial. And if he does not—”

  “I understand that much.” Tenshing thought a moment. “How can I assure the Pretender that this observer is not coopted in some secret way?”

  “He may bring his own observer.”

  “His observer may lie.”

  “Only if he knows he has nothing to gain from the truth. The public may decide whom to believe, but it will tell us all we need to know.”

  Tenshing nodded slowly. “Of course. It is a calculated risk, then. Perhaps we will lose goodwill in the public eye, if the Pretender plays with finesse, but at least we will be able to act.” He met the historian’s eye. “You thought it an error for me to retain the services of a military historian, freeman, but he has served me well, if not in the manner I expected.”

  The historian made the Abasement in Acknowledgement of Over-High Praise from a Superior. “The King’s wisdom is as subtle as it is implacable.”

  “As slow as it is unreliable, better say.”

  “Ah, Your Grace, do not impel me to comment on your modesty, else we will be here until sunset.”

  “You did not flee at Goat Ridge.” Tenshing watched the historian freeze, watched his eyes dull over. “Not if your audacity in colloquy with your King is any indication.” Again, the historian relaxed, the vitality of his gaze restored.

  “One learns the agonies of cowardice, Your Grace, and resolves not to endure them again.”

  “Perhaps not; but I have neither the time nor the stomach to take you to task for it. Go, freeman, with my thanks. I will meditate on your tactics, though I think you will not be there to see them implemented.”

  The historian abased himself once more, deeply and with evident gratification. “The pleasure of having aided the realm will be compensation enough, and more.”

  Toward the northern border

  he four were the only Rasshans exiting from the Tiger Gate on the morning of their departure; indeed, it seemed likely they were the only ones who had done so for some time, as none of the gate guards were facing into the city, and the confrères were ignored until a bored Lin Gyat simply shouldered past the line of petitioners and out onto the plain. This caused a wellspring of confusion and bad feeling from the guards, who viewed this behavior as offensive and responded with glowers and a great show of reading the four friends’ furlough-letters. But, at last, the process grew enervating and the press of petitioners built up to an unsustainable level, and Datang, Netten, Lin Gyat, and Lin Yongten were allowed to set foot on the Great South Plain.

  The air was chill, but there was new life in it; ice-blue flowers dusted the new-greening grass, and a small flock of geese seemed to be settling in on the near shore of the Silver Dragon to the west. Downriver, the Pretender’s camp hunkered astride the water like a beast, and the columns of smoke from various campfires rose on all sides of the plain. No one waited for them; but, as they moved farther out to try to catch sight of their liaison, a petitioner near the end of the line waved to Datang. He was wearing a grey brassard.

  “A woman gave me this note,” he said as she rode over, “and this band for my arm, and bade me wear the band and give the note to the next woman fencer I saw, if she was in the company of three men.” He handed it up to her. “I hope you can read it, for I cannot.”

  “We thank you for your illiteracy,” said Datang, and gave him a quarter-ounce of silver for his trouble. The note was written in a simple but beautiful draughtsman’s hand, and it simply said, The Hill of Faces.

  Lin Yongten blinked when he perused the note. “The Hill of Faces is a long way off.”

  “A hill of faces?” said Lin Gyat. “What a gruesome image. Has the plain been marred by the work of some insatiable decapitator?”

  “The Hill of Faces has seen battle recently,” said Netten, “though the faces for which it is named predate the Orchid Palace. It is not impossible that a small scouting force was left for reconnaissance. Your Glib Ape knows we are few. He knows we could be overpowered.”

  “Netten,” said Datang, “we could be overpowered by almost any fraction of the Pretender’s army—and surely will be, if we are observed without escort. What is more, the Ape knows the time of our departure and our destination. What are you more resolved to do—avoid capture, or seek truth in Therku?”

  “The first is a precondition for the second.”

  “You cannot be assured of the first without abandoning the second. That is the fal
lacy of inversion.”

  Lin Yongten’s smile was thin but capacious. “I make that a disengage-riposte in our young friend’s favor. Baiting Termites, if my memory of the Ape suite serves.”

  “And glibly done at that,” Netten said ruefully. “Well, if I have been outfought, there is no honor in delaying my surrender. Let us approach the Hill of Faces and see whether the Ape’s Left Hand knows what the right is doing.”

  It was not far to the Hill of Faces, but Netten ordered the other three to hang back at the bottom of a gully whose torn grass had evidently seen pitched battle not too many months before. Both King’s and Pretender’s armies had long since retrieved their dead—retrievals to which the soft ground also testified, with its narrow imprints from wagon-wheels and the numerous, more ragged paths, the wobbly parallels of heels and the dolorous wide trenches of shoulders. The mud seemed red to Datang, but she did not dare ask whether Lin Gyat or Lin Yongten perceived the hue. Instead she posed another question:

  “Whence the Pretender’s claim?”

  “Claim?” said Lin Gyat. “To what?”

  “The Orchid Throne, goat.”

  “What,” said Lin Gyat, “he pretends he is the heir?” The question seemed to touch off a cascade of ratiocination in the giant rifleman; he put a finger to his chin in thought. “Do you know, that would explain the epithet ‘Pretender.’”

  “That is just,” Lin Yongten said with no trace of irony. “It is an interesting claim, in fact, tributary as it is to recent revelations. It seems that King Tenshing Sastha, as he is now known—the King’s grandfather—had more than the eight sons advertised by our present sovereign. Or, rather, he had that very number, as the individual recognized as his sixth son is said to have been…” He paused a moment in thought. “Indeterminate. Lacking a man’s strength or a woman’s charms, and between the legs an intermediate construction. By the rumor, King Tenshing Sastha recognized this being as a son because he could not afford to dower another daughter. It took up the study of the unseen in a monastery outside Tanggang City, where it achieved such spiritual distinction that its corpse immediately self-immolated on its death, leaving nothing but two hundred fifty-six fine glass shards in a pile of soft white ash. Thus, at any rate, the monks explain why they cannot produce its remains for inspection. In any case, if this is so, then our King’s father is merely a seventh son; his uncle, thought to be ninth, was eighth. And, as all these Therkids seem to do, he too had eight sons, the youngest of which was the Iron Eunuch.”