Five Odd Honors (49 page)

Righteous Drum was pale, his eyes red. “The branches. They want the Earthly Branches—as we did.”

“But they,” Nissa said softly, “are far more ruthless.”

“Flying Claw,” Honey Dream said, her voice low and hot, “had nothing to offer them—and his death would release the Tiger to their use. Likely he is dead.”

Pearl found her voice. “We must go after them.”

“You cannot go into the Lands,” Righteous Drum protested. “You possess what our enemies want: affiliation with the portion of the Earthly Branches that came with the Exiles back into the Land of the Burning. They will be watching for you.”

Pearl met his gaze without flinching. “They have Des, whom I have known all his life. They have Riprap, who has become a friend. Despite my unkindness to Flying Claw, he has honored me by calling me aunt. I will either save or avenge him.”

Albert nodded agreement, but it was Nissa who spoke. “The Exiles came back to life for us. At least we owe them an honest death.”

When he started instructing her, Parnell decided that the root of Brenda’s difficulty was that she could not tap ch’i external to her own.

“And when you run out of what you have, acushla, you collapse and get sick. I’m not blaming your teachers, mind. They were trying to teach you and the others, while at the same time struggling to learn who was hunting you all. Those amulet bracelets were a good compromise, but the time has come to move beyond them.”

For the last several days, therefore, Brenda had been letting her college studies slide. She still went to lectures and did the bare minimum of preparation for those classes where she had to be ready to respond. Otherwise, she spent her time on Parnell’s lessons.

He’d warded a half dozen locations, all near areas where, according to him at least, natural energy was more abundant. The plan was to teach her to tap that energy, then learn to focus it into one of the amulet bracelets.

“Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak,” Parnell said cheerfully. “The ch’i, as you call it, won’t be wasted, and you’ll build your arsenal up a bit.”

“The clay is going to get pretty grungy,” Brenda protested.

“I don’t think that is important,” Parnell assured her.

Brenda was coming out of one of the warded areas after a long morning’s lesson when her phone rang.

“Breni?”

“Nissa!” The joy Brenda felt at hearing Nissa’s voice instantly faded. Maybe it was because she’d been concentrating so hard on intangibles, but there was a tense note in Nissa’s voice. “Is something wrong? Has Pearl had another attack?”

“Well,” Nissa paused, “not quite. Actually, I was calling you about that role-playing game we started this summer. You remember, the one about portals into another land?”

She needs to talk about magic and stuff , and knows we’re not supposed to over the phone or even in e-mails,
Brenda thought.

Aloud she said, “Sure. How could I forget? It took the whole summer, and I had to leave right when things were getting interesting, when we were sending out scouts.”

Parnell, who had been walking alongside Brenda, politely ignoring the conversation, now stiffened. Brenda wondered if she should let him eavesdrop, then shrugged. How could she stop him? She had no idea what Parnell was capable of doing. Even if he walked away, he might return in another form, or have one of his little allies listen for him.

Brenda slowed and motioned toward a bench near a spreading maple. Then she held her phone out from her ear, and hoped Parnell could hear.

Nissa was saying, “That’s it. I knew you’d remember. Listen, do you want to know what’s happened since?”

“I’ve always wanted to know,” Brenda said, “but whenever I asked, no one would tell me anything.”

She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, but suspected it crept in nonetheless. “I figured that since you had another player for my character, you didn’t want me to play anymore.”

Nissa’s Virginia drawl intensified as it always did when she got emotional. “I can see why you’d think that, honey, but that was just one player’s choice. The guy who took over your role said that he didn’t think you’d want to be distracted—and that he couldn’t play if he was worrying about you.”

Dad,
Brenda thought viciously.
Dad was the one who didn’t want me to “play.”

But the momentary anger faded in light of the realization that Nissa now refused to maintain the ostracization.

“Tell me about the game,” Brenda urged. “How are our scouts? Did they find the way through the maze?”

“They did,” Nissa said. “Took them quite a while. Some of the sections were really hard to figure out. But it might have been better if they didn’t make it through.”

“Why?”

“It was all a trap. Remember the guy who tried to keep us from getting the Monkey?”

“Yeah.”

“He was waiting. They’re prisoners.”

“Prisoners!”

“We only learned three days ago,” Nissa said. “We had puzzles of our own to solve, but we finally figured out how to get in touch with G.S. She’s in bad shape, but we don’t think her life is in danger.”

Brenda’s heart was hammering so hard she could hardly hear over the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

“Why not? I mean, I’m glad, but . . .”

“Because we think the people who captured her want . . .” Nissa paused.

Brenda realized that Nissa wasn’t just following protocol. She was afraid that someone might tap in, someone who could fill in the gaps on this weird conversation.

Who? One of the indigenous? Dad? Some other enemy?

“Want?” Brenda prompted.

“The same thing everyone seems to want,” Nissa said. “Remember earlier in the game?”

The Earthly Branches.

“I do. God! Nissa, what can I do to help? This is horrible. Do you know if the others are okay? Did G.S. say more?”

“She said very little, but I think . . . We can’t count on everyone being okay. There’s one scout who doesn’t have anything they want.”

One scout? Brenda mentally ran through the list: the five ghosts, Riprap, Des, and—

“Oh, God! No!”

“I think you’ve guessed,” Nissa said, her voice heavy. “We’re not leaving it lie. We’re doing all we can. Shen got here yesterday, but even with his help it’s going to take time.”

“What can I do?”

Nissa let the question hang so long that Brenda thought the connection had been broken. Then she realized that Nissa was honor bound not to ask.

“Hey!” Brenda said. “I’ve got a great idea. I’m ahead on my classes. Why don’t I come out and help you guys? Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll tell my room-mate I’m going on a road trip, that I might be away for a few days after the weekend.”

The relief was evident in Nissa’s voice, but she didn’t push.

“Sure you won’t get in trouble? Can you afford the tickets?”

“I’ll work it out—sometimes you can get some great last-minute fares online. Midterms are ages away. My roommate will cover for me. I probably won’t even tell my folks.”

“Good. Your dad dropped in for a few days, but he’s off again. He’s the busiest . . .” Brenda heard “most uncooperative” in Nissa’s inflection. “. . . fellow.”

“Yeah. I wish . . .”

Brenda let that thought trail of . She was already angry at her dad. Moreover, Parnell was pointing to himself, thumping his index finger against his chest.

“Uh, Nissa,” Brenda said, “I’ll get right on those plane reservations, but there’s one thing. A friend is coming with me.”

“Breni? Is that wise?”

Brenda looked at Parnell. His green eyes were bright and determined, and she knew that if she refused to let him come with her, he’d show up anyhow and the explanations she would need to make then would be worse.

“I think it’s the smartest thing I can do. He’s a great game player, and he might have some clever moves we can use.”

Loyal Wind
had lost track of how many days had passed. His joints—especially his shoulders and knees—never stopped screaming at the odd angles they must hold, but he had grown accustomed to the horrible smell and had even stopped feeling hungry.

Thirst remained, a per sis tent nagging counterpoint to the ache in his limbs, but the filthy liquid in which he crouched had long ago ceased being anything like water. Occasionally, Loyal Wind gave in to the thirst and sucked a little of the wet stuff up from the palm of his hand. It didn’t stay down long, but at least for a short time his mouth stopped feeling so dry.

He itched, and couldn’t reach to scratch. After a while, he couldn’t feel his feet. That, actually, was something of a relief.

The cacophonic plaints of his body had settled into a twisted version of normalcy when the slot on the door to the cell slammed open. Light seared his eyes, even though he squeezed them tightly shut in reaction to the first bright ray. He heard the rattling of metal keys, the lock creaking open, felt the change in the air when the door was opened.

Loyal Wind didn’t move until hard hands grabbed his upper arms andpulled him out. His legs tried to straighten, failed. He fell forward, unable to move cramped arms to catch himself.

The hands caught him again.

“His feet are swollen. He’s not going to be able to walk.”

“Drag him, then.”

“He stinks!” the first voice protested.

“Hold your breath.”

They dragged him. Some sensation returned to his feet, enough so that Loyal Wind felt tender skin, immersed in liquid for so many days, scraping against stone. He felt a trickle of blood grease his passage.

One of the draggers noticed, too.

“Shit! Pick him up. We’re going to have to clean this up, and blood stains are a bitch.”

“He stinks!” came the protest, but rough hands shifted their hold.

Loyal Wind’s joints cried out, but he didn’t let a sound past his teeth. If his jailers thought him conscious, they might try to make him walk. Loyal Wind knew he couldn’t walk. He didn’t think he could even crawl.

He concentrated on what he could do, easing open his eyelids to the thinnest slit. His line of sight was limited to the floor, but after nothing but darkness, the varied shapes and hues of grey stone were quite interesting.

Eventually, they passed through a door, across a gravel path, and into another building. The air felt different here. Moist. Steamy. A strong floral scent penetrated Loyal Wind’s deadened sense of smell.

The bath house.

The jailers handed Loyal Wind over to the bath house attendants. There was little conversation, but forms were signed.

When the jailers were gone, Loyal Wind risked raising his head. His neck hurt astonishingly, but he could see that the two attendants were squat-figured, flat -faced, middle-aged women of the peasant type. They were inspecting him as they might a basket of dirty sheets.

“Clothes no good,” one said.

“Cut ’em off. Give him a rinse first.”

“Yeah. Otherwise we’ll be scrubbing the big tub for days.”

That was the extent of the discussion. Loyal Wind’s clothing, saturated with filth, rotten where it had sat in the water, was cut from him. In a few places, the fabric stuck and had to be peeled away.