The Silk Map (6 page)

Once she'd been called Next-One-a-Boy—one of countless girls the world over neglected by parents in favor of sons. Perhaps hers were just more blunt about it. But there was a fire within her, and she ran away. She lived with a warrior-woman of the wulin. She lived with bandits. She took up with a bandit boy and led a gang in the capital. She might have made a life in crime but for the crazy foreigners and the treasure she'd stumbled upon, what she came to call the Scroll of Years.

The Scroll was a haven but also a trap, and when she and her lover got caught up in the troubles of Persimmon Gaunt and Imago Bone, they were trapped with pregnant Gaunt in the Scroll. But such a pleasant trap! There was a tower with friendly monks in the mountains within the Scroll, and as time passed swiftly there, it seemed the natural thing to marry her gangster and have a baby. She whom they called A-Girl-Is-A-Joy.

She remembered a two-year-old, a stomping, night-haired storm-cloud, rushing through the legs of bemused monks.

 

Try to sleep, Joy!

But I like noise!

Come inside, Joy.

I need a cliff!

Leave that alone, Joy.

I need to drop scrolls!

They had dropped the Scroll indeed. Her brash gangster was dead now, and her daughter was far away and under the sea.

Loss.

“Heady smell, you three,” the Great Sage said. “It reminds me of something, like a remembered dream . . . ah, I've lost it. But let me ruminate a second.” She shut her stony eyes and sneezed. “Okay.” She blinked. “You got me. That is an interesting problem. It's not enough to get you to breathe water. You have to find the right spot, and the trail is cold. I could probably do it, but obviously, ha, I have another engagement. Let me think.” She shut her eyes again, and only the lack of snoring confirmed she was still awake.

Snow Pine's stomach churned. She dared not believe they were on the verge of an answer. She could not stop herself from hoping. She felt the contradiction in her gut.

“Yes!” said the Sage, opening her eyes and chuckling. “Yes, I think that will do it. Simple and direct, really, if you know how.”

“There's a way?” Gaunt asked, and now Snow Pine was the one to shut her eyes.

“There is. But you need some background here. Indulge your friendly Great Sage while I tell you a story.”

THE GREAT SAGE'S TALE

A crow croaked this in my ear once.

I guess this happened three hundred years ago, more or less. Off in the heart of Qiangguo, in a green country between the Red and Blue Heavenwalls, there's a big lake with an island in the middle. An army guards the lake, but no one goes to the Island of the Iron Moths but Mandarins of at least the rank of Peacock—and
they
only go to bring back the ironsilk.

Hey, I see your eyes lighting up, Mister Rat! Yes, ironsilk, supple and steely by turns. Maybe you thought wizards made it, but it's a stranger story than that. It comes from the cocoons of the Iron Moths. There's a human clan on this island that tends to the Moths, keeping the immature caterpillars fed and listening to the adults' poetry.

Ye gods, that poetry! For yes, the Moths are sapient. They came originally from the darkness of space and in their hearts they've never left. Even the suncrows visit the island to hear it, because they too crave tales of distant suns, maybe because we've only got one of our own.

There's the one about the star who got lonely for a planet to warm, and who chased and burned the fragile astral ships with their crystal hulls and nebular sails, pleading for news of any orphaned world.

And the one about the haunted lighthouse built atop a comet, last work of a dead people, whirling from sun to sun to guide the inhabitants of younger planets in exploring the starry realms—but woe betide those who dare enter the lighthouse itself!

Even one about the Pit Where Light Screams, where the Starwolf gnaws on the bones of old worlds. But I won't speak more of that.

The poems are beautiful. But they can make you strange. Maybe that's why the girls Jing and Xia got so peculiar. Jing was a go-getter; she was the one who figured that by boiling an unbroken cocoon in lava, you'd get long strands of ironsilk—far more valuable than broken strands from a perforated cocoon.

Now, those Iron Moths are strange. They marveled at this discovery, and even their caterpillars accepted the plan, some of them volunteering to be boiled alive. It's said that Jing's method was successfully applied to mundane silkmaking too. She was a hero. Her mother, a widow and head of the clan, gave her the best cottage on the island and a bunch of servants.

Now, among those servants was Jing's half-sister Xia, whom everyone accounted a dullard.
Xia
never came up with a million-yuan idea like Jing's. And Xia was a soft-hearted, maudlin type, mourning her dead mother and father, offering no respect to her stepmother. Just as bad, she was sorry for the volunteers in the caterpillar-boiling brigade. Xia just didn't have the spark, it seemed. Her future was going to be dusting and mopping and cleaning fireplaces.

But it turned out Xia had some loaded dice of her own. Sometime or other in her moody explorations of the island, she'd gotten hold of an Iron Moth cocoon that was neither hatched nor boiled. The pupa had somehow reached a twilight state between life and death, and for some strange reason it took a liking to Xia.

I told you this was a weird island.

The pupa wasn't hatching, but it did hatch a plan. The pupa would share all the poems the suncrows wanted, if the suncrows would carry Xia and a few cocoons off the island.

It was a wild notion, but suncrows like crazy plans, and sometimes so do human kids. It would take all the suncrows in Qiangguo; there weren't a lot of them, and they were scattered from the Mangrove Coast to the steppes of the Karvaks. It took a while to put things together. During that time Xia grew increasingly odd, and to tell you the truth, Jing and her mother were about ready to toss Xia in the lava. But at last one night the stars were blotted out by black wings.

Xia flew, suncrows clutching her gown, with a dozen cocoons in a pouch slung around her shoulder and her friend's cocoon clutched to her chest.

Shrieking of Xia's betrayal, Jing emerged from her ornate cottage with a bow and arrow. No stranger to martial things, Jing fired at Xia.

Now, to this day the suncrows swear the cocoon in Xia's grip shifted of its own accord to block the arrow. But the tip itself was coated in ironsilk; it pierced the cocoon. Whatever strange in-between life the pupa had, it ended right there.

Xia screamed and dropped the cocoon. By a strange chance it cracked Jing's skull and killed her.

The suncrows flew with the bereft Xia, far to the west, beyond the lands controlled by Qiangguo. Though the Heavenwalls stretched far toward the setting sun, in these remote realms the Empire could only clutch those lands immediately beside the Walls or between them. Nomads like today's Karvaks roamed and ravened in the steppes to the north of the Walls; trading oases and cities stood in the deserts to the south.

But nomads and traders could not help the cocoons. Only a volcanic mountain could do that. The crows knew of one.

And so they brought Xia and her prizes to a fiery mountain in a hidden land of the West, where new Iron Moths could hatch, beyond the reach of Qiangguo or Jing's clever boiling technique.

And if no doom has befallen them, I suppose they are still living there to this day.

When the Great Sage had finished, Bone said, “So, let's see if we understand. Perhaps the most valuable substance in the world, the greatest secret of Qiangguo, lies somewhere for the taking, somewhere to the west?”

“That's about the size of it,” the Great Sage said with a wink. “Interesting, yes?”

“Yes,” said Bone.

Snow Pine felt motivated to dim the fires of Bone's greed; she noticed Gaunt taking his hand with similar concern in her eyes. Snow Pine said, “But what does this have to do with our children?”

“It doesn't,” Bone said. “We're being offered a bargain,”

“It can be fun doing business with a Rat,” the Great Sage said. “He's correct. I'll offer you my services in recovering your kids. I know a great deal. Even before I learned the seventy-two transformations, even before I dazzled the energy-patterns of the Celestial Court, I was queen of the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit across the Starborn Sea. And many things have been whispered to me as I lay under my new mountain. If nothing else, it gives one time to think. And so, yes indeed, I believe I have an answer to your dilemma.”

She paused.

Gaunt tapped her foot. “I confess to some suspense as to what that will be.”

“She means to keep us in suspense, Gaunt,” Bone said. “Until we bring her what she wants.”

The Great Sage smiled.

“You want us to bring you ironsilk cocoons,” Snow Pine said.

“Indeed. Though what I really want are the caterpillars. As many as you can get. And you'd best be quick about it.”

“You claimed,” Bone said, “you could stay awake for six months.”

Gaunt said, “That may seem like a long time, Bone. But we don't know where this fiery mountain is or how to reach it. It seems logical to inquire upon the Braid of Spice . . .”

“But the Braid of Spice,” continued Snow Pine, “is said to extend for nine thousand li. And we're no cloud-leapers. It can take a caravan years to cover that distance . . .”

“I recall accounts of sandstorms,” Gaunt said, “bandits, demons of the desert . . .”

“Steppe warriors,” Snow Pine added, “animated mummies, prehistoric monsters come to life . . .”

“And overpriced inns, no doubt,” Bone put in.

The Great Sage yawned. “Oh, such fine bedtime stories. I feel myself tiring already.”

“You are cruel,” Gaunt said.

“I am myself,” said the Sage.

“That's nothing to brag about,” Bone said.

“Indeed? Many do not even achieve that distinction: to know one's self, and act upon that knowledge, even if it brings a mountain down upon you. But I am not entirely without pity. I give you a boon, to help you in your quest.” The Sage tilted her stony, simian head. Something glinted between her ear and her skull. “See you the needle I keep, as a seamstress would? I invite the Monkey to take it.”

Snow Pine hesitated. There was surely a trick, or a price to pay. And yet, though the Great Sage was callous, she did not seem malevolent, as such. And somewhere beyond the sea, and a greater gulf yet, a girl needed her mother.

She stepped forward and plucked the needle from the Sage.

When she claimed it, she felt a sudden weight, as though she'd attempted to grasp an entire planet. Her hand buckled and her fingers threatened to break.

All at once the Sage winked, and the needle suddenly had merely the heft due a splinter of metal. Yet it gleamed like a line of distant stars.

“What is it?” Snow Pine asked. Despite all that had come before, and all that lay ahead, she was not immune to wonder.

The Sage seemed to respond to her tone. “Ah,” she whispered, “it was a gift from a dragon queen of the eastern sea. Its powers must remain my secret. But you could say it's a needle for weaving great events. Yes, that will do. Call upon it at dire need. But for now, tuck it into your robe.”

Snow Pine did so, sliding it into an inside fold so it would stay near her heart. It pricked her finger, and she grunted in anger, for she half-suspected the thing had jabbed her of its own accord. When she patted her robe, the needle felt cold as a slice of midnight.

“It likes you,” said the Great Sage. “Now, I suggest you be about your business. The year grows no younger.”

Snow Pine wanted to ask the Sage many things. But she shared a look with Gaunt and Bone and understood that they wanted to be free of this presence as soon as possible. She could not fault them.

“Thank you, Great Sage,” said Snow Pine, bowing not at all.