Nine Gates (46 page)

Honey Dream was growing deeply worried. Her father and Flying Claw—and the others—had been gone now for several days. She and Waking Lizard had worked various auguries, and the Orphans had done several of the complicated rituals involving those irritating mah-jong tiles of theirs, and the answer was always indecisive.

They were fairly certain that at least some of the expedition was still alive, but since one member of the expedition, at least—the readings got really strange when they tried to clarify that point—was a ghost, that complicated matters. Readings for a specific person were no less comforting than those for the group as a whole.

Shen Kung speculated that this was because the expedition had been successful, at least as far as achieving their goal to enter the underworld or afterlife. In a sense, they belonged
now to that realm. Therefore, readings as to whether they were living were confused because in Chinese cosmology one of the things that differentiated the living from the dead was in which of many varied realms they dwelt, not the state of the body.

Or, as Des Lee put it with one of his annoying smiles, “Magic 8-Ball read: ‘Answer cloudy. Try again.’”

In the privacy of her room, Honey Dream had tried rituals of her own, focusing on only her father or only Flying Claw, but the results she garnered were vague at best. The pity she glimpsed on Waking Lizard’s face after one particularly exhausting private session made her squirm. She’d forgotten that he was likely to have sensed the terrific amount of ch’i she was channeling in her efforts, and guessed what she was about.

Embarrassment—and powerful dislike for seeming a child who could not wait in patience and calm—kept Honey Dream from trying again.

Daytimes were busy enough to keep her from worrying—at least too much. Physical practice sessions had continued, and now Nissa Nita had joined them. Nissa said that seeing how even Riprap could get hurt made her realize she’d better know something at least about defending herself.

Practice pairs shifted, but more often than she liked, Honey Dream found herself facing off against Pearl Bright. The old Tiger seemed to have it in for her, and pushed Honey Dream to the limits of her abilities. Or at least those abilities that could be used in practice, Honey Dream kept telling herself. She was forced to refrain from using the variety of poisons that were part of any Snake’s arsenal. Although Shen Kung knew the spell that enabled damaging physical effects to be magically synthesized, so that those who had been “poisoned” or otherwise harmed felt the effects, although they were not really hurt, Honey Dream didn’t think this was at all the same. A person who knew their every exertion made their own heart carry death more
rapidly through their system reacted differently than those who knew in their gut that the damage was synthetic.

At least, she had.…

Physical practice was followed by preparation for the battles that must come even if those who were creating the Nine Gates were successful, and that must come if they failed.

For the Orphans, this meant the making of those annoying mah-jong tile amulets. For Honey Dream and Waking Lizard, spells were inscribed on paper, color of both paper and ink coordinated to give the spell its best effect.

And there were domestic chores as well. Honey Dream tried not to be humiliated that she was the least adept at cooking, that Lani would rather play by herself than look at Honey Dream.

Honey Dream didn’t forget her father’s injunction to keep an eye on the prisoners, but there was little she could do other than assist Shen when he carried over their meals, so the task didn’t help build her sense of importance. She reminded herself that in her own land she was a lady of quality, and didn’t do servants’ work, but she was humiliated nonetheless.

But all of this activity still left Honey Dream too much time to worry—about her father, about what Brenda Morris might be doing to corrupt Flying Claw, about whether she would ever see her mother again, and about how those who had overthrown their emperor might be treating the families and friends of their enemies.

Honey Dream found herself going for frequent walks, both on the Rosicrucian Museum grounds and on those of Colm Lodge. One night, she wandered down the driveway, and again, as she suspected she had known it would, a voice spoke to her from the darkness on the other side of the wards.

“Franklin Deng,” she said, speaking in the Chinese of the Lands, a sort of relief warring with the hopelessness that had been her companion with increasing frequency over the last several days. “You’ve come back.”

“I am still seeking an ally,” he said, replying in his own Chinese, “but you sound as if you need a friend.”

The kindness in his voice brought tears, sudden and uninvited, to her eyes. If she let herself, she could almost believe that strong, deep voice speaking from the night was her father, home again and safe.

Honey Dream had been trained in the ways of court intrigue, but her father’s faction, the faction to which she had been a latecomer, a substitute, had not lasted long in court—not through any fault of their own, but due to betrayal. Part of her knew she was being “gotten at” as Riprap might have put it, but that part of her was drowned out by the far larger part that did not care.

“I suppose,” she said, “I am a bit lonely. My father has been gone for some days, Flying Claw with him. Snakes and Monkeys, while not strictly opposed, are not compatible.”

“So it’s just you and Waking Lizard?” Deng asked. “You must rattle around in there.”

“We’re at Pearl’s residence most of the time,” Honey Dream said. “As you must know…”

“Ouch! Touché!” came the reply. The second word did not sound like English, but nonetheless it was translated via the spell that let Honey Dream understand English as meaning something like “A hit. A touch.” She thought she understood.

“Well,” she said, laughing softly. “You do watch us, you or your minions.”

“Associates,” Deng said, laughter in his own voice. “Please. ‘Minions’ makes it sound as if they are my servants, and I assure you, they are not. They are allies who share related, if not common, goals. Indeed, my dear, I believe my goals have more in common with your own than they do with those of—say—Tracy Frye.”

“So you assured me,” Honey Dream replied, “the last time we spoke.”

She expected him to press her, to ask her if she had considered his offer of an alliance. He did not.

“Your father is away, then? One of my associates reported that a van full of people went to that warehouse owned by Pearl Bright. The van is still there. The people have not been seen.”

“You’ve kept a watch on that building all this time?”

“I have my ways,” he answered with an air of mystery, and Honey Dream, remembering what she’d learned about surveillance cameras and the like—the mechanical servants that were as common here as those of flesh and blood were in the Lands—thought that she knew how Deng and his associates could be so omnipresent, and yet never be seen.

“We thought they were involved in some sort of training,” Deng said. “We detected a surge of ch’i at one point, several days ago, but nothing since. However, even ch’i use can be shielded, and Righteous Drum certainly knows spells that could keep us ignorant if he so wished.”

Honey Dream warmed at the praise to her father. She had never felt the Orphans appreciated him for his full abilities.

“He could,” she agreed complacently.

“My auguries,” Deng said, “suggest that Righteous Drum is dead, as are Flying Claw, Brenda Morris, Deborah Van Bergenstein, and Charles Adolphus. Have you checked inside the warehouse?”

Panic seized Honey Dream, panic so strong that she felt herself rising to her toes, as if she would run, as if she would scream.

Then she remembered. Franklin Deng was probably getting similar readings to those she herself had. However, not knowing where Righteous Drum had gone, he would, of course, read them incorrectly.

But what if she was wrong? What if his magic was more powerful? After all, he was of the indigenous magical tradition, not an interloper like the Orphans—or herself. And she knew that her own magics were attenuated by the fragmentation of the sixth Earthly Branch—the branch associated with the Snake.

What if Deng knew the truth that they had all been striving to learn? How could she learn?

Deng was speaking again. He had come closer to the stone fence that bordered the front edge of Colm Lodge’s grounds, the line along which they had run their wards. He did not cross it, nor did he touch it, but she could see him more clearly.

He looked nothing like her father, being tall and thin where her father was almost—almost—dumpy. But there was something fatherly about his aura, and Honey Dream longed to cross that invisible line and beg him for guidance.

She would not though. She contented herself with resting her hands on the stone wall, pressing her fingers into the rough blocks, grounding herself with the slight pain of that contact.

“My father is well,” she said. “My own auguries assure me this is so.”

“Liar,” he said, but gently, even playfully. “Pretty little liar. I can see the tears bright in your eyes, but I can see how you have recovered yourself. Admirable, and indicating, perhaps, that you have some reason to hope.”

“I do,” she said. “I know where my father has gone. I also have faith in his powers.”

“O ye of little faith,” he said in English, and Honey Dream had the sense that this was a proverbial expression of some sort.

“I don’t need faith,” she said. “I know. Father and the others have gone into the afterlife. That is why your reading is muddled.”

“Afterlife? Well, that’s impressive. And they can do so from that warehouse…”

Honey Dream had the feeling she had said too much, but she didn’t know how what she had said could hurt. The Men Shen would not let anyone through the door who was not approved already.

Still, she noticed uneasily that Franklin Deng was smiling,
the glow from the streetlights glinting off his straight white teeth.

“Contact with the afterlife sounds like necromancy,” he said. “My culture frowns on that. Doesn’t your own?”

“That just shows your ignorance,” she snapped, angered out of prudence. “In the Lands, we recognize many realities, interlaced and interdependent. Are you so one-sided here?”

“Perhaps we hold different views,” Deng said, his friendly mildness making her ashamed of her outburst. “Tell me, do the mah-jong sets have anything to do with this? I did not have the sets in my hands long, but long enough to notice that the tiles were not plastic, but bamboo combined with something else—bone, I thought. I have some experience differentiating ivory from bone.”

Honey Dream tried to school her expression to neutrality, but she feared she had given something away nonetheless. She looked down and found those betraying hands were twisting against each other.

“Bone,” Deng said softly, “and I think not cattle bone as is usual, but perhaps… Think about being my ally, Honey Dream. Necromancy is very frowned upon in our modern culture. Those who have tools made from human bone will quickly lose the sympathy of those who would otherwise have been their friends—and not only within the magical community. The reaction is stronger from those outside our little realm.”

Honey Dream knew her expression was now perfectly neutral, but she also knew it was too late. Deng had suspected, and she had confirmed his suspicions. She remembered how Des Lee had reacted when Pearl and the others had suggested contacting the ghosts. She remembered how Riprap had spoken of the “road to Hell.” His tone had been light, but his dark eyes had been filled with fear. They belonged to this world, and their reaction must be what Deng spoke of—and perhaps less forceful than many would be.

Franklin Deng gave her a very proper bow, one of equal to equal. Then he straightened, and smiled.

“Remember,” he said. “I have offered to be your ally. Remember, you can have me as a friend, and you may well need a friend.”

He stepped back, and vanished. Honey Dream did not wait to hear him depart, but turned and ran back up to the house, her soul twisting with dread.

Loyal Wind
and the horses returned after the sun had passed, and the company was reunited. Once the waters of the Suns’ River had cooled, they paused long enough for everyone to bathe off sweat and soot, Deborah and Brenda’s privacy assured by a convenient bend in the river.

The river’s waters were still warm, prompting Brenda to ask once they had all remounted, “Loyal Wind, how far is it to the Yellow Springs? Will we reach there before the next sun passes?”

“I hope so,” he said, “but distances here are deceptive, and much depends on the speed of the winds. With all of your permission, I will scout ahead periodically, not only to seek the springs, but to look for places where you might take refuge if the next sun’s passage comes before we reach our destination.”

Everyone agreed that this precaution was wise, but Brenda allowed herself to hope that it would be unnecessary. It wasn’t that she hadn’t liked being pressed into Flying Claw’s arms, but if nearly burning to death was the price of that contact, she wasn’t interested in a repeat.