Shallows of Night - 02 (16 page)

“It is most important that I go out; and I must go now. Do you understand?” Because her eyes were clouded like the sky on the dawn of a stormy day. “Will you be all right?” His fingers gripped her shoulders. “You will stay with the guards?” He wanted to make certain.

She looked up into his colorless eyes now. “Yes,” she said and he believed her. “Kiri will soon return.”

“Tell her I was here.”

The ghost of a smile.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I will.”

The door closed softly behind him.

It was a disquieting day: overcast, rain falling more heavily now, pattering against the roofs of the street stall, and he pulled his cloak about him. It was somewhat lighter directly overhead but dark clouds scudded across the sky in the distance.

The weather had not diminished the crowds, however. Oiled rice-paper umbrellas and thick cloaks to keep out the dampness were much in evidence.

He paused at a stand on Blessant Street, for rice and tea and to inquire after the surest route to the walled city. But there was a crawling in the pit of his stomach and he found that he had little appetite. He drank his green tea and listened to the forlorn drip of the rain on the stand’s meager canopy.

He took Blessant Street as far as King Knife Street, which wound around in such circuitous fashion that several times he believed that he was headed away from the incline of the mountain.

Once he saw a beggar, sprawled in the street, filthy, unmoving. It was only after he had passed the body that he realized there was no life in him. Death was ignored in Sha’angh’sei, as T’ien had told him; at least most forms. Which brought him back to Sa’s death.

He had known before he asked Matsu that it had not been the doing of the Greens. The stench was still in his nostrils. But that was a time factor; even if he had been later, the smell dissipated, he would have known by the way she was killed. It was the same manner in which G’fand had died in the City of Ten Thousand Paths. The Makkon.

But why had it killed Sa? He felt that it was important for him to know, but the answer eluded him.

As King Knife Street began to wind upward, the old dust-worn shops thinned and gaps between buildings became more frequent. At first these were mere dirt alleyways into which filth and refuse had been dumped. But gradually, as he continued to ascend, they were filled with wild grass and thickets of fir trees, tall and willowy, their slender dark green tips swaying in the swirling rain.

As the incline increased so the aspect of the houses he passed was transformed. There was more brickwork in evidence here, in good repair and ornately crafted. Different styles of architecture made their presence felt.

The road was well paved now but fairly free of people and it occurred to him that here, on the way to the walled city, was the only area of Sha’angh’sei he had been to so far that was not jammed with people.

It was eerily silent. At once he missed the hubbub and jostle of the throngs, the thick swirl of commingling scents, the filth, the life and the death, the vast mysterious panoply of humanity.

In the absence of the teeming crowds, he was struck by the artificiality of the houses and he recalled Matsu’s words,
They twisted the land.
For this seemed an entirely different Sha’angh’sei, at once cleaner and crasser. It seemed to him that here, among the columnated houses, with their plaster and wrought-iron scalloping, the natural tones and inclinations of the land had been pushed back, held at bay along the foothills, and that here the brand of the legions of rikkagin from faraway lands, squatting, growing fat from the wealth of Sha’ang’sei’s land, was very apparent.

He topped the last rise of King Knife Street and went into the chill shadow of the walled city. The wall itself was some six and a half meters high, constructed of enormous yellow stone blocks joined so cunningly that he could barely distinguish the joints. Heavy metal doors stood open to the inward side but a latticed metal grillwork gate barred the entrance.

Men in purple quilted jackets and wide black leggings stood just inside the gate. They all were armed with curved single-edged-swords and short-hafted throwing axes. They were almond-eyed and their long greased hair was bound in queues.

A thickset man with a flat face and wide nose came and opened the gate.

“Why do you come to the walled city?” asked the man. “You are a new compradore, perhaps?”

Another man drifted over in a cloud of sweet smoke. He took the pipe out of his mouth and regarded Ronin with heavy-lidded eyes.

“No, I seek an audience with the Municipal Council.”

The flat-faced man guffawed and walked away.

“They will not see you,” said the second man, pulling at his pipe.

“Why not? It is most urgent that I see them.”

Smoke swirled in the air and the man turned languidly, pointing at the trees of the walled city running in thick rows away from them, lining the quiet avenues; the large, stately buildings, flat-roofed, terraced, with carefully sculptured gardened fronts.

“Here the fat hongs and sleek functionaries of Sha’angh’sei live and build their fortunes, unseen and, for a price, safe.”

“From what?”

The black eyes studied Ronin with unwavering intensity.

“From Sha’angh’sei,” he said.

He sucked at his pipe but it had gone out. He knocked the bowl against the wall, began to refill it from a leather packet within his quilted jacket.

“No one sees the Municipal Council, my friend.” His eyes were unnaturally bright. “At all.”

The rain beat down. The avenues were slick with wet, gleaming dully. The trees rustled in the wind, flinging moisture, and somewhere a bird sang sweetly, enfolded within brown branches and green leaves.

“Where is the Council building?”

The man with the dark eyes sighed. “Take the avenue to the left. Second turning.” He moved into the shelter of an overhang.

The echoes of marble. The soft sighing. The prolonged susurration of whispering. The quiet click of boot soles.

The hall was cold and columnless and empty of ornamentation. Its only furniture was low, wide, backless benches of the same pink and back marble.

The hall echoed to his footsteps as he crossed the polished floor. Ahead of him, the desk.

He passed people sitting humped on the benches. There was a peculiar air about them, as if most of them had been here for so long that they had forgotten their purpose in coming. Expectancy had perished a long time ago.

The desk too was of marble, curved and thick, a heavy shield for the woman who sat behind its imposing façade. Although she had the black hair and almond eyes of the people of the Sha’angh’sei area, her face was nevertheless less delicate, with a more pronounced bone structure so that he knew that she had other blood in her. She had light eyes and a square chin which she knew gave her the appearance of strength. She spoke accordingly.

“Yes, sir. State your business, please.” She had before her a long list of names and was in the process of drawing a line through the third name from the top with her quill.

“I seek an audience with the Municipal Council of Sha’angh’sei.”

The quill dipped into the inkwell. “Yes?” Scratch.

“I come on a matter of the utmost urgency.”

She looked up then.

“Is that so?” She smiled charmingly with small white teeth. “I am afraid it will do you no good.”

“I am sure that when the Council hears—”

“Pardon me, but you do not seem to understand.” She wore a tightly cut green and gold quilted jacket that showed off her jutting breasts and narrow waist in a way that was severe and, because of it, sensual. Her startling sapphire nails plucked at the jacket. “One must make an appointment to see the Council.” She brandished the list in front of her. “It will be many days.”

“I do not think you appreciate the gravity of the situation,” said Ronin, but already he was feeling rather foolish.

The woman sighed and pursed her lips.

“Sir, everyone who seeks audience with the Council is on an urgent mission.”

“But—”

“Sir, you are in the Municipal Building of Sha’angh’sei, the seat of government for not only this vast city but the enormous area of land in the surrounding vicinity. Maintenance is a most complex and problem-filled task. Can you understand that?” She leaned forward, her face intent. A strand of hair came loose from its binding, stroking the side of her face as she spoke. “In the event that you do not, let me tell you that this city must feed and house not only its numerous inhabitants but also many of the outlying communities. We also must take care of the constant flood of refugees from the north.” She threw her shoulders back as if it were an act of defiance; it had a double effect. She knows her job, he thought. “Sir, through the port of Sha’angh’sei comes the bulk of the raw materials to sustain much of the continent of man. It is more than a full-time task in these evil times to keep this city running.” She finally swept a hand up, flash of deep blue, tugging the wayward strand over her ear. “Now you can appreciate why we cannot allow the Council to be errantly disturbed. Why, if everyone who came to this building were allowed an immediate audience, I cannot imagine how this city would function.” She took a deep breath, leaning back in her chair. Her breasts arched at him, an unsubtle offering of consolation.

Ronin leaned over and stared into her eyes.

“I must see the Council today. Now.”

He did not expect her to be intimidated and she was not. She clicked her sapphire nails and two men appeared armed with axes and curving dirks.

“Would you care to have me add your name to the list?” she asked sweetly, her eyes never leaving his. They laughed.

“All right,” Ronin said, and gave it to her.

“Yes,” she said, the quill moving. Then she sat back and her pink tongue strayed for a moment between her lips. “That is most sensible.”

The rain was heavier and they were all within the roof’s brown overhang, squatting around a brick pit. Flames crackled and sparked. They were drinking rice wine when he came up. The man with the dark eyes peered at him through the smoke of his pipe; the others ignored him.

Ronin came unbidden out of the rain, shook the water off his cloak.

“The Council would not see me.”

“Yes,” said the man, “a predictable course.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Lamentable, but what can one do?”

Ronin squatted beside the man. No one offered him wine. “What I want,” he said, “is a way in.”

The man with the flat face looked over at him. “Throw him outside, T’ung,” he said to the man with the dark eyes. “Why waste your time?”

“Because he is not from Sha’angh’sei?” said T’ung. “Because he is not civilized?” He turned to Ronin. “What would you give me as payment?” The flat-faced man grunted knowingly.

Ronin lifted the bag of coins at his waist, letting the fat chink of the coppers speak for him.

T’ung eyed the pouch and screwed up his mouth. “Mmmm, much too small, I am afraid.” His face assumed a sad expression. “Not nearly enough.”

“What, then, would you want?”

“What else have you?”

Ronin looked at him.

“Nothing.”

“That is most unfortunate.” He sucked on his pipe, blew smoke lazily. It held on the humid air, a translucent pattern, a mysterious glyph.

“Wait. Perhaps there is something.” He dug in his boot. “A chain of silver.”

Ronin drew out the dead man’s chain. The silver blossom gleamed in the diffuse light. He handed it to T’ung.

The rain dripped dolefully, pattering against me overhang, making the leaves on the trees dance to its rhythm. T’ung sat very still, staring at the silver blossom. It flamed orange as he twisted it and it caught the firelight. Slowly he put down his pipe.

“Where,” he said softly, “did you get this?”

“What?”

A brief flash in darkness.

“Tell me.”

Black blood. The scythe blade blooming silver as it swung at him in the alley.

“I want an answer.” The voice turned harsh and grating. Heads turned. The flat-faced man rose.

Too late, Ronin thought savagely. He stood up, staring at the scythe-bladed ax hung at T’ung’s side. Greens.

The flat-faced man saw the silver blossom and his hand went to the haft of his ax. T’ung stood and the others, alerted now, dropped their cups and pipes and came toward him.

Ronin backed away, thinking furiously, Chill take me for a fool! Those were Greens in the alley.

T’ung was between him and the open gateway beyond which teeming Sha’angh’sei beckoned like a sweet reward.

T’ung clutched at the chain and withdrew his ax. And the others came on.

“Kill him now,” said the flat-faced man.

He crouched in the tangle, panting, taking deep breaths, swallowing to get the saliva back into his mouth. He listened for the sounds he knew would come, magnified by the rain. But all he heard was the rustle-drip of the soaking foliage. The sky was all but gone. The rain beat against him, running down his face. He blinked, lifted one hand across his forehead to clear his vision. He heard the sounds then.

The right arm had decided him. It was out and up, about to begin the ax’s deadly descent. They had been expecting him to use his sword and to retreat defensively. He did neither. He launched himself headlong at T’ung, lifting his forearm and knocking the ax blade aside as he smashed into the body. Taken by surprise, T’ung crashed into the wall and the way was clear.

Then he was through the gate and running in an erratic zigzag through the rain, acutely aware of the axes at his back, knowing that they could be thrown as well as swung.

Boots pounded behind him and he heard the flat-faced man screaming and, farther behind, Tung’s voice, curiously calm and remote.

He heard the panting coming closer; the flat-faced man was gaining on him because he ran in a straight line, did not have to dodge.

He turned then, planting his feet and withdrawing his sword in one motion. The flat-faced man was quick and agile but he was angry and that would help. Ronin swung first and his foot slipped on the wet paving. Idiot!

Grinning now, the flat-faced man dodged the blow, came on, and the blade of his ax was a blur in the rain. Ronin was moving away when it bit into his arm with a searing white heat. Ignore. He swung his own blade in a reverse arc and the Green, not used to double-bladed weapons, was slow to react. Ronin’s blade caught him beneath the arm, sinking deep into the socket. He cried out, his body jerked, and the bloody ax fell from his trembling fingers. His gaping mouth filled with water. Ronin wrenched at the hilt to free it and the arm came off. The flat-faced man shrieked and folded like a paper doll. Rain washed at the running blood. The others were coming now and Ronin took off down King Knife Street.