Portal of a Thousand Worlds Page 2

  “Mother, do you know how old the Emperor is?”

  She looked at him in bewilderment. She probably could not think of the Emperor as anything less than a godlike, all-wise grandfather.

  “He’s only eighteen, Mother! I very much doubt,” Sunlight said, a little louder than necessary, “that His Imperial Majesty Absolute Purity knows anything at all about my being here. I doubt even more that he has managed to impose his will on the mandarinate yet. Or the eunuchs.” There would be guards outside in the corridor, and it wouldn’t hurt to sow a few doubts there, even if it wouldn’t do any good, either. The last time Sunlight had visited Sublime Mountain, even Zealous Righteousness, probably the strongest Emperor in two centuries, had been as much in the power of the palace eunuchs as most of his predecessors.

  “Eunuchs?” she repeated.

  “Geldings, Mother. The palace is always riddled with eunuchs and they get into everything, like roaches.” The problem wasn’t that eunuchs were stupid or incompetent; it was that they were too smart, too competent, and too efficient at blocking anyone else from interfering with their private empire-within-an-empire.

  She was looking at him blankly, and probably the eavesdroppers outside the door understood no better. Oh, poor Quail! She could not be much more than thirty, but wrinkled and bent by work and weather. Sunlight had not been her first child, and two after him had died in infancy. With her eroded skin, her hair already graying and crudely cut, her threadbare cotton dress, she was absolutely typical of the great underworld of the Good Land, the lowly peasant mass that supported all the glory in the palaces.

  A drum marked a slow beat out in the corridor. That was ominous.

  Now boots thumped and guards marched in, followed by two men in elaborate silken robes and scarlet slippers, and finally an even greater glory, a mandarin of the third rank. That was a worri­some sign, for his predecessor had been a lowly mandarin of the first rank. Thirds were often governors of entire provinces, not insignificant forts like Four Mountains. Fat cushions were arranged appropriately on the floor, like chessmen, so the great one settled at the front, flanked by his aides, and the pawns stood at the back with their muskets. One of the lesser clerks consulted a scroll.

  “Sunlight Long River!”

  The prisoner gave his mother a squeeze and stood up to face the officials. He folded his arms. “I am the one you call by that name.”

  The flunky read his warrant, inevitably beginning with the Emperor’s seventeen major names and titles, ending with a terse statement that wardenship of Four Mountains Fortress was now entrusted to the blessed, honored, et cetera, Sedge Shallows, wise and trusted mandarin of the third rank.

  Sunlight was still only a boy, so he knelt and tapped his forehead three times on the floor, then sat back on his heels to await the great man’s pleasure. When adult, he sometimes chose to respect authority and other times chose not to.

  The new warden was a man of around fifty with silver in his dangling mustache. He was a monument of multicolored embroidery, of perfectly arranged folds, cords, and pleats, but he had not been chosen for his affability. He must resent being posted to these barren hills, far from the intrigue and the opportunities for graft and promotion in Heart of the World. He must also resent having to come to the prisoner, instead of having the prisoner dragged before him in chains, but the imperial authorities were being very careful with this captive and must have given very specific orders on how he was to be treated. Now the old warden had been withdrawn or demoted and this new one sent to apply more pressure. How much more? In many small bites or one great gulp? Sunlight had met his type oftentimes before, and memories brought dread.

  He wondered if Emperor Absolute Purity himself might be behind this new appointment. Had he actually started to assert himself and break free of the regency? A few others had managed it at about his age. Most Emperors who succeeded as minors never succeeded in being more than puppets. Dynasties often died when the heir was a minor.

  The floor was cold and hard under Sunlight’s knees, but he had met harder and colder.

  The warden spoke, using Palace Voice, which would not be understood by the guards or peasants like Quail. “Sunlight Long River, you have been commanded in the name of the blessed Son of the Sun to answer certain questions concerning the so-called Portal of Worlds.”

  Sunlight replied in the same dialect. “I have explained many times, Noble Scholar, that I will speak of such matters only to the Son of the Sun in person.”

  “You expect me to summon the Emperor for you?”

  “Take me before the Golden Throne, where I have stood many times, Eminence. I will not try to escape on the way, I promise.”

  Quite likely Sedge Shallows had never set eyes on the Golden Throne, despite his exalted rank. Possibly he never would. He scowled. “You will force me to apply sterner measures.”

  The boy shrugged. “I force nothing.”

  “Have you forgotten that the Courtly Teacher said, Refusal to act is to act?”

  “He also said, Every man desires rank and wealth, but if they can be retained only by evil means, then they must be abandoned.”

  Parroting old texts was the mandarins’ own game and the warden sneered. “He also said, Ministers in serving their ruler must serve his cause above all.”

  “But the Humble Teacher said, When the ruler does not direct his ministers according to laws of goodness, he must answer for their sins.”

  The warden hesitated. “You dare call the Son of the Sun a sinner?”

  “Not I, Eminence, but the Courtly Teacher also said, The gentleman who ever parts company with good conduct is not worthy of the name.”

  “Enough!” The mandarin nodded to his flunkies. “Proceed.”

  One had produced a brush and ink block to write.

  The other unrolled another scroll and read out, also in Palace Voice, “First question: Who made the Portal of a Thousand Worlds?”

  Sunlight sighed. “I will tell the Emperor, not you.”

  The warden said, “Bid farewell to your mother, boy.”

  Sunlight stood up and reverted to the common tongue. “Am I to fall on my face and beg for mercy? For me or for her? Where is she going?”

  “She is not your concern.”

  Another guard entered, ushering a workman with a bag of tools. The room was becoming crowded.

  “Good-bye, Mother.” The boy she had named Sunlight went to her. He bent and kissed her. “Go with my blessing always.”

  “No, no!” She clung to him fiercely. “You must answer their questions! They will let you go free if you will answer the Emperor’s questions.”

  No they wouldn’t. He wondered what they had in store for her. She was of no importance, but all the fires of history illuminated no limit to human cruelty.

  “Go, Mother, please. You have been a good mother to me, one of the best I have ever had. But you have done your duty and must go. I release you. No doubt you will be blessed for your service. Go.”

  She crept away, so bowed by sorrow that she hardly seemed taller standing than sitting, a tiny monument to human suffering.

  The workman had pulled back the rug in the center of the room to uncover a metal ring set in the stonework. He began hammering, closing the first link of a chain around it. The chain was rusty but looked strong enough to hang a horse. It was barely as long as Sunlight’s forearm.

  He looked around in dismay and caught the warden gloating. This was becoming serious. An adolescent body was much more vulnerable to maltreatment than an adult’s.

  “I am fourteen years old, Scholar. I need exercise to grow properly.”

  “Let us move to the second question, then. Secretary?”

  The flunky read out, “When will the Portal next open?”

  “The people look for me at noon every day,” Sunlight said.

  But of course th
e new warden had foreseen that difficulty. “And they will see you at noon every day, except it will not be you. The eagles in Heaven may notice the difference, but the rabble won’t be able to tell. Will you submit or be forced?”

  The workman had stopped banging. Now he knelt beside his chain, staring up at the prisoner with an expression of horror, or terror, or both. He was young and repellently thin. He was of an age to have many tiny mouths to feed. Sunlight walked over to him and offered an ankle for the manacle.

  The warden said, “Your wrist.”

  Sunlight would not be able to stand upright, perhaps not even kneel properly. Remembering the last time this had been done to him, he sat down, crossed his skinny legs, and held out his left hand.

  “The other one.”

  For a moment, the boy considered refusing. No, it was too soon, his time was not yet. He must be patient. He smiled and used his right hand to give the workman his blessing. “You are not to blame.”

  The man gasped in relief, blinking away tears. “Oh, thank you, First—”

  “No!” Sunlight laid fingers across his mouth. “Do not call me that! They will punish you. Now do what they want.” He offered his right wrist.

  The warden rose from his cushion and moved closer to watch the hammering. When he was satisfied that both ends of the chain were secure, he sneered. “Third question: Who will pass through the Portal when it opens?”

  Sunlight was neither doctor nor magician, but his experience was beyond comprehension. At close range, he could recognize the shadow of death on the new warden.

  “Either hand works,” he said, and used his left to bless the man.

  “If you ever do that again, I will have your wrists clamped behind your back and you will have to eat like a dog. Who made the Portal?”

  Sadly, the prisoner said, “You will not know in this life, Honorable Scholar. You have very little time left.”

  The warden pointed at the rug. “Remove that,” he told a guard. “Move that forward, and that. The prisoner will be fed every two days. Every ten days, you will put the Emperor’s questions to him again.”

  “Take me to the Emperor and I will answer them.”

  At the door, the mandarin fired a parting shot. “Meditate on the wisdom of the Humble Teacher, who said, The Good Land is a dragon and the Emperor is its head; he will lead, but we are the limbs that must obey and support him.”

  “No, he didn’t! That nonsense was inserted into his teachings about a hundred years after he ascended. He would never have said that.”

  The warden left; guards followed; door slammed. Locks and chains and bolts clattered. The Firstborn was left sitting on bare flagstones. He still had the books, the comfortable bed, the view, and all the rest of his comforts, only he could reach none of them. He had a water jug and a bucket. He had a loincloth but no blanket. And winter was coming.

  Chapter 2

  “Have you ever killed a man, Tug?” inquired Rice Straw.

  The question was not entirely irrelevant, as Tug had him firmly gripped in an armlock and was holding a knife at his throat. Just because they were in a training session in the seniors’ gym did not mean that the blade was not razor sharp.

  Tug said, “Yes. Do you want to be the next?”

  “No. Please.”

  Tug released him and returned the knife. “Then tell me what you did wrong this time.”

  Two days earlier, Rice Straw had been promoted from postulant to novice. Having been taught everything he could ever need to know about the Gray Helpers’ official business of cleaning up and cremating corpses, he had now embarked on learning about their private sideline, part of which was creating them. So far, his efforts to make a mock victim out of Tug had all ended in mock disasters.

  Tug himself was still only a novice, although overdue for initiation to full helper status. His training had indeed required him to advance a man, but it had been on Brother Providence’s contract; Tug had inserted the knife as directed, but the outing had counted on Providence’s score. Tug’s still officially stood at zero.

  The sun was setting, and even at noon, the seniors’ gym was never bright, for the exercises performed there belonged to darkness and shadow. Tug was aware that a third person had entered, but Rice Straw was not, and he jumped like a flea when a raspy voice spoke his name.

  “Rice Straw!”

  The boy shot across the room and flopped down on his knees before the newcomer. Master of Archives was a plump, soft man with badly rotted teeth and a face scarred by smallpox. He sprayed when he spoke, and his breath was recognizable at five paces.

  “We have a logjam of discards developing in the washing room. Go and help clean it up.”

  Rice Straw snatched his robe off its peg by the door and vanished without even bothering to put it on. Tug had by then arrived in front of Archives. He offered a three-quarter bow.

  “Master?”

  “Good news. As the venerable Abbot has told you several times, we have been delaying your initiation until a worthy client appears, and it seems very likely that one will come calling on us this evening. If not tonight, then tomorrow. If he waits longer than that, it will be too late, and he will not be worth saving.”

  Excellent news! Tug managed to hold his heartbeat at its normal level, although that required as much effort as it had when he performed that outing for Brother Providence. He tried not to lean backward as Archives continued his fetid narration.

  “You will recall that you conducted funeral rites for a merchant, Jade Harmony 6, last year.”

  “Certainly, Master.” It had involved the Ritual of Supreme Desolation—not one of the very highest, but lavish enough, and for a mere postulant to be put in charge had been a great compliment. That scale of funeral implied considerable wealth, if not quite first rank in a city as rich as Wedlock. The Emperor’s death tax would have pushed the deceased’s son even lower in the standings.

  “Then go and watch at the door this evening. You will recognize Jade Harmony 7 if he comes?”

  “Certainly, Master,” Tug said again.

  “And you are confident that he will not recognize you?”

  Tug let a thin sliver of indignation show in his voice. “Of course!” The director of lamentation at a Ritual of Supreme Desolation must be a very senior Helper, which is how the mourners would have seen Tug.

  “Then go and prepare.”

  Tug strode back to his cell and attended to his toilet. He wrapped himself in a fresh gray robe of flimsy summer cotton, leaving his arms and left shoulder bare. He sat cross-legged before the mirror and contemplated his appearance until he was satisfied that he seemed appropriately juvenile and innocent; he must not appear to his prospective employer as in any way threatening, despite the Gray Helpers’ sinister reputation. He then padded to the great door, where old Brother Moon had the watch that evening. He glanced in surprise at Tug and then smiled and nodded, guessing why he had been sent.

  It had been Moon who had admitted Tug nine years ago, so his presence tonight felt as if it should be a favorable sign. Truly, this might be his naming day at last!

  By its very existence, the House of Joyful Departure condemned its environs to becoming an area of penury and ill omen. No wealthy merchant would be seen dead there unless some very close relative was, in fact, dead there. Jade Harmony 7 would certainly not come in daylight, for that would add the danger of finding his way blocked by a funeral procession, a most dire augury.

  Night had fallen, but the air felt like hot blankets, and was equally hard to breathe. What excuse, Tug wondered, could a man such as Jade Harmony invent for venturing into these insalubrious surroundings at all? To order a one-year memorial service for his father? He could arrange that by sending a runner from his home, although to attend to the matter in person might be seen as a meritorious display of respect for ancestors.

  A
ha! Tug heard a distant clang of a gong signaling to the unwashed and unworthy herd to clear the way. It grew rapidly louder, until its source ran into the tree-shrouded courtyard in the shape of a lithe and very sweaty youth. He was followed by a grandiose palanquin borne on the muscled shoulders of four well-matched hulking young barbarians from the Outlands, no doubt prisoners taken in some borderland disciplinary action. Behind them came no less than eight guards in bright plumes and lacquered armor, equipped with muskets, pistols, and swords. They ought to deter any evil-intentioned rabble away from serious violence, but might well invite well-aimed airborne handfuls of dung.

  Brother Archives had prophesied that Jade Harmony 7 would come calling this evening, so the occupant of that palanquin was undoubtedly Jade Harmony 7.

  The doorway to the Gray Sisters’ quarters being closed, the gong beater knew to trot around the courtyard and halt before the steps where Brother Moon kept watch, and where two postulants were already unrolling a red carpet. The Gray Helpers’ efficiency and propriety were legendary. The bearers set down their burden with obvious relief. By then, Tug had already gone, for he knew exactly what was about to happen.

  Jade Harmony would be conducted by two novices bearing lanterns along passages of stark and somber stone—a curiously long way, much longer than the path that Tug used to reach the same destination. By the time the merchant arrived at a secluded cloister, smelling of blossoms and incense, and made private by the tinkling of some nearby stream and a choir rehearsing nearby, the angular figure of Gray Abbot himself would be there to welcome him. Gray Abbot was very old, his face long gone past wrinkles to the leathery texture of the truly ancient, lacking even eyelashes or eyebrows, although he did seem to have retained most of his teeth and his gaze was shrewd. Tall, thin, leaning on a staff, he stood like some ancestral apparition in the weak gleam of a pink and green lantern. At his feet, two cushions and a tray of refreshments were already set out for a conference, another display of the legendary efficiency. Tug stood unseen in the shadows, waiting for his cue.

  Jade Harmony had changed since his father’s advancement to the Fifth World—he had gone from prosperously plump to overtly obese. Perhaps he was getting more to eat with one less mouth to feed? His embroidered silks must cost as much as his train of eight guards and four bearers. Just from memories of that funeral he had arranged, Tug doubted very much that the man could afford such display.