The Eighth King (The White Umbrella Testament Book 1) Page 31

  “Nothing of the kind, Thogmey plowman,” said Netten, “though the brothers here are of the Green Morning over and above the gallant fraternity, and I am not a Grasslander.”

  The plowman’s eyes widened; Lin Yongten’s did as well. “Your Grace!” sputtered the plowman, but Netten caught his arm smoothly before he could begin a highly inapposite abasement. “No, Thogmey. His Grace sits the Orchid Throne. You remember my abdication, do you not?”

  Realization slowly transformed Thogmey’s features. “I do, I do, now you remind me. But I had forgotten it, though I mourned of it then, for you were good to me. Except during petition, one King is much like another to a plowman.”

  Lin Yongten cast his gaze toward a pile of moldering moth-corpses heaped by a fence. “Not in all respects, I think.”

  The plowman froze like a mouse, and Netten laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come, Thogmey,” he said, “you have nothing to worry about from the cavils of my associates. They are dangerous enough when threatened, but they do not so readily translate the arguments of wind into those of steel.”

  “Come, Netten,” said Lin Gyat, “we are not so benign as all that.”

  Netten fixed him with a steely glare. “At this farm, you are.”

  There was a short silence. Thogmey looked from Lin Gyat to Netten, who stared at one another.

  “Come,” said Datang at last. “The day grows neither brighter nor warmer. Let us avail ourselves of this fine plowman’s hospitality, if he will have us, and leave violence for when it is needed.”

  “Seconded,” said Lin Yongten.

  As if by mutual agreement, Netten and Lin Gyat nodded, and they followed Thogmey to the door of the tiny farmhouse, which opened at last to pour light out into the night.

  The four friends were apprehensive at first, remembering the last time they had bedded down on a farmstead, but Netten’s extant relationship with the plowman and the voluble nature of the family (so unlike the taciturn simulacra that had turned on them when they traveled with the Copper Rat) swiftly set them at ease. There was little meat and no wine, the lacks of which Lin Gyat had the ill grace to lament, but the hot broth and simple vegetable stew were hearty enough to keep a traveler ahorse for another day, and Netten gave Lin Gyat his own share of the meat. Sleeping arrangements were complicated by Netten’s refusal to take the bed and Thogmey’s insistence on ceding it, but Lin Gyat squared that circle by accepting it for himself. He refused to allow Lin Yongten to take the other half, so Netten gave in and claimed it; Lin Yongten equably accepted a spot on a thin carpet, and Datang was granted the bed of Thogmey’s grown daughter, who could not be persuaded to share it.

  She did not much remember the dream from which she woke—-the rush of wind, fine scratches on her face and hands, stars through boughs, and the soft, familiar ringing of tin. The wind, scratches, and stars were gone when her eyes snapped open; but the soft tin song remained, chiming from the window with such subtlety that it should have been swallowed by the night. She tried to look out, but the window was of oiled leather nailed to the frame; all she could see through it was a diffuse light, pulsing in a slow cadence steadier than any torch. Datang’s sword was out in a flash; she left her boots behind for speed and silence, then darted down the stairs as surely as a cat, leaping over the sleeping forms of Thogmey and his family like a child at hopscotch and pausing only to close the cottage door.

  Now the light from the field—it was the dzo’s grazing field—was clearer, arrayed in beams like the spokes of a wheel. The light’s perfection was marred by the gleaming metal of a barbed hoop, perhaps a man’s height in the air, adorned with six softly singing rings.

  Datang felt no fear. She raced over the cold soil of the farm’s dirt paths and vaulted the fence easily, the power of the Crane’s Migration Step flowing through the great muscles of her legs more naturally than ever. Beyond stood the robed silhouette of a man—though it might not have been a man—leaning on a staff tipped with a great tin ring, threaded through six smaller rings. As she drew closer, she perceived a weaker, stiller light, framing his soft face in a perfect circle. Her pace slowed smoothly; she dropped, with perfect grace, into the Abasement Toward a Greater Deity.

  It is always disorienting and at least faintly comical to experience the mortal consciousness as it encounters the deific presence. One common consequence of proximity to the godhead is, for whatever reason, a certain widening or perhaps a bifurcation of perception, such that one is keenly aware of the testimony of the senses—in Datang’s case, the rush of her heart, the rawness of her fast-breathing lungs in the spring night air, the gleam of eldritch light off the wet grass at which she stared in her abasement—while simultaneously taking a distinctly external view of the scene—though it might equally be thought of as several views, as, although the impression is one of unity, later recall shows that no angle or detail of the scene is missed as it would be in a conventional encounter; the meeting is perceived from all directions, at all distances. This multifarity of perception is often lost in the approach of my esteemed colleague, the Thousand Arm Deity—or rather, not lost so much as normalized, for his meticulous descriptions convey his own hard-earned omniscience on every scene, until the reader forgets the limits of her own perception.

  But this is an age more chary of gods and godhead, the limits of the senses more widely acknowledged and perhaps of keener literary interest than once they were; and I have had a great deal of idle time to familiarize myself with the contemporary style. Thus, in any case, Datang knelt with splayed fingers, coiled limbs, and bowed head; but when the Deity Who Waits opened his mouth (as we do, in courtesy to mortal sensibilities) to speak, she took in every alteration in his aspect.

  The vintner’s daughter, he said. You heeded my summons on the road this morning; I am pleased. The Deity’s staff waved slightly; the tin rings sang again. It has been a long time since we saw each other last.

  “I do not remember the encounter,” said Datang. “How may I serve you?”

  I may not say, said the Deity. The Celestial Judiciary has granted me only a limited dispensation, and that only by insistence of the deity whose coming I await. A colleague of mine already faces censure for trangressing her remit, and there are not so many of us that I can afford an absence at this time.

  At this, it must be confessed, Datang broke her abasement to raise her eyes, for she was intrigued beyond good sense. As soon as her eyes alit on the form she had been looking at only in her mind, she realized her transgression, and resumed the abasement; but, although the Deity Who Waits would not condescend to utter an actual laugh, Datang nonetheless felt her being shudder with a benevolent amusement that did not originate in her own mind. Little fencer, said the Deity, be at ease. My clientele are babies, animals, and the damned. I have learned not to stand on ceremony.

  “Very well.” Datang raised her eyes. “As you cannot answer the question that most gnaws at me, I will ask the only other question that could possibly merit your attention—if it does not risk your standing in the eyes of Heaven.”

  Careful, said the Deity. Your solicitousness skirts arrogance. No action of yours could possibly influence my standing in the eyes of Heaven.

  “All the better, then,” Datang said. “Can I serve you?”

  The Deity Who Waits smiled then, an act that strangely seemed to dim the light from the gem in his left hand, and that emanating from his head. You can, vintner’s daughter, and I begin to think you will. He paused for a moment, though not with the human mien of composition; his words were surely perfectly composed already, but a change of subject sometimes demands a brief separation from the flow of thought. A fellow-traveler of yours has taken up a sword that he had put down. Whether the sword is sharp enough for his intended use, I may not say. He has been given reason to believe that such an action sets him against Heaven. This is true. Another pause, this time surely for Datang’s benefit. Yet he has allies in Heaven all the same.

  “The Lotus, Left Hand,” a voice ec
hoed across the field, “you have led the Python of Degyen on a fearsome hunt, but he will not be denied! His scales begin to dry, Left Hand! He becomes stiff with death! His grapes have taken on a pleasant but alarming shade of azure!”

  Datang turned to see Lin Gyat stumbling toward her, so blind drunk that he seemed not even to notice the deity who faced him. Datang cast her eye to the Deity Who Waits. “I apologize for my comrade. He is incapacitated; it will be no trouble to remove him from your presence.”

  The Deity Who Waits looked at Lin Gyat with an entomologist’s eye. Your comrade is a black-souled killer, and he covets a thing you do not care to give.

  “As ever he has,” said Datang. “But it is better for him to fix his desires on a woman fencer, who can protect herself, rather than wander the streets in search of more tender lairs for the so-called Python.”

  Now you tell me what is better? said the Deity. Have a care, vintner’s daughter. And have a care for this one, who is never as drunk as he appears. He turned his attention to Lin Gyat. Approach the godhead, black-souled killer.

  Lin Gyat stumbled toward the Deity Who Waits; he seemed to have forgotten Datang. “Who dares command the Oaken Skull?”

  You have not earned that style, black-souled killer, and coveting it will not make it yours.

  “Poppycock! The Python of Degyen will devour you from the intestine up.” Lin Gyat stood directly in front of the deity now, and was dwarfed. The Deity Who Waits put a finger under the huge warrior’s chin, and when he lifted it, the chin followed, along with the rest of Lin Gyat, until he was floating in the air at a level with the god’s eyes.

  Come, black-souled killer, said the Deity Who Waits. You are not so drunk as all that. You know to whom you speak. And I am not so easily persuaded to dismiss you—still less to kill you.

  Then an astonishing thing happened: Lin Gyat’s face unslackened, his eyes focused, the dull-eyed rage sloughed off to be replaced by a grave but dignified regard.

  “I had feared not,” the huge fighter said, “but I have learned to crush my fear with hope.”

  What shall the Deity Who Waits do with you, black-souled killer? You are not a client of mine yet, but there is no question on the matter. It only remains to learn whether you retain sufficient merit to return to earthly life an animal, or manage to degrade your soul into some suitable hell straight away. You are a setback waiting to happen, black-souled killer, one more inattentive pupil between me and blessed rest.

  “This life sits ill on me and heavy,” said Lin Gyat, “and right action might be a panther in the night for all I can lay eyes on it.”

  When we struck our deal at the White Orchard, said the Deity, you spoke more confidently.

  “A know-nothing confidence,” said Lin Gyat, “borne of desperation. The strictures of human conduct are too great, the rewards too subtle. Let me toil another century as a bear, or even as a worm or beetle, whose natures do not conspire against their duties. Or take me back into whatever hell will host me; I will find comfort in the torment.”

  Will you, now? The Deity’s countenance did not move, yet a feeling of amusement rippled through Datang. I am a teacher, black-souled killer. Your soul’s path is not for me to set. But it is a poor teacher who allows his student to evade instruction.

  “Waste not your effort.” But in the self-loathing, in the resignation, Datang detected a hint of stubbornness, a hint of defiance. And at the admonition, the Deity Who Waits did laugh, and the sky shook.

  Only you can waste my effort, black-souled killer. And you will hate me for it before you profit from it, both of which thoughts fill me with pleasure. Enjoy the curse of the Deity Who Waits, Gyat of Degyen, and see if it does not make the strictures of human conduct more palatable by comparison.

  The night sky around Lin Gyat grew blacker yet, if that was possible, and although the Deity was done laughing, the shaking of the sky still lingered. Then, suddenly, the huge, muted sound of an immense quantity of air rushing from the east, and the Deity was gone. Lin Gyat hung, suspended from nothing, for a moment. Then the wind hit him—a cyclone, but formed of slashes of void-black that made the night sky look paper-white by comparison. Datang felt the cyclone wash over her, but not on her skin. It seemed to break against Lin Gyat for an instant, like a wave against a huge shoal. Then, as waves do, it seized him and whipped him away.

  The Second Blight

  t was rare that the outer precincts of the Wind Horse Wing of the Orchid Palace did not echo with some clangor or another—the drone of prayer, often enough, or the fussy formulae, uncomfortable in their echoes, of senior lamas holding forth on White Way scholarship, or (if one was unlucky) the clapping of wooden blocks and the slow rustle of robes as monks, stiff-legged from a day of meditation, adjourned to a meal. But it was not mealtime when Gyaltsen entered the Wind Horse Wing, and although the prayer halls were fuller than usual, the only sound he heard was the tentative gibbers of the Cerulean Sword, which seemed unsettled by the quiet. A pair of younger lamas, heads together over a quill and scroll, nearly broadsided the General, but the Cerulean Sword yipped a warning and the lamas, ashen-faced, drew up just short of him. The Demon Guards flanking the King’s Lama’s chamber gave him a stern eye, held it for a moment, then thought better; he pushed, unopposed, through the gold-and-ebony doors.

  The King’s Lama made the Senior Priest’s Abasement to a Layman Nonetheless One’s Social Equal; Gyaltsen responded with the Senior Warrior’s Abasement to a Civilian Nonetheless One’s Social Equal. They sat at a low table, and the Lama made a gesture requesting the slate that Gyaltsen had carried in. The Cerulean Sword hooted once, then twice, questioningly, as though hoping to hear a reply.

  YOU THOUGHT WELL, TO BRING THIS, the King’s Lama wrote on the slate with the tethered chalk pencil.

  Gyaltsen reached for the slate and erased the Lama’s text. I WAS LUCKY TO FIND ONE. THE SECOND BLIGHT WAS PROPHESIED MORE THAN A CENTURY AGO. THE ORCHID PALACE SHOULD BE OVERFLOWING WITH THESE THINGS.

  MY FRIEND, wrote the Lama, HAVE PATIENCE WITH YOUR MORTAL ALLIES. EVEN THE MOST DEVOUT HAVE HAD DIFFICULTY RECONCILING OURSELVES TO THE. He paused too long before continuing. SOLIDITY OF WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN BUT AN OMINOUS ABSTRACTION. TAKE TIME TO APPRECIATE WHAT YOU GAIN WHEN THE NEED TO WRITE SLOWS DOWN YOUR WORDS.

  Beneath his beard, Gyaltsen pressed his lips into a line. I NEED ALL YOUR INFORMATION ON THE COMING BLIGHTS, he wrote. LEND ME YOUR BEST SCHOLAR FOR A DAY.

  HE IS YOURS. The lama’s chalk hovered for a moment, shivering, above the slate. GENERAL, I REGRET THIS RIVALRY OF OURS. MIGHT WE NOT WORK TOGETHER IN THE KING’S SUPPORT?

  Nearly subtly done, thought Gyaltsen. He writes “King” to remind me of my misplaced loyalty to the Regent. But the Regent is not the only thing that separates us.

  THE MILITARY IS MINE TO OVERSEE, the general wrote. EACH LIFE LOST, MINE TO JUSTIFY. WHETHER SOLDIER OR ENGINEER, COOK OR FARRIER OR SPY. There was more he could have said, but the frustration of using the slate was too much, the use too little. Who was he, to lecture a cleric on right action? To argue, in writing, against a priest?

  The lama held out a knobbled hand for the slate. Gyaltsen handed it to him, not much thinking about the gesture; but, when the lama’s hand gripped the slate, Gyaltsen felt it tremble in the moment before he let it go. Gyaltsen looked the King’s Lama in the face, and suddenly the robes of red and gold seemed to lose their richness, the wood and bone fetishes dangling around his face their air of myth and portent. Dead matter, all of it, no more potent than fingernail clippings. The Cerulean Sword whined softly while the King’s Lama wrote:

  A MAN VANISHED FROM YOUR FORCE, NOT LONG AGO. THE ONE ACCUSED OF KILLING THE NORTHERN SPY.

  Gyaltsen thought to request the slate back, then, frustrated, simply tapped a thick finger on the word “ACCUSED”: once, twice, thrice. He met the King’s Lama’s eyes with his jaw set under his beard, his physiognomy as near to glowering as decorum would let him muster.

  YOU AND HE SHARED A
HISTORY, the King’s Lama continued. A MUTUAL ESTEEM.

  Gyaltsen curled his lip and shrugged.

  THE REFLECTING POOL MIND IS WHAT STANDS BETWEEN US AND OBLIVION. ALL ELSE MUST STEP ASIDE. THE KING CANNOT AFFORD DISTRACTION. He paused a minute to compose the next words. I AM GLAD THERE WAS NO NEED TO MOURN YOUR MAN. THE VERSICOLOR GUARD HAVE THEIR ORDERS. HE WILL HAVE NO TROUBLE IN RASSHA WHEN NEXT HE PASSES THROUGH ITS GATES. The old priest thought for a moment, then added: NOR HIS FELLOW-ARMSMEN EITHER. The message remained only a brief second or two; then, with a thin smile, the old priest scrubbed it out.

  Gyaltsen picked it up. FOUR LEFT THAT DAY. ONE A FRIEND OF YOURS. ADVISOR TO THE KING.

  The King’s Lama’s shoulders were as eloquent as his tongue: Are life’s ironies not rich, friend?

  It was all Gyaltsen could do to keep from baring his teeth. He erased the slate, then wrote: MY MAN WILL MEET YOURS IN THE LIBRARY OF THE SIX CONTEMPLATIONS.

  He stood and abased himself before the King’s Lama could request the slate again. One good thing about the paucity of slates, I can always have the last word. The Cerulean Sword yelped as if in answer.

  Thoughts on past and future Blights consumed Gyaltsen as he walked. What great advantage could he have gained, had he worked out a nonverbal system for coordinating troop movements? What great advantage could he have lost, had the enemy thought to do so? Perhaps even the cover of moths could have been a commanding advantage. But the King’s Lama had been right. For all that Gyaltsen decried the lack of preparations for the Priestkiller Worm’s arrival, he was as complicit as anyone else. He had known that a blight of insects would announce the Worm’s challenge to the King; he had known a blight of silence would follow. But he had not thought of the Blights as events with consequences for the world—even though, as events went, there could be few more consequential.

  He sent his man Yama to the Library of the Six Contemplations, then made a swift sweep of the walls, this time not sparing the Versicolor Guard his presence. Their hate seemed halfhearted; he would have been tempted to comment on it, but to write such a comment on the slate would rob it of its humor. Both Cerulean and Versicolor Guards, in any case, were more vigilant than usual, their countenances more lined, their eyes more mobile; but the mood on the boulevards seemed optimistic enough. Food vendors had set out small plates with a few options, which could be pointed at for ordering; many had also set out signs saying, “No haggling.” Commerce in the bars was brisk enough, and the bartenders moved with a visible spring in their steps; their clientele were troubled, which was good for business, and doubly good was the lack of conversation to salve their trouble. There was music in the streets—more than usual, and more than usual commerce for the buskers as well. Cartwheels creaked, hooves clopped. Birds did not sing, though Gyaltsen saw a few.