City of Fire (City Trilogy (Mass Market)) (4 page)

Scirye made an exasperated sound as she felt the cloak sagging from her shoulder again. “Argh! Why won’t this thing stay put? I could just bite the next person who says how quaint I look!” She started to pull off the cloak, ready to trample it, but Kles batted a wing against her cheek and she stopped at his cautionary touch.

“Well, if you do”—Nishke winked—”make sure it’s not someone important.”

Before Scirye could reply to her sister, they were nearly trampled by a large woman as she walked backward across the floor. She was gesturing with both hands for a group of newspeople to follow her.

Over her shoulder, she wore a sash proclaiming that she was a museum docent. From her affected voice and mannerisms, she was a frustrated actress. “And we’ve saved the best for last.”

“I’ll say,” a photographer said. He held up a big boxy camera. “Smile, honey.”

A half-dozen other photographers peeled away from the group to cluster about Nishke.

“Excuse me,” Nishke said to her mother and sister and then turned to the photographers. “I have to take up my post first.” She marched smartly to the center of the room and took her place by a corner of the case where the body of Lady Tabiti lay in honor upon a dais supported by elephants of lapis lazuli. A Pippal stood at each of the three other corners, as well.

Within the case Lady Tabiti rested in a suit of armor made from plaques of dark, apple green jade sewn together with gold thread. Gold inlays of Nanaia the Peaceful adorned each piece of jade. A mask, carved from a large matching piece of jade into the likeness of a beautiful woman, had been set aside to reveal the head of the owner of the armor.

Her body had been preserved remarkably well by the desertlike climate where she usually lay in her mausoleum, so it was possible to see that her face at one time had matched the mask. Ropes of braided hair still showed some of their original fiery red tint, which might have matched Scirye’s.

Camera bulbs popped and flashed, but the photographers seemed more interested in Nishke and the Pippalanta guards than in Lady Tabiti herself.

“We should take our posts, too,” Lady Sudarshane said, and led her daughter and Kles to a seat in the roped-off area to the right of the podium.

The cloak slipped down yet again so that Scirye tripped and nearly fell on her face. Scowling, she tugged the obnoxious piece of clothing back in place and then slumped in a chair until her mother tapped her shoulder. “Don’t slouch, dear. You look like you have a hump.” As her daughter sat up straight, Lady Sudarshane fussed with Scirye’s clothing. “Nishke should be teaching you how to sit properly in a chair rather than how to fight.”

Scirye shot a guilty look at her mother. “What do you mean?” she asked, fearing the worst.

Her mother pursed her lips in amusement. “I know what you two are really doing when you tell me you’re going out shopping,” her mother said. “You might at least have the decency to come back with a package or two to keep up the pretense.”

Scirye desperately tried to concoct an alibi. “We were window shopping.”

Her mother tapped her lightly on the head. “No, you’re going to the gym where she’s teaching you Tumarg. And I might add that fibbing to your mother is
not
Tumarg.”

Tumarg was the Way of Light, the Way that Purifies. It embodied not only the martial arts of the Pippalanta but their code of honor, as well.

Scirye’s cloak had fallen off her shoulder once more and she pulled it back up as she shot an accusing look at Kles. “Did you tell my mother?”

When the griffin ruffled both his fur and feathers, he was the picture of indignation. “I am your retainer. I would never tell your secrets.”

“Yes, shame on you for doubting Klestetstse’s loyalty,” her mother scolded mildly. “The accounting office asked me about the receipts from the gym so it was easy to put one and one together and get a pair of rebellious daughters.”

“Sorry, Kles,” Scirye mumbled contritely.

By then, the museum docent had managed to gather up the photographers again so she could continue her performance. “Behold, the most venerated relic of the Kushan Empire.” She waved her hand grandly. “The Jade Lady!”

A reporter shoved his hat back with a whistle. “That crazy outfit must be worth a bundle.”

The docent did a half-pirouette as she faced the reporters again. “And deservedly so. Lady Tabiti was a princess from far Sarmatia in the Russian steppes who led her tribe of women warriors down to the Kushan Empire and saved it from a Persian invasion. The grateful Kushans nicknamed their fierce saviors the Pippalanta after a fiery pepper plant and hailed Lady Tabiti as Nanaia reborn. When she died, the Empire of the Moon—as the Kushan Empire is often called—buried her like an empress.”

The Lady Sudarshane gave a snort at the exaggeration, and the Pippalanta suddenly seemed to have developed a bad case of the giggles.

“What’s wrong?” Scirye whispered. Despite Kles’s lessons, Scirye still felt as if Kushan’s long history was a dense thicket she would never penetrate.

“Well, she came from Sarmatia, but she never claimed to be of royal blood let alone divine ichor,” the Lady Sudarshane murmured. “Our friend, the docent, is… um… embroidering the story quite a bit.”

Unaware of how she was amusing the Kushan, the docent spread her arms wide as if she were going to embrace the dais and the guards. “Of all the masterpieces that the Hearn wanted, the Jade Lady is to be the capstone. We assured the Kushan we would protect the exhibit with every device known to technology and every charm and ward known to magic. But the only way that the Kushan would allow Lady Tabiti to come here was if her own Pippalanta were allowed to watch over this exhibit day and night. Of course, her own tribe was assimilated by the Kushans long ago. Even though the Pippalanta are now a regiment open to any woman who can meet their exacting standards, they have continued to add glory to their name.”

A reporter jabbed his pencil at a ring carved from bone stained yellow and brown by the years. A triangular wedge protruded from the side and strange signs ran along the band but they were so worn that they were impossible to read. “Well, that looks pretty chintzy for a lady with all that jade.”

“It’s an archer’s ring. It protects the thumb when the archer draws back the string. You can see where the bow strings have cut grooves into the surface.” The docent smiled condescendingly. “And that humble ring once belonged to the Emperor Yü, the legendary ruler of China. Centuries later, a Chinese emperor sent it to the Kushan king in gratitude after an alliance between China and the Kushans destroyed the Huns. And then a descendant of that king presented it to the Jade Lady in honor of her service, and she was entombed with it.”

Bored, Scirye started to drum a heel against the floor but felt Kles squeeze her wrist in warning. Over the years, they had developed their own silent code of looks and touches.

Stilling her leg, Scirye drew out a small beaded purse from her sash and removed a piece of hard candy from it. As she slipped it into her mouth, Kles cleared his throat.

“Ahem,” he coughed softly. “I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.”

“You’re awfully spoiled, you know that?” Scirye teased. However,
she slipped a small tin from the same purse. A faint chirping came from within and the girl stole a worried glance at her mother. But she was too busy being amused by the docent.

It was a tricky maneuver to pull off with just one hand because her griffin was on the other. But she managed to lift the lid and shove her fingers inside, probing until she caught a cricket. Snatching it out, she closed the lid immediately. As the small insect wriggled, she held it between her pinched fingers.

Kles took it carefully, tilting his head back as he swallowed it whole. Then he cleared his throat meaningfully.

“I don’t think I should,” she joked. “If you get any heavier, I won’t be able to carry you on my arm.” But she lifted the lid anyway. This time a green shape darted out. Startled, she dropped the tin, which fell open on the floor. The next moment a dozen crickets were hopping merrily about the gallery.

When Scirye heard Kles’s wings snap open, she immediately reached out her free hand to seize him. However, the griffin had already launched himself from her gauntlet. Kles might pride himself on being a scholar and a courtier, but there were times when blind instinct could overwhelm his reason and he reverted to a wild beast.

“Mine!” he screamed.

From the corner of her eye, Lady Sudarshane caught the blur of feather and fur. Immediately she knew who was to blame. “Scirye!”

Scirye jumped to her feet and held up her gauntleted arm. “Come back!” she commanded, and then gave the piercing recall whistle over and over.

Lady Sudarshane gave a sigh and did what she could to repair the damage. Everyone was standing around just gaping. “Catch the crickets,” she ordered the consular staff. A dozen of the costumed junior officials immediately fell on all fours and began to crawl about. Though the Pippalanta remained at their posts, the museum guards joined the hunt. Between the chirping of the crickets and the
noise people made trying to capture them, the radio crew were going frantic trying to adjust the sound levels.

Then flashbulbs began to pop so that Scirye felt as if they were in the midst of a lightning storm.

“Mine!” the griffin shrieked again and dove, taking delight as photographers ducked and scrambled out of his way.

Scirye whistled until she felt her lips grow numb, but finally Kles heard her and, unable to fight his training, returned to the gauntlet. He stood there, panting and embarrassed. “I don’t know what got into me,” he said sheepishly.

“Your problem is that you’re all stomach,” Scirye scolded.

Kles hung his head, ashamed. “Everyone must be furious with me.”

The girl felt sorry that she had said anything. The proud griffin usually carried himself as if he were twelve feet tall rather than twelve inches so it was strange to see him acting so humble now. She loved Kles as she did no one else besides her family. He was usually the one to console her, so it was her turn now.

She stroked his feathery head gently. “It’ll be all right.” She added to herself,
I hope
.

Right at that moment, the Kushan Consul, Prince Etre, strolled over. Even if his ancient costume was a bit gaudy, it seemed to suit him more than modern clothes. He moved without the least bit of self-consciousness in wool trousers of orange, red, and yellow, a tunic that hung to his waist, a gold belt with plaques showing eagles, wolves, and griffins fighting with various animals, and an odd cap that rose in a curling peak and ended in a knob that bobbed with each step. Little silver moons and axes festooned the cap’s sides.

For this special occasion, he wore his family’s most precious heirloom—a golden sheath with a set of knives. Winding around the edge of the golden sheath was a line of animals, each attacking the one ahead in a dance of death. Protruding from the top of the sheath was the golden hilt of a stiletto decorated with a dancing
bear. Hidden behind it were two small throwing daggers that Scirye would never have guessed would be there—if the prince hadn’t shown her one day. The sheath hung from the belt but there were also straps tying it tightly to his thigh.

He surveyed the spectacle of his consular staff upon their hands and knees. “Backsides weren’t quite the image we wanted to present, are they?” he asked Lady Sudarshane.

Scirye knew she needed to speak up before Prince Etre blamed her mother. While the Kushan diplomatic corps thought of themselves as modern as their American and European counterparts, Prince Etre was a throwback to the early Kushans who had been shaped by the vast steppe lands. When he was happy, he didn’t just smile—he sang. And when he was angry, he didn’t just frown—he raged like one of the great storms that swept across the plains.

Feeling like she was about to jump in front of a lightning bolt, Scirye gulped, “It’s all my fault, Your Highness.”

Prince Etre regarded the spindly girl and his lips twitched upward in a smile. When he began to laugh, Scirye breathed a sigh of relief. Outside of her family, Scirye liked Prince Etre the best of all the Kushans she had met. Scirye always knew where she stood with the prince. He didn’t say nice things to her face and then make snide comments behind her back.

Though his fingers were thick and blunt, the prince neatly snared a cricket in mid-jump, and held it with legs still wriggling between his thumb and index finger. “I had a lap griffin when I was your age,” he reminisced. “They can be a bit… demanding.”

“I humbly beg your pardon, Your Highness”—Kles swallowed— “but I see nothing wrong with expecting what is due my station as a member of Lady Scirye’s retinue.”

Sciryegrabbed Kles’s beak before his pride got them into even more trouble. “Hush, Kles,” she whispered in his ear. “Leave this to me.”

Bowing her head contritely, Scirye said to the prince, “I’m sorry,
Your Highness. Confine me to my room. Put me on bread and water. Chain me to the wall.” Her voice rose to a dramatic crescendo. “You can even take away my books, my records, and,” she added slyly, “my ping-pong paddle.”

Prince Etre’s current passion was ping-pong though the paddle was dwarfed in his huge, calloused hand. His staff had been so worn out by his constant practice matches that they were grateful when Scirye had become his steady partner.

The girl hadn’t minded because before the prince had been appointed Consul, he had defended the empire’s borders and his adventures were stranger than anything even Scirye could imagine. And the prince seemed only too delighted to have such an attentive listener.

The prince jerked upright, the decorations on his cap jingling. “What? Lose my devoted ping-pong opponent? I think that would punish me more than you.” He added drily, “And it would certainly punish the rest of the staff who would have to take your place.” The prince might be bluff in his manner, but he was no fool and knew what his staff really thought.

What a dear
, Scirye thought to herself.
Maybe I’ll let him win a few games
. The prince was an enthusiastic if not very good player, but he always took his losses cheerfully.