The Silk Map (25 page)

“I didn't want to ask, before,” Snow Pine said to Flint, after they'd ascended and jogged down perhaps ten dunes, “but how far to this place?”

“The rest of the night, I think,” Flint said, “and half the day.”

“A tiring trip.”

“With a haunted city for our reward!”

“I'm glad to be doing something. It's hard for me to sit still when there's trouble.”

“I can believe that. You have a restless look.”

“You should talk. Most men I've known seek riches, or at least a place in the world. Except the few who abandon the world. But you're in some strange place in between. You want knowledge.”

“Indeed. What confuses me is why the compulsion isn't more common. Here we are in a world of wonders, and people are content to stare down at their feet. Look up, Snow Pine! Thousands upon thousands of stars, and if you were to look through a spyglass, you'd see an order of magnitude more. What wonders must be out there. And what past wonders lie in the sands beneath our feet? We weren't made to crawl about in the same hovels age after age, nor numbly chew the same roots. We were made to learn, and record what we learn, so that our descendants may learn even more.”

“Well, you are like other men I've known, in one respect. You like to talk.”

“My apologies. I do go on.”

“I did not say I minded.”

That shut him up. She did not mind that either. But he was interesting company, even as a silent presence. She was not above enjoying it.

They passed over a flatter region of sands, and cold breezes stole their voices for a time. They passed a monumental spire of rock, jabbing gashes into the starfield, and the wind ceased for a time. She heard Flint's prayer of thanks.
Thank you for this night
, she thought he murmured,
you who whirl the days
.

“So,” Snow Pine said. “You pray to a god?”

Flint looked at her. It was hard to tell in the starlight, but she thought he smiled a little, though his voice was wary. “Why do you ask?”

Snow Pine smiled back. “So you can try to convert me. That's what every devout Westerner wants to do, isn't it?”

“I'm a Westerner if you say I am. We're not the converting type, though. And we don't always fit well with other Westerners.”

“Why is that?”

“Ha. My people spend much air, and spill much ink, asking why others keep spilling our blood. The truth is I don't really understand it. It's almost as if the hostility proves we're truly the Painter's chosen.”

“Painter?”

“Well. My people account themselves People of the Brush, in the hand of the Painter of Clouds.”

“Interesting! So what does the Painter ask of the brush?”

“Everything. Because the Painter paints everything. But most often . . . justice, knowledge, reverence for life and living. Some also say that the Painter demands we be tough-minded. But I think perhaps that part comes from us instead. A survival trait.”

“Does this Painter do anything for you in return?”

“My, you are full of questions. What does he do for us indeed! I suppose, if I'm in a kindly mood, I'd say the Painter calls us to appreciate the canvas. Water in the desert. Loyal animals. The craft behind tools and clothing. Each other. . . . And clouds, of course. Though I can't spot any now.”

“There are dark shapes in the starfield ahead,” she said. “Round shapes. They're moving, I think. They might be clouds. . . .”

“I hadn't thought of that. To see clouds as absences. Perhaps you're right. Well, that is another thing. To see things in new ways. And to regard them, even for a short time, as the Painter sees them, precious and part of a whole. To do that is to rise above pettiness. For a while. From that perspective it is easier to advance knowledge, and work for justice. That might justify some of the trouble it brings down on our heads. Maybe.”

“You don't sound too fond of your Painter.”

“I'm not!” Flint chuckled. “Self-righteous, changeable bastard, if you ask me. The only times I really get along with him are when I don't believe in him.”

“Wait. What?” She could not help laughing. “Do you believe in this Painter or don't you?”

“Well, yes and no. My people's history makes claims about signs and miracles, but we're also supposed to be tough-minded, yes? And all my conversations with the Painter of Clouds have been one-sided.”

“Maybe he doesn't like you.”

“Maybe I don't like him.”

“Maybe he likes you so much, he could listen to you all day.”

“Ha! I like that. But how would I ever know?”

“You could ask him.”

“Are women of Qiangguo always so practical? Or should I say whimsical?”

“You'll have to go ask them. I'm just the one who's here. What I say is, how can you talk about this maybe-maybe-not deity of yours so roughly? My people think our gods—and demigods, and spirits, and cosmic forces, there are so many—my people think the powers that be are flawed. There's every reason to believe this. And yet we're very careful to honor them and to never annoy them.”

“That seems prudent.”

“But you, you attribute the shaping of reality itself to your Painter! And yet you mock him, snarl at him. Aren't you at least a little bit afraid?”

“Very.”

“And yet you say you don't necessarily believe in him?”

“Usually not.”

“Aiya. This seems a perverse thing, to have such an awesomely powerful god to not believe in. In a way it'd be easier to follow the Undetermined and believe that nothing at all is real, that it's all a kind of dream.”

“Well, maybe so. But then you wouldn't be real, so I reject that theory.”

“You're a very strange person, Liron Flint.”

“Well, you're invigorating company, Snow Pine. So I hope you don't mind strange.”

“Perhaps I don't.”

The night grew ever colder, and the brief shelter of the rocky rise vanished, bringing on the wind. They traveled in increasing physical discomfort and increasing conversational warmth. Snow Pine talked of her life, such as it had been, of her defiance of family and life of crime, of her gangster husband, of her daughter, lost as far away as anyone could be this side of death. Flint spoke of dropping objects from buildings to time their fall, of spending days lost in a world of numbers, of disinterring corpses for clandestine dissection. They were more honest than many married couples, yet remote as enemies, there on the cold sands with only the stars for witness.

Dawn came cloudless, and with it a promise of warmth. They crouched for a meal of dry meat and a shared waterskin.

“I wish I could promise it will be soon,” Flint said. “But I think we made good time. We may reach the place before noon.”

“I can eat as we walk,” Snow Pine said.

There were not even dead trees within the desolation revealed by the morning sun. There were rocks weirdly sculpted by the winds into shapes evocative of chalices, seashells, or billowing curtains. There were endless dunes like the humps of petrified sea monsters. There was a peculiar whistling as the wind meandered amongst its stony or sandy obstacles. There was much to marvel at. But there was nothing alive but them.

After silent hours, they beheld a ridge of golden rock, like a mountain range dragged down to a sandy grave. A few scraggly birds circled that region.

When at last they stood upon stone, Snow Pine's spirit felt like dancing. Her body felt like staggering.

“Soon now,” Flint said, and they moved through shadow and light through a dry riverbed toward the ridge's heart.

They entered a stone valley guarded at all sides by rocky hills. There rose a walled, four-sided town smaller than Yao'an but clearly following Qiangguo's model. The wall was a shell, however, and only a pair of towers stood within it. The gate was long gone, and nothing green grew save a grim scattering of bushes. Wind howled through the ruins.

“Is this it?” Snow Pine asked.

“Hvam,” Flint said. “Depopulated by the Karvaks.”

“Depopulated? I hope you mean the people were driven out.”

“Some were driven out,” Flint said. “Others are still here. Do you see, at the gates, the towers of skulls?”

“Aiya,” Snow Pine said and bowed her head.

“Hvam made the error of refusing surrender,” Flint said. “What's more, they slew the Karvak in charge, a son of the Grand Khan. It's said his sister, who was still only a young girl at the time, proved a better commander. She was systematic in her revenge. She dammed the river that gave the city life. Wells remained, but they were not enough. When the citizens were at their most desperate, the Karvaks attacked a second time. Some inhabitants were spared. The bulk were slaughtered, as though these walls were a pen.”

“How could human beings treat each other like that?”

“You ask something I don't think even the Painter could answer.”

Snow Pine frowned. “I think of my homeland as so powerful, Flint. And I've hated so much about it. But what if Qiangguo fell? Standing here, I feel as though it could.”

“I have no answer but this. Cherish your existence. I urge you to marvel at your life as if you were a member of some wondrous lost civilization. After all, from some future perspective, you probably are.”

She stared at the grim monuments. “Let's find our camels and get the hell out of here.”

They passed beside the piles of skulls, and Snow Pine made herself look at them, even when she realized that many were too small to be adults. There were even skulls of cats and dogs and birds. They also passed between the shadows of the towers that yet stood, broken stone domes with pinnacles in the style of shrines of the Undetermined. Inside they saw rubble, for everything wooden had burned.

There beside a central well stood their camels, snorting, as if to say,
What kept you?

Relieved, they verified that animals and gear were in reasonable shape. “The well's nearly dry,” Flint said, tying a rope onto a small bucket, “but it's worth filling the waterskins.”

“Go ahead,” Snow Pine said, patting Bone's camel Scoff. “I'll watch for ghosts.”

She saw no spirits as the bucket clinked its way against the stone sides of the well. And yet something worried her. It was not the stillness of the place, for she expected quiet. Perhaps it was because the birds were still circling, never landing. Or perhaps—there was something not quite right about certain patches of ground within the city walls. Rubble was everywhere, except for five great patches that lay nearly smooth. She squinted and saw ropes emanating from that nearest smooth spot.

Ropes?

She whirled, and now to her suspicious eyes certain structures no longer resembled shattered buildings. They were sandy-brown tents of circular shape.

“Flint,” she said.

“Almost done.”

“Flint, leave the bucket. We have to leave now. Trust me.”

“Ghosts?” he said, but his tone showed concern.

“Worse.”

He left the rope and bucket behind, and they led the camels toward the entrance.

As they reached the shadows of the towers, they saw that it was too late. It had always been too late.

At a shouted order a score of armored men scrambled out from behind rocks. The nearest few held swords or spears, but the majority aimed bows, including a dozen on the city wall. The camels fled, and without consulting each other Snow Pine and Flint let them go, in the thin hope they'd be of use to the rest of their party.

The warriors wore helmets with face and neck guards and tassels at the top. Each had a bow and quiver. Many wore beards; all wore fierce expressions.

A woman, unarmored but likewise aiming a bow, walked toward them. She wore a blue coat, and her black hair was coiffed high above her fiercely glowering face. As two soldiers ran to catch the camels she snapped an order, and at once the men stopped in their tracks.

“You,” she said in the Tongue of the Tortoise Shell. “What are you doing here?”