Empire of Unreason (50 page)

her neck, until she began to lose herself and wondered why she
needed mortal eyes at all, or flesh.

Her work faded behind her, like the world, and she fluttered like a
moth in the darkest, largest night of all. No stars, no lamps, no
moon rose to attract her, only lighter black or a dark, dark gray.

She moved toward that.

In that thinner night, holes appeared, like eyes, and then a line that
might be a nose. As she watched a portrait formed, ash smeared on
lampblack. She recognized the face.

“Nicolas?” she heard someone ask, and then knew it was herself.

Her own voice answered her, but the words did not come from her.

“Nico-less.
What is that name? It is an old name. I have heard it
before.”

“Nicolas? My son? Is it you?”

Deep in the black sockets, almost invisible sparks flashed.

“Who calls me son? I know my mother’s voice. You are not my
mother. You are—” a pause “—an old dream of mine, maybe.

Something like that.”

“Nicolas!” Adrienne felt a tremor, her heart humming like a violin
string. “It
is
your name. I
am
your mother. I am coming for you.”

The face frowned, and the sparks grew in number and magnitude.

“I was told to expect you. I was told to expect your lies. I’m leaving.”

The face began to fade, and Adrienne felt sudden panic. She had
found him, somehow, across the aether. She could not lose him
now.

“Wait!” she begged. “Wait! I am mistaken. I thought you were
someone else. But I would like—I would like to talk to you.”

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This time, the voice sounded hesitant. “Talk? About what?”

“About you. About anything you wish. What… what can I call you?”

“You may
not
call me the name you used before.”

“I will not. It was a mistake.”

“You may call me… Sun Child.”

She saw herself, suddenly, in a grotto in Versailles, staring at a
statue with her face. The statue was of Thetis, a mistress of Apollo.

In the same grotto stood a statue of Apollo, and his face was that of
Louis XIV Louis, who had raped her—not by force of arms, but
because he was the king, was certain that no woman could or would
refuse him. Louis, the Sun King.

Louis, the father of her son.

“May I call you… Apollo?” she asked.

“What means that?”

“It means ‘the sun.” “

“It is good, then. Tell me more of this name.”

“It is Greek, the name of an ancient god, who drove a chariot across
the sky.”

“I ride such a chariot,” the voice said, softening somehow. “I see
most wondrous things. They are pleasing to me. The country I pass
over pleases me, the chosen land. It is pleasing to purify it.”

“What do you mean?”

There came a pause. “My nurse returns,” he said. “I shall tell her of
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you.”

“Have you—have you ever had a secret friend, Apollo?”

“Not—not in a long time. My mother used to be my secret friend,
but now she isn’t secret.”

“Why don’t
we
be secret friends?”

“Why?”

“For the fun of it—for the secret.”

The face scrunched, as if pondering. “That pleases me very well,” it
remarked. “But if that’s the case, I must go now. I will call on you
later—if I may.” He sounded almost shy.

“Later, then,” Adrienne replied, as the ash swirled and was
swallowed by pitchy darkness. She heard a roaring like distant surf,
felt heat prick her skin. She remembered, suddenly, what she had
been doing, and realized with horror that she must have failed.

Red Shoes remembered.

The day after sending the shadowchild to his people, he found the
tracks of the Mongols. They weren’t hard to find; after all, they
were the predators, not the prey—or at least they thought they
were. The panther does not hide her tracks.

But they were no longer the panther, which they discovered the
next day when he caught them and killed them all. It was a simple
matter, really, to loosen the lightning in their armor, their
weapons, their blood. It had once been beyond him— this sort of
magic—but no longer. The shadow of the great snake pulsed in his
heart and belly, and little was beyond him now.

After that, he and Grief continued on, now tracking Flint Shouting,
Tug, and the tsar. This trail was a little harder to follow, but when
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there were no tracks he still had their scent, and it led him surely
through forests that were growing to be more like forests,
grasslands that came more infrequently and in smaller expanses.

After two days they reached a place where the weight of a small
river gently bent the earth into a shallow valley, from which the
smoke of cooking fires streamed into a still blue sky. On the
cleared, high ground above the water clustered some fifteen houses
made of grass—Wichita houses, like those he had seen before.

As they rode leisurely down the hill, riders came out to meet them.

Amongst them, with his new, clear sight, he saw Flint Shouting.

Flint Shouting saw Red Shoes, too, and let out a jubilant whoop.

“You lucky Choctaw!” he yelled, as they came closer. “You survived
after all!”

Something about that irritated Red Shoes, but he kept it to himself.

After all, Flint Shouting had only done what he had told him to. “I
did,” he affirmed.

“I have a war party ready to go after the Mongols,” Flint Shouting
said proudly.

“That’s good work, but no longer necessary,” Red Shoes said.

Flint Shouting’s face bunched like a frog preparing to hop. “Really?”

“Yes. I dealt with them.”

“How? I thought you were all out of strength.”

“I found more.”

Flint Shouting leaned over to clasp his arm. “Good! Good! You shall
tell us the story! Though I wish I could have killed a few more
myself. We had to fight, you know—some of them caught up with
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us. We only made it here yesterday.” He gestured grandly. “The
village of my birth,” he said.

“Your people seem to have forgiven you,” Red Shoes observed.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. There are still a few who want to cut off my nose,
but things are better now. They missed me, I think, and their anger
has cooled.”

Another rider was coming up the slope—Tug, looking a little silly on
his Mongol pony. He was grinning like a split-open pumpkin.

“Damn good’t‘ see you!” he called as he drew near. “Damn good!”

He hopped off and in two bounds had reached Red Shoes, who soon
found himself lifted from his horse and riding on the big man’s
shoulders, a crowd of Wichita children all around them, whooping
and screaming. He whooped, too, but it was as if the part of him
that was glad to see Tug again was far away, a sort of dream.

His whole life as a man was a dream, one he was waking from.

That night they feasted, and he ate as he had not in months. His
appetite surprised him, but his satisfaction came from the feeling
in his belly, not from the taste The food itself was flavorless. After
the meal, he watched Tug stumble about, trying to dance, mostly
failing but obviously enjoying himself. The former pirate tried to
draw Red Shoes into it, but as the night wore on, he felt ever more
gravid, hot, listless.

The tsar didn’t join in, either.

“Our pursuit is really dead?” Peter asked, picking at what remained
of a bowl of buffalo stew.

“Yes.”

“Killed by your magic?”

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“Yes.”

The tsar nodded. “I owe you more each day. I know the gratitude of
a king means little to you, but you have it.”

“On the contrary, Tsar Peter, it means much to me. I want your
people far from my country. Perhaps, in your gratitude, you will
remember that.”

“I want the same thing.”

“Do you? What if they win? What then?”

“As I said before,” Peter said, “it isn’t taking the land—it’s holding
it. We could never hold this wild country, not if every Russian bore
arms. And why should we? What can we get from it that we could
not get more profitably by trade?”

Red Shoes nodded distractedly.

“Our friend Flint Shouting seems quite important here,” the tsar
noticed.

“It’s his people. Of course, these same people were torturing him to
death not long ago, so best stay wary.”

The tsar threw up his hands. “It’s hard to worry, right now. I feel
better than I have in weeks. I feel strong. Do these people have
strong drink?”

“You mean like wine or brandy?”

“Exactly so.”

“No.”

The tsar made a face. “Well, they ought to have it.”

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Red Shoes thought of the destruction the bitter waters had wrought
in his own homeland and among the little nations crouched around
New Paris. He didn’t say anything.

“I wish to dance with them,” the tsar said, pointing at the circular
dance in progress. “Is it permitted?”

“Of course. You see that Tug does so.”

“Indeed.” The tsar clasped his arm. “Again—my thanks, both for my
rescue and for adventures I could never have dreamed of, even in
my youth.” He rose and joined the dancing. Nothing he did even
remotely fit into what the Wichita were doing, but they seemed
amused by his efforts.

Red Shoes knew that on another day he would have been amused,
too. But something was wrong with him. He was feeling more
torpid than ever. He got up and wandered into the darkness outside
the village, trying to understand.

He turned at a slight sound. Tug was following him.

“You mad at me, fellah?” the sailor asked when they were alone. “I
knew I should have come back f ‘r yuh. Damn—but you said—”

“You did the right thing, Tug,” he said softly. “You did exactly the
right thing. Don’t feel bad about it.”

“Then what’s the matter? Y‘ han’t said three words all evenin’.”

Red Shoes closed his eyes, saw again the expanse of his tail, the
black rattles humming at the end of it.

“I—Listen to me, Tug. Something’s happened. I’ve swallowed
something, and its burning me inside. Do you understand?”

“No. Not a damn bit.”

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“Just—” He couldn’t feel his feet on the ground anymore. “Tug, I
need you to do something. If anything happens to me—”

“Wat d‘ y’ mean? You sick?”

“I think so. If anything happens, you have to take the tsar away
from here. To Carolina or New Paris. You have to let the other
white men know what’s happening out here. You have to find
Benjamin Franklin and Nairne and tell them. You understand me?

Make Flint Shouting go with you, as a guide.” “What’s wrong with
you?” “Maybe nothing. Just leave me alone for a while.” Tug stood
there for a few minutes. “Red Shoes, I owe y‘ my life more times ’n‘

I can count. More ’n that, you’re a mate, an‘ though I’ve said that of
quite a few, y’r the best friend I’ve ever owned. ”Drot you, but tell
me what’s goin’ on.“

“I will when I know, Tug. I swear it. Now go find one of these
Wichita women. There ought to be one or two curious about white
men.”

“More like ten.” he said. “But if y‘ need me—” “I only need to be
alone,” Red Shoes told him. “Please.” “Well, if that’s the right of it.

I’ll see y’ in the mornin‘.” “Yes.”

When Tug was gone, Red Shoes stood trembling, gazing up at the
stars, hating them for no reason that he could name.

He walked back into the village the next morning, without having
slept. A few women and children were already stirring, and an old
man whose flesh was covered with little tattoos—each shaped like a
small cross—watched Red Shoes approach through narrowed eyes.

He had shadowchildren— small, weak ones. One of them was
sniffing curiously at Red Shoes.

“You are something strange,” the old man said in the trade
language.

“Really? What am I, grandfather? Tell me. I would like to know,
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myself.”

The old man stared at him for a few moments, then cleared his
throat.

“A long time ago, there was a flood that covered the world. Do you
remember it?”

“I’ve heard of it. How could I remember it?” But suddenly he did
remember something, a surging rage, a mighty effort to split the
skin of the world, to suck it back into the mud, to thwart Hashtali.

He remembered boiling and a weight of waters greater than the sea.

He didn’t tell that to the old man.