Foreign Devils (41 page)

‘Why would we not deal directly with the Autumn Lords?’ I asked. ‘Can they not make decisions themselves?’

Huáng shook his head. ‘They are beyond that sort of thought,’ he said.

‘So, in truth, you and all the other Huángs – you’re their caretakers.
You
rule, not the Autumn Lords.’

Huáng bowed his head. ‘Of course. I thought this was understood. The August Ones rule and keep the Autumn Lords docile. This is our way.’

I think I already knew then, but it was hard. About many things. A growing dread was upon me and part of it was the weight of Fiscelion swelling within, part was my outraged body swelling without. But some of it was the unanswered questions, the August One’s oblique answers, the near mythic otherness of the Autumn Lords. I found myself furious, with Sun Huáng, with Tamberlaine, with the stupid look upon my brother’s face, the self-satisfied complacency that animated Tenebrae’s features. But Carnelia? She looked at everything as if she were a child taking in her first draughts of sense: vibrant colour, riotous sound, towering vistas. And that quieted if not quelled my mood.

The blue- and yellow-clad Tchinee guardsmen trotted back, all accoutred with Medieran Hellfire weapons, but none pointed at us. In the Territories when we – Carnelia, Secundus, Gnaeus, and my father – had first arrived in New Damnation from Novorum to experience the wild Occidens and the hardbit Hardscrabble Territories, we toured the fifth’s garrison and I had heard a stout centurion whom you probably know, my love, by the name of Miklos Kohl, haranguing his men on ‘trigger discipline’. He was quite a bear about the whole thing: ‘Fools and sots, you do not wet your prick until the cunny is primed, do you? Do not waste Hellfire! Place your stinky finger in the cunny only when your gun is ready to fire. So it is with Hellfire. Straight lines. Assume every weapon is loaded! Never mar any warding or cover your bore with anything you do not intend to be destroyed! No diddling the trigger guard until you have made up your addled brain to fire, Ia-damned fellators!’

These poor Tchinee guardsmen did not have proper trigger discipline.

If there’s one thing that gives Rume primacy, other than the natural strength of its children, it is its rigor in process. Every legion is drilled in martial procedure and tactics, each soldier in
armatura
and Hellfire trigger discipline. Centurions like Miklos Kohl make it so.

Behind them came a flowery man, not fat, not thin, yet soft around the edges, save his eyes and hard mouth. He was young, at least in initial appearance, and he wore yellow silk robes, split at the legs, so that the hilt of his jian and pistol stuck out like diphallic erections at Ia Terminalia, and a hat in the ‘button’ style that many men of Tchinee favoured. He greeted Sun Huáng without smiling and stood in the ineffable manner of all lordlings, holding their bodies in such a way that makes all other men seem inconsequential – never meeting their peer’s eyes, holding their bodies at an angle, crossed arms, speaking over the others. I disliked Tsing Huáng almost immediately.

Sun Huáng spoke to Min and she bowed first to Tsing and then paused to listen as he spoke for a long while. When he was through, she said, turning to us, ‘The August One Who Speaks for the Autumn Lords, Tsing Huáng, bids you welcome to the Winter Palace and Kithai and wishes to take tea with you, if you would do him the honour.’

We all bowed and made sounds of acceptance, though Tsing had already turned and stridden away, pulling a comet’s tail of guards behind him. We followed, passing through the entrance beyond the towering bronzed doors, into an area of sunlight, a veranda beyond the wall, luminous from clever openings and mirrors high, high above in the palace’s roof and teeming with lush flowers and fragrant plants that seemed to shy away from us as we hurriedly passed through, following Tsing Huáng. Walking through galleries with fabulous and foreign statues and frescoes – one depicting a bearded dragon the size of a warship wrought in lacquered wood and painted to the last detail, ferocious and lovely and bright – through dark columned spaces and echoing empty chambers that seemed cavernous and foreboding. Our footfalls were ominously loud on the marble floors.

The Winter Palace was beyond any definition of a building in Ruman culture, it was more like an abandoned roofed city. Some of the rooms we passed through were heavy with dust that only intermittent traffic swept clean paths through. Many of the painted columns were scaling, the once-bright colours dull and peeling away. In some halls, open sky showed through ragged holes in the ceiling, making bright, insubstantial pillars of dust-choked light in the midst of the space and casting its margins into shadow. The guards and Tsing Huáng picked up their pace there, and I was huffing and puffing trying to keep up as we threaded our path through boulder-sized bits of fallen roof. It was labyrinthine, massive, and utterly foreboding.

Eventually, we came to a great room, a space larger than any I’ve ever been in before. Above our heads hung thousands of
zhuìlì
floating dreamlike in the closed air. In the space of the cavernous hall, the paper lanterns seemed like bits of windblown trash arrested mid-flight – desperate and small, casting ineffectual coloured light like some child’s bedroom toy.

There was a wall bisecting the great room, tall enough that it would require a ladder to scale, and the top of the wall stood adorned with countless rusty implements – spearheads, blades of all sorts, trowls, spikes, bent daggers, nails – packed so tightly and artfully it seemed like the maroon bristles of an anemone or the hackles of an angered dog. The wall itself held another mosaic representation of a great lóng, and looking at it, I thought of my father and his love of all the myths of the great wyrms. As an inveterate hunter, he would find no prize greater than that creature, save maybe the
shé
Nágá. He would be disappointed in the vermin lóng shitting everywhere in the city of Jiang.

There was a golden door, barred, and it was manned by a contingent of Hellfire- and sword-bearing guards. Tsing and his retinue escorted us into a smaller building – another building within a building, a good three hundred feet away from the wall – a raised construction crafted mostly from rice paper in bamboo or wooden frames, and it was there we settled in and took tea, a deathly dull affair. Tenebrae and Secundus looked relieved to set down the ash messenger’s box from Tamberlaine and even Lupina and Carnelia appeared to be relieved that we had finally ended our passage through the palace. Fantasma seemed unfazed. Sun Huáng had wanted to leave the boy behind in Jiang, but he came along at my insistence. We had saved his life, together, Huáng and I, and it did not feel right to put him aside. And truly, for all his dreamy wanderings, the boy was self-sufficient and not any labour.

Yet. I felt uneasy and discomposed. My feet hurt and the strangeness of the Winter Palace niggled at me, and I was not able to remain at ease enough for deep, analytic thought. And I was hungry.

Servants appeared; some bearing candied fruits, nuts, and other delicacies; others bearing ceramic bowls of steaming fragrant lemon water for washing our faces and hands. Tsing Huáng beckoned us to sit in front of him – he had taken his place on a rather simple and spare raised dais of gleaming black wood, and perched himself there like some great raptorial bird settling into its eyrie, his legs wide, his hands on his knees so that his elbows jutted out aggressively. We settled in low-slung couches arrayed in a half-circle around the dais. I felt that for someone who was technically an administrator – a Huáng, He Who Speaks for the Autumn Lords – and someone coming to a meeting with emissaries of a country at least as powerful and bellicose as his own, elevating his own status was a mistake. While I give no credence to the idea that the Cornelian clan can trace its lineage back to the Mater herself, or Tamberlaine to Pater Dis, it is still something to come from a sovereign nation of such power as Rume and be seated below an administrator, a Praetor – a jumped-up Quaestor. But, my love, I was cranky and, as I have said, disliked the smug man almost immediately.

Soon servants brought an ivory tray with ornate jade tea cups – big blocky things – and Tsing Huáng went through the process of brewing the tea and making rather a spectacle of pouring for us. The tea – a green liquid with a slight bitter taste – did nothing to cool or ease me and I was rather pleased when another servant came round with a bottle of rice wine. I took a cup of it under Lupina’s disapproving stare.

After the tea was cleared away, Tsing Huáng said, through Min, ‘Who will speak for Rume?’

Secundus shifted in his seat and opened his mouth to speak, but I said, ‘The Cornelian family will speak for Rume.’

Min dutifully repeated this to Tsing Huáng in the Kithai language. He questioned her closely and she indicated me and Secundus when she replied. Tsing nodded.

He thought for a long while, then said, ‘This is acceptable. I have had correspondence with your master.’ We waited and he pulled a small scroll from his sleeve and spoke again. (I will, my love, leave out the mechanics of the conversation.) ‘On 6 Ides of Nyarus, in the year 2636 by the Ruman reckoning, the Ruman warship
Hellaphor
fired on two vessels of Kithai –
The Imperial Beauty of Evening
and
The Ship of A Thousand Colours
– destroying them. Three hundred and twenty three sailors of the navy perished, including Ngo Dyong Huáng, The August One That Commands The Autumnal Fleet, and his family and retinue. Do you have any contention with this statement?’

Secundus glanced at me and said, ‘No, we have no contention with that statement.’

‘The cost of those two ships is placed at two hundred thousand yín each, not to mention the loss of life.’ As she translated, Min’s voice hardened, as if she was either conveying Tsing Huáng’s extreme displeasure or was becoming perturbed herself. Our history with the girl made it unclear. ‘From Rume and the Emperor Tamberlaine the Autumn Lords demand a formal apology to be cast in stone and placed in the centre of Jiang for all to view.’

Secundus said, ‘We understand this demand and will consider it closely.’

‘In addition,’ Tsing Huáng said through Min, ‘we will want monetary recompense.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘How much did the Autumn Lords have in mind?’ I asked, my voice neutral.

Tsing waved and a servant trotted forward, bearing a different scroll. A larger scroll. A much larger scroll. The servant brought it before us and began to unroll it. On the left were the strange ideogrammatical signifiers of the language of Kithai. On the right of the scroll, in a great unending column, were figures in the speech of Rume and identifiable numbers. High numbers.

After both Tenebrae and Secundus unravelled the scroll to the end and read the final damage – somewhere north of ten silver talents – Secundus’ jaw tightened and Tenebrae looked dazed.

‘And,’ Min said after a flurry of sounds came from Tsing Huáng, ‘the Autumn Lords require the instruction of Rume’s Engineers. You will provide ten of your finest firegardeners – these men and women of the Hellfire – and send them to us to live for a period of no less than five years, so that we might learn their secrets and implement their lore.’

Tchinee had had their own summoners and engineers for at least a thousand years, but it took Ruman ingenuity and innovation to make it a deadly science.

The expressions around the room looked quite grim. Even the boy Fantasma seemed to notice the mood and watched Tsing quietly but with some concentration.

‘And in return?’ I asked. ‘What will you concede to Rume?’

‘It is recompense for the crime of Shang Tzu. You will assuage your – and Rume’s – guilt.’

‘And then you’ll ally with us?’ Secundus asked. ‘You will make a binding treaty not to take up arms against Rume on land or sea or assist those that do?’

‘That is what we must discuss.’

‘Then let us begin,’ Secundus said.

After Min had translated for Tsing Huáng, he dismissed Secundus’ last statement by waving his hand. ‘He Who Speaks for the Autumn Lords says the day has grown late and he is tired from his travels. He bids you to be escorted to the Chambers of Waiting Dawn for the evening to rest. On the morrow we will have a discussion, you can present your message from the Ruman Emperor, and then you will be brought before the Autumn Lords.’

Secundus frowned and Carnelia, grown impatient from all the waiting,
harrumphed
a little. She had her lovely jian and was fingering its hilt avidly. The guards had allowed us to keep our weapons; I had my sawn-off on my leg and it was, I admit, contributing to my discomfort.

‘That sounds fine,’ I said, standing. At my movement, Tsing Huáng faced me. He might have been surprised at my actions, I could not tell. But I wouldn’t wait for his by-your-leave. ‘Come, come, family. Friends. Let us retire.’ I looked at Tsing Huáng and said clearly, ‘Instruct your men to lead us to our chambers.’

After Min translated, his eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, looking at me closely. Tamberlaine might be able to threaten and intimidate, but I’ve stared down
vaettir
. I am of Rume. This man would not cow me.

Also, I wanted a bath.

So I met his gaze until he gave an almost imperceptible nod. A score of liveried guards trotted over and we all made our way out of the walled hall and back a few chambers the size of villages until we came to a stair that rose into the dim heights of the ceiling. There was a litter-bearer for me, and one for Sun Huáng, and I gratefully piled into the cushioned seat and allowed them to bear me up. We came to an opening, streaming with golden light, and into the bright air of a late afternoon that smelled of jasmine and was full of the hum of insects. The roof of the Winter Palace held little mansions and keeps – some crumbling, some standing proud – all wrought of the same stone as the building and created in the scalloped style so common in Jiang and Kithai. Someone, centuries ago, had brought uncounted tons of soil from the ground far below and created a rooftop ecology here, around the Chambers of Waiting Dawn. There was soft grass and wispy flowering trees, ponds with cattails and a fragrant herb garden filled with greenery and another plot for the growing of vegetables. The guards led us to the building and we found our rooms. It was a bare building – the stone was intricately carved but there was a dearth of furnishing here, unlike the opulent cosiness of Sun Huáng’s demesne. The great rooms were empty except for a table and heavy wooden chairs, a gallery with tapestries and simple stone benches, bedrooms dwarfing their single beds and tables. The Chambers of Waiting Dawn were built as though giants had lived here, left long ago.