Songs from the Year of the Cat Page 2

  “Kestrels.”

  The Chancellor sat back on his heels, his long blue silk robes splayed out like water on a shore. His eyes were deep, heavy pools of gold. “I’m afraid there is no longer a place for you here at Pol’Lhasa. We could not wait on filling a such a position. It was a matter of national importance. You understand.”

  “Of course.” It was amazing how easily it rolled off his tongue. He could hear her voice in every word, the quiet humour, the subtle threat. The crush of her night black hair, the flash of her eyes. “And may I ask who has replaced me?”

  “An experienced soldier,” said the Chancellor, and he set his cup on the bamboo table. “An older, experienced, married soldier.”

  Kirin nodded. It was the way of things.

  The Chancellor continued. “But I’m quite certain we could find something for you in one of the outer posts. Sri’ Kirtipur, perhaps. You will want to stay close to your family home, surely. How is your mother?”

  Kirin leveled his gaze at the man who had orchestrated all this, these two years of striving and loss. The man who had contracted a ninjah to have him killed so the Empress would be free to marry. The man who had caused the loss of his claws, his tail, his mane. He should have hated him but instead he felt nothing for this little, round, white-faced man. Nothing at all.

  “My mother is well.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  He should not have come.

  “Thank you for the tea.”

  And he rose to his feet.

  “I shall accompany you out, Captain.” The Chancellor too began to rise, but paused, his wide face smiling. “I mean Kirin-san. Forgive me. Force of habit.”

  No, he felt nothing whatsoever.

  Together they left the large wooden room that served at the Chancellor’s office, navigating the many stairs and hallways that made up the Palace of Pol’Lhasa. No one watched him this time, although many paused to bow to the Chancellor as they passed, fist to cupped palm. No one bowed to him. No one even noticed him.

  Finally, in the Outer Court at the Red and Gold Door, the Chancellor stopped, allowing Kirin to walk the long stretch of hall to the door alone. Leopards watched them both, as even now servants and civilians moved into and out of the Palace. As Kirin walked, he cast his eyes around the chamber, so colourful and high, beginning to shine in the first rays of morning. He drank it in, the blackened cedar beams, the mosaics of glass. Every surface painted with history. The heart, soul and will of the Upper Kingdom.

  He did not belong here anymore.

  For the first time, he felt a pang of regret that he had not turned, so many hours ago, at the tobacconist’s.

  Behind him, he could hear the Red and Gold Door open, cast a quick glance to see a party of women sweep in from the Palace proper, clothed in colours found in a wildflower meadow. He turned back to the door and kept walking.

  “There you are, Chancellor! Explain yourself.”

  It was like a strong wind, the way her voice sent people to their knees, palms and foreheads to the floor in reverence, servants and civilians alike. The Leopards stood straighter, their weapons poised and at the ready. All sound in the Outer Court ceased. All breathing stopped.

  “There has been a falcon from Sha’Hadin. Why was I not informed?”

  “Excellency,” said the Chancellor. “Forgive me, but...”

  “But what, Chancellor? This is unpardonable.”

  There was a heartbeat of pause. He could hear the rustle of silk.

  “Who...?”

  His heart thudded in his throat.

  “Who is that? Chancellor?”

  The door was only steps away but his feet had turned to stone.

  “You with the tattered sash,” he heard her voice echo like the fall of a baby bird. “Turn. Let me see your face.”

  His fingers, gloved and clawless, curled into fists of their own accord. He could not breathe. He could not move.

  “Turn.”

  His feet were stones.

  “Please...”

  He turned.

  In the center of the women, at the far end of the great hall, he saw her. Here in a room she had likely visited perhaps twice in her life. She never left Pol’Lhasa, never set foot outside its painted walls. She was dressed in purples and blues with a headdress of silver tassels and the women around her were a riot of colour but her golden eyes were the only things in the room.

  He did not bow. He could not move.

  “Captain?”

  Slowly and on slippered feet, she stepped out of the protective circle of women. Chancellor Ho moved but she raised her hand and he fell silent. She continued toward him.

  “Captain,” she repeated. She had not taken her eyes off him. “You are back.”

  “Yes,” he said weakly.

  “Sha’Hadin has sent a falcon.”

  “Good.”

  “Excellency,” hissed the Chancellor. “This is unsafe.”

  “Enough,” she growled back and her black tail lashed once under her skirts. The people held their breaths as Thothloryn Parillaud Markova Wu, Twelfth Empress of the Fangxieng Dynasty, Matriarch of Pol’Lhasa and Most Blessed Ruler of the Upper Kingdom, moved across the floor like water, like silk. She stopped directly in front of him.

  He could not breathe. Could not think. Could not look anywhere other than the golden spheres that were her eyes.

  “You have changed,” she said.

  “The world has changed, Excellency.”

  “Indeed.”

  He felt dizzy, as if the world had suddenly come to a crashing halt on top of him. As if two years had suddenly fallen onto his mane-less head.

  And the incense of the tobacconist’s shop was instantly forgotten.

  “I see,” she said. “I would very much like you to tell me about it.”

  “I—”

  “Now. Come with me.” She whirled and strode back to the circle of women, and all eyes in the room fell on him now, the strange man summoned by the Empress. He could feel their stares, their questions. He was at a loss.

  She paused at the great Red and Gold Door, threw a quick glance back over her shoulder.

  “Now, Captain. If you please.”

  He pleased and crossed the floor to follow her, not sparing a glance for Chancellor Ho as he passed.

  ***

  She shook the snow from her boots as she slipped into the Lantern Room of the Monastery and paused, snorting only once. They were still here, the two men sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other. They had been for days. One was a jaguar, compact and strongly-built, his ringed pelt almost completely hidden under heavy brown robes. The other was of indeterminate breeding and a puma beard circled his mouth to end with a dark point on his chin. She used to hate that beard. Now, it and the infamous scar across his left eye were her entire world.

  The two were surrounded by the brothers of Sha’Hadin and Agara’tha. The crowd had somehow filled the entire room since she’d left last night. Some were sitting, some kneeling in the learning pose. Others were standing, pressed along the carved walls as far as she could see. The room was silent and heavy with the smell of men. They had been here for three days, these silent, sitting ones, and she could tell at a glance how the dynamics were playing out. Half the crowd was dressed in robes of brown, the other clothed in black, each behind or beside one of the two. It was war, she realized grimly. Disciplined and spiritual, but war none-the-less.

  She caught the eye of a lynx and he quietly made his way over to her.

  “Major.” His name was Tiberius and the tips of his ears poked through his silver hair. He smiled at her. She growled at him.

  “They are still here.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “They are stupid.”

  “Simply dedicated. Might I arrange a pot of tea for you? Or some lamb, perhaps?”

  “Why?”

  “To restore your body and soothe your soul.”

  “My body is strong and my soul is in
no need of soothing,” she scowled and pushed past him, striding over to the bearded man. He was dressed in robes of brown leather. She leaned in to his ear.

  “End this.”

  He did not open his eyes.

  “Why?” His first words spoken in days.

  “You are toying with him.”

  There was a murmur from those in black, and the tail of the jaguar twitched once.

  “So what if I am? It has been a restful three days and I have learned much about the state of our monastery.”

  “It is boring and my bed is cold. We have work to do.”

  He opened his eyes. Brown, like earth after a spring rain. Unnatural, but still.

  “You are a vision.” And he smiled.

  “I will kill you. And then all of them.”

  “And then what will you do?”

  She scowled. “Go back to the Army. Resume my commission.”

  Sireth benAramis took her silver hand and kissed it before looking around the room at the sea of faces. “My wife is quite correct. We all have work to do. Yahn Nevye, you are dismissed from Sha’Hadin and from the brotherhood of the Gifts. Leave now and never return.”

  “What?” The jaguar narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have the authority.”

  “In fact, I do.”

  “Jet barraDunne—”

  “—is dead. Agara’tha has no First Mage and I know from all of the thoughts in this room that the Order is directionless and failing.”

  Nevye snorted. “You can’t possibly know all our thoughts. Even you are not that powerful.”

  “Oh, I can and I have and I am.” benAramis smiled. “Tal deHaan over there has stolen bread three nights in a row from the kitchens. He knows it is wrong, but he is big man and hungry and can therefore justify his actions.”

  Eyes glanced at the man they knew as Tal deHaan. He shifted but did not meet their gaze.

  “Willhem Daniel Po wishes he can leave to visit the woman he wants for a wife. He knows Sha’Hadin has never allowed women, but thinks it is wrong and is wondering why things cannot change.” Again, eyes on the cat known as Willhem Daniel Po, but the bearded Seer simply nodded. “And change they will, Willhem. I promise you that. You may have a wife yet...”

  Murmurs anew, nodding as well.

  “I have seen a cheetah giving birth in Nam, an Oracle of the Lower Kingdom fleeing for her life and the recent talks of Kaidan in the Land of the Chi’Chen...”

  “Kaidan?”

  The Major glared at him but he kept his gaze fixed on the jaguar kneeling before him.

  “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.

&n
bsp; “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.