The Silk Map (19 page)

Where Aleph the holy river flows

Through labyrinths that no man knows

To an ocean innocent of days.

And thrice nine miles of alpine hill

Were walled about by his dread will

Where folk of strange countenance strode

And dreamed of ages bronze and gold

By fountains that preserved their youth

And served as mirrors of piercing truth.

And there blossomed groves of fairy fruit

Lofting in one day from seed to root

And rotting in the misty night

To rise anew by dawn's gold light

As our sacrificed Goddess shall one day live

And to us sanctification give

As sworn in the teachings of that Good Swan

Who is likewise loved by Mentor John.

But no! the chill from Aleph's flow which thundered

Down a shadowed gorge with wisteria webbed—

As haunted a scene as any dreamer sick with wonder

Rising slick with sweat from troubled slumber

Might snatch from tides of nightmare lately ebbed—

As fraught as any eve I've tossed

Since first I shot the albatross!

Yet Aleph called from beyond the fields we know

And I followed its flow to the dark below

Whence it brought that scent of golden pear

And snatched the voice from fountains fair

And carried dreams into the dark

Brooding under a mountain gray and stark

Washing a forge of demon-fires

And quenching weapons of living iron.

It was a monument drear and dire

A pitiless summit with caves like pyres!

And from that cacophonous smoking tomb

John heard intimations of his doom.

A maiden in a cheongsam

In delirium I pursued

Her dress a shimmering map

Torn to quiver and flap

As she fled through desert ruins.

I tore not the qipao

Nor drove her thus away

And if I could embrace her now

So with valor cold and brave

I would face that demon on the heights!

I would rise with brave endeavor!

But the albatross will not take flight

And in my dreams it screeches, Never! Never!

Xia's dying breath! John's burning fever!

And we are all as on a darkling river.

So flee the demon of the forge

For he on fairy fruit has gorged

And scorched the fountains of forever.

“An eerie tale,” Snow Pine said.

“A flimsy lead,” Bone noted.

“Perhaps not,” Gaunt said. “That word ‘qipao'—I don't think it's current in the West, where such dresses are indeed known as cheongsams. Perhaps the Mad Mariner did indeed glean information from dreams.”

“Some details match other tales we've heard,” Snow Pine said. Bone grunted.

Quilldrake's expression reminded Gaunt of a bird watching the morning soil. “Whether you believe it or not, Imago Bone, my associate and I do indeed think there's a true Xembala. That within it rises a fiery mountain, home to a colony of Iron Moths long separated from Qiangguo's. That in some manner an ironsilk dress was fashioned there, showing the way. That it was torn into fragments and scattered. And that if the Silk Map could ever be reassembled, one could find the way to that mysterious land—and to its treasure.”

“It seems we're pursuing much the same goal,” Gaunt said. “Which worries me. It seems too much of a coincidence that you, we, and those charming people in black are all seeking the same thing, at the same time.”

“I know little of all of you,” Quilldrake said, “but Liron Flint and I have pondered the Silk Map for years. I came upon this fragment far to the west, under circumstances I prefer not to relate. I kept it, for it has its obvious benefits beyond the cartographic. When I teamed up with Flint I came to learn that Xembala's tantalized him since his youth. But despite other successes, Xembala's remained out of reach. Only a few weeks ago did we hear of a discovery in Shahuang that could point the way to a lost fragment.”

“And news travels fast,” Bone said. “Our friends in black know too, I'd assume.”

“We'll be lucky,” Quilldrake said, “if they are the only opposition. Across these lands there may be several parties with their own fragments, all hoping that this long-lost piece will grant the information they need. And as we've seen, some may be delighted to eliminate their competitors. We dare waste no time.”

Quilldrake patted his ironsilk patch. “So there you have it. The four winds have blown us together. Flint the explorer wants the glory of discovering Xembala. I want the glory of the world's greatest loot. We have lacked only personnel mad enough to join us in this venture. I suggest that whatever your plans, you depart the Jade Gate with me and accompany me until we can find Flint.”

“Art,” Gaunt said, “make yourself comfortable in our lodgings, as it's unwise for you to return to your own. We'll enjoy the Market and return with dinner and our answer.”

“Most generous,” Quilldrake said.

“If we're wrong,” Snow Pine said once they stood within the babbling anonymity of the Market, “if this is a distraction from our true hunt, then we will waste weeks wandering the desert.”

“We must stick together, Snow Pine,” Gaunt said, putting her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. “That's not fate, but intuition. We chase a legend, on behalf of a legend. The only thing I trust here, really, is our friendship.”

Bone sighed. “I also. I am stirred more than I can say by all this talk of treasure and lost lands. But we have lost too much, Gaunt and I. We would not part now with a friend.”

Snow Pine looked to the sky. The morning star shone dimly to the northwest, just over the city wall. “Village people,” she mused, “have superstitions that the morning star will kill parents if not properly venerated. I don't venerate anything . . . but I'll take this as an omen. It may be that I should trust this encounter.” She shut her eyes. “We'll go with Quilldrake.”

“You want a piece of jade? Well, we got 'em! Gift? Luck charm?”

“Luck charm,” Snow Pine said, looking at the morning light glinting off the milky green. “I'm going far away.”

“Far away, girl? You a princess being married off to some horse-lord?” The merchant laughed at his own joke.

“No, I'm already married. I just want to remember where I'm from. How about the monkey?”

“You're Year of the Monkey?” The merchant chuckled again as he placed it in her hands. “I'm Year of the Dragon. Great match! Too bad you're married.” He quoted a price.

She haggled. He reminded her a little of her lost husband, in fact, in his cheerful, unabashed greed. She was inclined to go easy on him, but in the end she said, “Ah, I have to wrap it up quick, my husband will come looking. He's a soldier, and he gets grumpy if I don't meet him on his break.”

The merchant quickly reached a fairer price. Business concluded, he said, “Your husband's a soldier, but you're shopping here, not at the Eastern Market? Trying to get to know the West? He getting posted up the road in the Final Fort? Trouble with the Karvaks?” A knowing, calculating look filled his eyes. “There is, isn't there? I've heard tell their fleets are on the move. Big gathering. The kind that leads to wars.”

This was how rumors began, Snow Pine thought, with people daydreaming they were better-informed than others. But that wasn't her problem. She thanked the man and moved on.

In the gray light she could see the diversity of temples bordering the Market, rubbing shoulders with the inns, stables, smithies, apothecary shops, scriveners' offices, and the like. The shrines of the Undetermined were dark now, for their devotees had been up late with image-washing. There was a mosque for worship of the All-Now, built in the manner of a pagoda, and the followers of the Testifier were up early for prayers. There was a temple of the Nightkindlers, something she'd heard of but had never seen: a tapering tower of black wood, with a mosaic of bright stones in a semicircle at the top, rays from this symbolic sun, or moon, or star, reaching deep into the night. At this hour the temple was dark, but the door was open, and the dawn was creeping in.

There was a temple to the proliferation of Southern gods known often as the Million or One, for despite their diversity as to numbers of limbs (two, four, a dozen), and manner of heads (beautiful, elephantine, monstrous), and aspect (beatific, sensual, fierce), they were said to all hearken back to one primal source. And here and there stood temples to various personages important to Qiangguo—the Grand Marshal in Charge of Time and the Calendar, the Old Men Who Dispense Longevity and Happiness, the Queen of the Sky, and many others. She saw no temple to the Swan Goddess, and Snow Pine realized anew just how far her friend Persimmon had traveled. Imago Bone was mostly indifferent to gods, though sometimes she saw him toss offerings to anyone in charge of luck.

She touched her new monkey charm; she'd made her own provision for luck and now was looking for something else.

Her feet took her to the temple of the Queen of the Sky. It was not a big structure, more for private observance than for public worship. Snow Pine entered and looked up at a statue of the Queen, who was said to dwell near the polestar. Outside there was a contraption like a stylus upon a pivot, a bed of sand beneath. The lightest touch would allow one to draw a line.

As she inspected the device, two temple officiants in red appeared and bowed. “Do you wish to contact a god?” said the older one. “Or perhaps the dead?”

“The dead,” she said, offering a coin.

“Grip the stylus here. The two of us will help summon the correct vibrations.”

Snow Pine could imagine Imago Bone rolling his eyes. Perhaps it
was
foolish. It was a temple offering however, so maybe there was merit in it. And sometimes the messages received in this fashion were strangely apt.

She framed a question in her mind.
What would you have me do, Flybait? Do I follow this mad quest?

The stylus swished. When she removed her hand, a logogram meaning
Acceptance
lay in the sand.

“It seems your departed wishes you to be at peace,” said the older officiant.

“Peace?” Snow Pine kicked the sand.

“Hey!” said the younger officiant.

“I have not walked across half of Qiangguo to look for
peace!
Up yours, dead husband! Be useful next time! Don't expect me to talk for a while!”

The officiants looked as if they'd just seen an angry spirit as they retreated into the temple.

“Perhaps you should be forgiving,” said a nearby voice. “I've heard that such functionaries sometimes suggest their own messages. And suppose you really have reached the one you seek? Perhaps he merely wishes you well.”