The Many Deaths of the Black Company (Chronicle of the Black Company) (20 page)

“A Master of the Path of the Sword? That would explain a lot. But I killed them all when I— Have you noticed how people keep turning up alive when there’s every reason to believe that they’re dead?”

An actual smile tried to gnaw its way out of the Radisha’s mouth. The woman talking could be considered the mother of all those whose deaths had been celebrated prematurely. “There’s sorcery afoot. Nothing should be any great surprise.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. And that’s a blade that can have more than one edge.” Soulcatcher rose to leave. Her voice changed, became cruel. “More than one edge. A Master of the Path of the Sword. It’s been a long time since I visited those people. They may be able to tell me something useful.” She stalked out of the room.

The Radisha remained motionless for several minutes, clearly troubled. Then she got up and went to her Anger Chamber. She settled herself there. The unseen spy went after the Protector. She, he discovered, had gone directly to the ramparts. She assembled her small, single-rider carpet, all the while arguing with herself in a dozen querulous voices.

He barely listened. He was too surprised and shocked. There was a white crow up there. It was watching the Protector, who remained unaware of Murgen’s presence although, historically, she had been more sensitive to him than to any of the living except her sister. But the bird had no trouble seeing Murgen. It examined him with first one eye, then with the other. Then it winked deliberately. And then it launched itself into the night when the Protector’s rookery took flight to accompany her on her travels.

But
I
am the white crow!

The disorientation was brief but as frightening as it had been years ago, when first Murgen had started stumbling around outside his flesh.

31

I said, “Better get Uncle Doj before we go any farther with this, Tobo.” I spotted Kendo Cutter and Runmust. “You guys finally back? How did it go?”

“Perfect. Just like you planned it.”

Sahra asked, “You have my present?”

“They’re lugging him in now. He’s still out cold.”

“Drop him right here where I can chat with him when he comes around.” Sahra had a wicked gleam in her eye.

I chuckled. “Soulcatcher thinks we’re following some grand, carefully orchestrated master plan exquisitely fashioned by a great strategic mastermind. If she knew we were just stumbling around in the dark, hoping we stay lucky until we can open the way for the Captured—”

One-Eye barked, “You telling me you masterminds don’t got a next step ready to go, Little Girl?”

“We have several.” I did. “And I’m sure the next one hasn’t ever occurred to Soulcatcher as being within the realm of possibility. I’m going to bring Master Santaraksita home for supper and give him a chance to sign up for the adventure of a lifetime.”

“Heh-heh! I knew it.”

Uncle Doj joined us. He was seriously peeved about the way he had been treated lately.

I told him, “One of our friends just reported a conversation between The Thousand Voices and the Radisha. The process of reasoning is beyond my imagination but The Thousand Voices has decided that all her troubles recently are the fault of a Master of the Path of the Sword who should’ve been killed a long time ago. When last seen, she was off to visit the folks at the Vinh Gao Ghang temple to ask about the man. You may be familiar with that temple.”

Doj lost color. His sword hand trembled for an instant. His right eyelid twitched. He turned toward Sahra.

Sahra told him, “It’s true. What can she learn there?”

“Speak the tongue of The People.”

“No.”

The Master of the Path of the Sword accepted what he could not control. You would have to say he was somewhat less than gracious about it, though, if you wanted to report the whole truth.

I said, “You still have a book we want. And you could tell us a great deal that we could use, I think.”

He was a stubborn old man. He was determined not to let me stampede him into anything.

I said, “The Thousand Voices has sent for Mogaba. She means to have the army come dig us out. If I could, I’d like to get out of Taglios before she starts. But we have a lot to do and a lot to find out before we can go. Your help would be invaluable. As I keep reminding you, you have people under that plain, too.… Huh?”

“What? Sleepy?” Sahra said. “Goblin! See what’s the matter with her!”

“I’m all right. I’m fine. I just had what you call an epiphany, I think. Listen. All the evidence indicates that Soulcatcher thinks the Captured are dead. Which would mean that she believes Longshadow is dead.
We
know he’s not, which is why we’re not worried right now. But if she doesn’t know, why isn’t she amazed that the world hasn’t been overrun by shadows?”

I got a lot of blank looks for my trouble, even from the wizards.

I said, “Look, what it means is, it doesn’t matter if Longshadow is dead or alive after all. As long as he stays inside the Shadowgate. There isn’t a doomsday sword hanging over the world, certain to fall when the madman croaks. Somebody besides the cleverest wizards will survive.”

The less clever wizards caught on then. They brightened up dramatically. Not that either had ever cared much what became of the world after they staggered out of it.

What to do about the Shadowmaster had never been a significant issue to us because there were always more immediate obstacles to overcome before he could become a major concern.

Sahra said as much. “If we can’t open the way, there’s no point in worrying about how we can keep it closed to those not in our favor.”

“I wonder how the Shadowmasters did it? Brute force? The Black Company was still in the far north and the Lance of Passion was up there with them.” I stared at Uncle Doj. Others began to do so, too. I wondered aloud, “Could it be that the great shame of the Nyueng Bao isn’t nearly as ancient as I thought? Could it be that it just goes back a couple of generations? To about the time that the Shadowmasters appeared, practically manifesting themselves overnight?”

Uncle Doj closed his eyes. They stayed that way for a while. When the old priest opened them again, he glared at me. “Come walking with me, Stone Soldier.”

Chandra Gokhale, Inspector-General of the Records and favorer of very young girls, chose that moment to groan. I told Doj, “Indulge me for a few minutes, Uncle. I have a guest to entertain. I promise not to take too long.”

Goblin knelt beside the minister, patted his face gently, helped Gokhale to a sitting position. The Inspector-General began to puff up for a bluster storm. As his mouth opened, I leaned down to whisper, “Water sleeps.”

Gokhale’s head jerked around. In a moment he recalled where he had seen me before. Goblin told him, “All their days are numbered, buddy. And it looks like some of you got a few less days than some others do.” Gokhale recognized him, too, though he was supposed to be dead. And when he remembered where he had seen Sahra before, he began to tremble.

Sahra asked, “Would you recall abusing Minh Subredil on several occasions? Subredil certainly remembers. What I think we’ll do to requite that is to return it fivefold. The brothers will install you in a tiger cage in a moment. You’ll be well treated otherwise. And in a few days maybe we’ll bring in the Purohita to keep you company.” She chuckled so wickedly I felt a chill. “For all the rest of their days, calling the Heaven and the Earth and the Day and the Night, like brothers, Chandra Gokhale and Arjuna Drupada.”

Part of that was some Nyueng Bao formula I didn’t understand. But I got the point. And so did Gokhale. He would be caged all the rest of his days with the man he most loathed.

Sahra chuckled again.

She made me nervous when she got like that.

32

I watched the old priest closely as we eased through the spell net surrounding the warehouse. He did not have a yarn amulet. His head twitched and jerked. His feet kept wanting to change direction but his will hacked a way through the illusions. Possibly that was a result of his training on the Path of the Sword. I recalled, though, that Lady had insisted he was a minor wizard.

“Where are we going, Uncle? And why are we going there?”

“We go where no Nyueng Bao ear will hear what I tell you. Old Nyueng Bao would label me a traitor. Young Nyueng Bao would call me a lying fool. Or worse.”

And I? I was generally a proponent of the latter view whenever I heard him preaching about his path to inner peace through obsessively continuous preparation for combat. His philosophy had appealed only to a very few of Banh Do Trang’s employees, all Nyueng Bao, all too young to have witnessed actual warfare. I understood that the Path of the Sword was not militaristic, but others had trouble grasping that fact.

“You want to maintain your image as an old stiff-neck who wouldn’t be caught dead helping a subhuman
jengali
fall and break her skull.”

It was too dark to tell but I thought he smiled. “That’s an extreme way of stating it but it approximates the facts.” His Taglian, never poor, improved now that he had no other audience.

“Are you overlooking the fact that every bit of darkness out here might harbor a bat or crow or rat, or even one of the Protector’s shadows?”

“I have nothing to fear from those things. The Thousand Voices already knows everything I’m going to tell you.”

But she might not want me to know, too.

We walked in silence for a long time.

Taglios seldom fails to amaze me. Doj cut across a wealthy section, where whole families fort up in estates surrounded by guarded walls. Their youths were out on Salara Road, which grew up ages ago to provide them with their diversions. Reason insisted that beggars ought to be plentiful where the wealth was concentrated, but that was not the case. The extremely poor were not allowed to offend the sight of the mighty with their presence.

There, as everywhere, odors assailed the nostrils but these scents were sandalwood, cloves and perfumes.

After that, Doj led me into the dark, crowded streets of a temple district. We stepped aside to let a band of Gunni acolytes pass. The boys were bullying the people living in the streets. I thought we might have trouble with them, too, which would have ended with them suffering a lot of pain, but a brake on their misbehavior saved them from its consequences. That arrived in the form of three Greys.

The Shadar do not disdain the caste system entirely but they do hold to the notion that the highest caste must include not just the priests and men qualified by birth to become priests, but also, certainly, any men of the Shadar faith. And that faith, which is an extremely heretical and Gunni-infected bastard offshoot of my own One True Faith, contains a strong strain of charity toward the weak and the unfortunate.

The Greys methodically applied their bamboo canes and invited the youths to take up any complaints with the Protector. The acolytes were smarter than they pretended. They got the hell out of there before the Greys used their whistles to invite all their friends to the caning.

All part of night in the city. Doj and I drifted onward.

Eventually he led me to a place called the Deer Park, which is an expanse of wilderness near the center of the city. It had been created by some despot of centuries past.

I told Doj, “I really don’t need all this exercise.” I wondered if he had some goofball plan to murder me and leave the body under the trees. But what would be the point?

Doj was Doj. With him, you never knew.

“I feel more comfortable here,” he said. “But I never stay long. There is a company of rangers charged with keeping squatters out. They consider anyone not Taglian and high caste a squatter. This is good. This log has shaped itself to my posterior.”

The log in question tripped me. I got back onto my feet and said, “I’m listening.”

“Sit. This will take a while.”

“Leave out the begats.” Which was a Jaicuri Vehdna colloquialism having to do with difficulties memorizing scripture, which you have to do as a child. I meant, “Don’t bother telling me whose fault it was and why they’re such bloody villains for it. Just tell me what happened.”

“Asking a storyteller not to embellish is like asking a fish to give up water.”

“I do have to go to work tomorrow.”

“As you will. You are aware, are you not, that the Free Companies of Khatovar and the roving bands of Stranglers who murder for the glory of Kina share a common ancestry?”

“There’s enough suggestion in our recent Annals to allow for that interpretation,” I admitted. Caution seemed indicated.

“My place amongst the Nyueng Bao would correspond roughly with yours as Annalist of the Black Company. It includes, as well, the role of the priest in the Strangler band—whose secondary obligation is to maintain a sound oral history of the band. Over the centuries the
toog
have lost their respect for education.”

My own studies suggested that a great deal of evolution had taken place in my Company during those same centuries. Probably a lot more than had been the case with the Deceiver bands. They had stayed inside one culture that had not changed a lot. Meanwhile, the Black Company kept moving into stranger and stranger lands, old soldiers being replaced by young foreigners who had no connection with the past and no idea that Khatovar even existed.

Doj seemed to echo my thoughts. “The Strangler bands are pale imitations of the original Free Companies. The Black Company retains the name and some of the memories, but you’re philosophically much farther from the original than the Deceivers are. Your band is ignorant of its true antecedents and has been kept that way willfully, mainly through the manipulations of the goddess Kina, but also, to a lesser extent, by others who didn’t want your Company to become what it had been in another time.”

I waited. He did not volunteer to explain. Doj was difficult that way.

He did, I suppose, do something that was even harder for him. He told the truth about his own people. “Nyueng Bao are the almost pure-blooded descendants of the people of one of the Free Companies. One that chose not to go back.”