Portal of a Thousand Worlds Read online

  “When I have earned it, Urfather.” The speaker was familiar now, one of the clerks who had read out the Emperor’s questions. He was elderly, at least fifty, with a graying mustache whose droop seemed to express unhappiness and … guilt. … No, more like worry. He was going to get his precious robes dirty. There were soldiers in the background and now the workman with his tools.

  “What date?” Sunlight’s lips and mouth felt cracked like desert mud.

  “Two nights past the full of Wolf Moon.”

  “Another year,” the Firstborn muttered.

  “The Year of the Nightingale.”

  The year that the Firstborn must die, if the omens spoke true. It would be soon. It was a wonder that he had survived these four months of torment.

  “The warden ascended?”

  The clerk twitched in alarm. “You know, Urfather?”

  He didn’t like them calling him that when he was young. “I knew when I first saw him that he would not tarry long in this world. How?”

  “The winter sickness. Just seven days past, he began coughing and took to his bed. He has not spoken for three days. We were waiting, and just minutes ago the doctors said that he had released his spark. I came as fast as I could, Holy One.”

  “But much faster than you should. I am grateful.” The prisoner was so incredibly weak that his eyes were watering like a child’s. He was only a child, of course. That explained much.

  The manacle was struck off his wrist with a clang and he cried out at the pain. Soldiers closed in to lift him and lay him on the bed, as the doctor directed. His head was gently lifted and a bowl of water held to his lips. Someone began washing his feet and legs. He gave up the effort of talking for a while.

  It all came back. The people of the town had known he was being held in here. He could recall hearing musketry, but a long time ago. No one had spoken to him in an age, except to read out the Emperor’s stupid questions. Renewed hope was the best of medicines. By the time he was sitting up against a pile of cushions and had sipped enough soup to warm him but not enough to make him ill, he was ready to ask questions.

  The clerk was so typical that the Firstborn could have written his life story. Whatever his background—and his indeterminate accent suggested a widely traveled childhood and, therefore, a mandarin father—he had entered mandarin training and failed one of the early examinations. Barred from further progress, he had been literate enough to be employed as a clerk, and that he had remained all his life. Here he had remained, in Four Mountains, working in the office of the warden. Mandarins were moved to new postings every two or three years so that they could never build a local power base, while the petty bureaucrats beneath them stayed on. Theirs were the palms to grease to grease the wheels; they knew where the bones were buried, and who to see for what. Now his superior was dead, so he was nominally in charge of a great fortress, probably of the town also, and of the most valuable prisoner in the Good Land. But why was he ignoring the instructions the Golden Throne had given his predecessor? That was very much out of character.

  The helpers and soldiers withdrew, so that only the clerk remained, plus an unexplained skinny youth, more boy than adolescent, who crouched low on his haunches just inside the doorway, almost as if he wanted to be invisible or should not be there at all.

  “Your name?” Sunlight asked the clerk.

  “I am Clerk of Records, acting as warden until the Son of the Sun can send one worthy of that position.” It was typical that he thought of himself as a title and not a name.

  “My mother, Eminent One?” What was her name? Ah, yes, Quail.

  “She comes to the gates every morning and asks to be let in to see you. She is ignored. Someone leads her away at sunset. … People in the town must be feeding her and giving her shelter.”

  They left her outside the gate all day in the middle of winter? Why had the late warden not thought to drag her in and flog her before the prisoner’s eyes?

  “Will you have pity and let her in today?”

  The clerk looked abashed, as if caught out in great sin. “I have already done so, Holy One. She is being fed and decently clothed and has been told that she may see you later, when you feel stronger.”

  “And the people of the town?”

  “Bad news, Urfather.” The clerk wrung his hands and the silk of his sleeves made noises like trees in the wind. “When you stopped appearing on the rampart, they tried to force the castle gate. … And some were shot.”

  “Human stupidity,” the Firstborn muttered under his breath. “Nothing greater under Heaven. And then?”

  “And then the scholar started sending the boy out in your stead. But it seems your mother told them that it was not you. … Not many come to watch now; those who do come jeer and boo.”

  “Forgive me!” wailed the boy at the door. He threw himself prostrate on the flagstones. “Holy One, forgive me!”

  Sunlight glanced quizzically at the clerk and then said, “Come here, then. No, don’t wriggle like a snake. Stand up, walk over here with your head up. … Now put your buttocks on the floor and cross your legs and look at me. Look at my eyes! Now, what’s your name?”

  The boy still couldn’t meet his gaze. Trembling, he stared down at his own twiggy legs. “M-M-Mouse, Holy One!”

  Sunlight suppressed a smile and again looked at the clerk, who shrugged.

  “The boy did not want to, but the warden had him beaten if he refused. He is not much to blame, Urfather.”

  “I don’t think he’s to blame at all. Mouse? No, you must look at me. Good. You are not at fault. You did nothing wrong, and if you did, I forgive you absolutely. Can you smile? Try. Try much harder! That’s better. Go and sit on that rug. You will stay and talk with me after. Now, Scholar, what—”

  “I am not a scholar, Holy One.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Shard Gingko, Holy One.”

  “Tell me, Clerk of Records Shard Gingko, how much has the town offended the Son of the Sun? They threw stones, tried to force the gate, what else? Have they raised banners, or injured any of his guards? And how many townsfolk were hurt when the guard opened fire?”

  “Injuries unknown,” Shard Gingko said. Three dead townsmen had been left behind as the mob fled from the muskets. There had been no reprisals, no more insurrection than he had already reported.

  The Firstborn could think questions easily enough, but it was still an effort to make sense of answers. No Emperor in all eleven dynasties had been able to tolerate loss of face, and any complaint that could not be ignored would always be stamped out with brutal repression. In this case, though, unless young Absolute Purity was feeling bloodthirsty, he could blame the town’s unrest on the errors of an incompetent warden fortunately already ascended beyond imperial reach. If he did feel bloodthirsty, then there was absolutely nothing that Sunlight could do now to prevent an imperial massacre.

  “How long until noon?”

  “An hour or so,” Shard Gingko said.

  “Then I can greet my mother now. And perhaps eat a little more. But at noon, I want her to go out on the rampart, and I want Mouse to go with her. Will you do that for me, please, Mouse?”

  Shocked, the boy nodded. “Anything, Urfather.”

  “I’m not strong enough to walk yet. But they can’t see your face clearly from where they’re standing, and if my mother is with you, they’ll accept you as the real Firstborn. And later, she will go out to the gate and tell the people I am alive and well, and they will return to obedience.”

  “It shall be done, Urfather,” Shard Gingko said.

  “And when you write to Sublime Mountain … Have you written yet?”

  The acting warden did not quite manage to hide a shudder. Reporting bad news could destroy a man. “I felt that determining the state of your health was more urgent, Holy One, so that I
could report on it.” A typical master of ambage, he was—never a straight answer. “Besides,” he added, “The roads are so bad that even imperial couriers cannot get through.”

  “When you do write, you may tell the Lord of the High and the Low that I have answered the first question for you. You must say I did it for you personally, to reward your correct behavior.” That likely would not save the clerk from the Emperor’s wrath, but it was all the thanks Sunlight had to offer.

  Eyes wide, Shard Gingko nodded.

  “What was the first question? I forget.”

  “‘Who made the Portal of Worlds?’”

  The Firstborn sighed. “Ah, yes. It’s a very childish question. The answer is, ‘Whoever made the world,’ of course.”

  Chapter 3

  Brother Silky was meditating, his body cross-legged on the floor of his room in Jade Harmony 7’s palace, his spirit far away among the stars. Even when he was a contracted aide, a Gray Brother kept up his spiritual regime. Silky’s days were never empty, for he must also maintain the weapons skills needed by a sand warrior, which required several hours’ practice at the House of Humble Followers of Martial Ancestors. He frequently visited the abbey to confer with the Abbot, help out with funerals, or instruct novices. He also kept an eye on his client’s financial dealings, and had several times prevented him from plunging into disaster—the niter fiasco, for example. News of the Bamboo Banner rebellion having at last become generally known in Wedlock, Jade Harmony had decided to invest a fifth of his fortune in a scheme to corner the market in explosives. It had taken a ferocious lecture from his young aide to convince him that, whether the warehouse full of niter eventually went to the Bamboo Banner or the Empire, neither side was likely to pay for it. A week later, the price collapsed as this truth filtered through the financial community. Jade Harmony had yet to offer Silky either thanks or apologies.

  Life, in short, was very pleasant, if somewhat lacking in excitement. The only cloud blotting Silky’s sky was Verdant Harmony, Jade Harmony 7’s widowed daughter. The current business plan required Silky to bed her, and his continuing lack of success was becoming embarrassing. The Abbot kept asking for progress reports, and Silky had none to offer. If today’s battle with the dragon did not produce results, he would have to try something truly drastic.

  The dragon! It was time to prepare for battle.

  He returned to the Fourth World and opened his eyes.

  Springing to his feet, Silky stretched luxuriously. Meditation was wonderful! When he began, the knowledge that he was very likely to die this afternoon had been an icy weight on his mind, but now he was relaxed and confident. If it happened, it happened. There were infinitely many other worlds after this one.

  At first, Jade Harmony had been stingy in providing quarters for his sand warrior, but things had changed as soon as prize money began to appear. He had still grumbled at Silky’s request for a large mirror—large mirrors were expensive and Jade Harmony was a merchant—but the third purse, the one for being the unbloodied survivor in a grand melee, had finally convinced him that sponsoring a sand warrior was a worthy investment. The mirror was impressive. The new room was sun-bright but private, with easy access to the outer wall for secret coming and going.

  Silky meditated in his monk’s robe, of course, which automatically put him in his Gray Helper persona. He smiled at its reflection. His scalp was as smooth as an egg, his ears stuck out, and his arms were slender—not a very convincing opponent for a dragon, even a two-clawed dragon. He dropped his robe and donned his warrior’s breeches and boots, standing on one foot at a time to do so. He spread his weapons on the floor around him, within reach. Then he set his fists on his hips and ventured the magic of seeming.

  He saw nothing change, any more than he could watch a flower grow, but after four or five minutes, much had happened. He had the start of a queue again, his chest and shoulders were thicker, his ears flatter. Without taking his eyes off his reflection, he squatted and began to arm. He strapped on his forearm knives, slid others into the sheath on each boot and each thigh, strapped two on his upper arms, a dagger and short sword on his belt. Each improvement made the transformation move faster. The straps began biting into his thickening forearms and had to be loosened. He gathered up his hair, tied it in the traditional topknot with ribbons, hung his bandoliers of throwing knives over his shoulders, and rose to smile at Sand Warrior Silky.

  One saw what one expected to see, in this case a very dangerous-­looking young man. The “real” Silky, if there even was such a person anymore, was probably much closer now to the husky warrior than the skinny scholar of last year or the flabby, shortsighted clerk he sometimes assumed. Ironically, the inoffensive monk was the real killer, a lot more dangerous than the sand warrior with all his cutlery.

  Now, all he lacked was his long sword. Most matches in the arena were fought to first blood, so the swords used were lightweight and blunt except for a few small barbs designed to rip skin and cause copious bleeding without doing serious damage. Today, he needed an authentic lethal weapon. It required his full attention and a pair of thick gloves to coat the blade with the deadliest snake venom known to the Gray Helpers—enough to kill a hundred men. Then he painted a couple of throwing knives and returned them carefully to his baldric. He wrapped a pair of similar knives in bull hide and slid them inside his boots. They made walking uncomfortable, but he would dispose of them before the fight began.

  It would make more sense to carry a poisoned sword in a scabbard and not just a belt loop, but that would break with sand warrior tradition and attract attention. Even owning a poisoned weapon cost a man his head under imperial law, but Creature of Nightmare, the last man who had gone against the dragon, had been cremated in a tea caddy. The lizard hadn’t overlooked much of the previous challengers, either.

  But if Silky won, he would be on his way to fabulous wealth.

  He gave his reflection a blessing. It grinned back at him. They headed for their respective doors. As he emerged into the corridor, someone ducked quickly out of sight around the corner—quickly, but not quickly enough to escape the eye of a sand warrior.

  “Master Malachite?”

  An adult-size but rather chinless face appeared, followed sheepishly by a collection of elongated limbs and bones clad in inadequate meat and excessive amounts of lustrous silk. Malachite Harmony, who would one day assume the name of Jade Harmony 8, was the elder son of the house, and a fanatical hero-worshiper of its resident sand warrior. Given the chance, Malachite would happily admire Silky’s biceps from dawn to dusk.

  Silky strolled closer. “May I do something for Your Grace?”

  The boy shuffled his feet. “J-J-Just be sure to win!”

  “I certainly intend to. Why don’t you come and watch me?”

  Malachite wilted. “Honorable Father says that it is not a proper act to witness bloodshed.”

  “Yet it is all right to make money from it?”

  The boy must have tried that argument himself, because he had the answer ready. “A gentleman can own a stable without having to shovel it out.”

  “But if he does not watch that it is well and properly shoveled out, his livestock will not prosper.”

  “Oh.”

  The mandarinate government, steeped in the philosophy of the Courtly Teacher, deplored violence of any sort. So did merchants, because it was bad for trade. Merchants usually claimed to follow the rule of the Humble Teacher, although he had decreed poverty and abstemious living.

  “I can get you in free,” Silky said. “If you molt all that finery and wear only a loincloth, no one will notice you.” Of course, clean fingernails and neatly dressed youth lock would be a dead giveaway, but there was no need to mention those. Heavens bless us, even the loin cloth would probably be clean. “You can ride in my rickshaw.”

  Malachite’s eyes bulged like a dragon’s. “Disobey?” The wor
d was a breath, a shimmer of moonlight, a whisper of hope from the stars.

  Silky shrugged. “Or you can go and play with your brother. He has a stuffed duck he might share.” Encouraging a son to disobey his father was punishable by twenty strokes of the bamboo, whether the son was thirteen, as in this case, or seventy-three.

  Malachite had turned white as sea foam. “You’ll wait for me?”

  “No, but if you’re behind the gingko at the inner gate, I’ll take you.”

  “The guards?”

  “I can get you past the guards.”

  Jade Harmony 8 was gone like the morning dew.

  Silky had not even reached the next corner before another figure materialized there, a much more welcome one. Aha! It was starting to work.

  The wealthy merchant Distant Cloud had died, together with his sons, in one of those food poisoning tragedies that so often smote the dining rooms of the Good Land. His wife, Verdant Harmony, had been visiting her parents that day and had thus been saved from sharing his sad fate.

  Tragically widowed, she had returned to her father’s home, bringing an enormous fortune with her. She was still not seventeen and obviously frustrated close to insanity. Women in the Good Land, other than the poor, were sequestered and secluded, but a wealthy man’s wife could at least escape from vapid boredom by running a household. After enjoying that authority for an entire year, Verdant Harmony was back under mother’s rule and her money was under her father’s. She must also miss, one hoped, the stimulation of the connubial bed. Another husband was her only possible escape, but her father was never going to part with all that wealth. She was a bird of paradise in a golden cage.

  Silky had been trying for months to catch her alone. Only once had he managed to exchange private words with her, and it had been her doing. Right after his second sand warrior match, she had accosted him to ask why he engaged in such a barbaric practice.

  “Because it makes me so much more of a man,” he had retorted. He had gone on to explain that his sword was really quite harmless and offered to let her examine it, but she had changed color and swept away. He had registered her interest and planned accordingly. Today’s dragon match was just for her.