Shadow on the Sun (12 page)

CHAPTER 22

Tengu Monastery

Noctis Labyrinthus

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 14. 11:27

 

 

I can see the Tengu temple rising out of the mists. The last time I was here, Ghannouj sent me away so that Vienne could get better. Now, I hope that the old man doesn't kick me out again. But when I follow the long and winding path to the gate, that worry disappears, replaced by an all too familiar feeling of dread and anger.

The temple arch, once painted bright orange and decorated with calligraphy, is blackened by fire, and the heavy wooden gate that has stood strong since the first monks came to Mars, now hangs by a single broken hinge, the wood splinted and battered.

“What the
helvett
happened here?” I ask, touching the gate. The burned smell is faint. The wood is cold, and ash is pooled on the ground. It's rained at least once since this happened.

“Evidence suggests an attack,” Mimi says.

“On the monks? They're harmless. Who would do such a thing?”

“Why ask when you know the answer?”

My heart sinking, I retrieve my armalite from the bike, then enter the courtyard.

“My god.”

The banyan trees that shade the walk are burned to their trunks. All of the buildings—the kitchen, the bathhouse, the monks' sleeping quarters, even the shrine—are piles of cinders.

Out of habit, I do a quick visual recon to get my bearings. Meeting hall ahead. Prayer hall to the left. Kitchen and sleeping quarters to the right. Each hall connected by covered walkways. A high wall surrounding it all.

All of it burned to the ground.

Not my god.

My father.

“Hello?” I call. “Is anybody here?”

The only reply is my own echo.

“Mimi, do a wide area sweep. Any signatures?”

“Not within range.”

“Ghannouj!” I yell. “Mistress! Master!”

Am I missing anything?

Or anyone?

“Cowboy,” Mimi says, “they are all gone.”

I don't believe that—can't believe that. For hundreds of years through terraforming, floods, storms, blight, famine, the Pox, and war after war, this monastery has withstood everything.

Dazed, I wander past the charred remains of the buildings, kicking cinders with my boots, looking for any evidence of life.

Or death, because what I really fear is finding a body. So I check every building, pushing aside collapsed roofs and beams, digging through the rubble with my hands, then with a stone paver I turn into a makeshift shovel.

My hands and arms turn black from the ash. My knees ache, and I stink of soot and creosote, my mouth full of the taste of fire.

But I find nothing but a few grains of unburned rice.

“Maybe they got away,” I say, trying to knock the ash from my armor.

“Maybe they did,” Mimi says.

“You're saying that to make me feel better.”

“No,” she says, “to make me feel better.”

At the temple, I step over the stone foundation and enter the most holy of all Tengu places. It used to be filled with holy artifacts. Now? I squat, pushing the rubble aside, but I find nothing beneath it but more ash.

I'm about to stand and give up when a bee lands on my arm. It crawls toward my face, and when I flinch, it flies away.

“That was a bee,” I say.

“Astute analysis, cowboy.”

I close my eyes and remember my dream: Barefoot, dressed in a flowing gown spun from honey-colored silk, her blond braid trailing down her back, Vienne walks through a row of beehives. Like a ghost, she floats past the hives without a word, golden sunlight streaming from her hands. The sound of the bees rises and diminishes as she passes. Then she turns to me, her eyes violet in the wash of golden brightness, and her lips part for a kiss. Then a Hellbender opens fire on the temple behind her. Bullet holes rip through her body. Bloodstains spread across her gown. She presses a hand to her stomach and looks deep into my eyes. “Help us . . . please?”

“The bees are still here,” I say. “The bees are still here!”

Hope welling up, I sprint through the exercise yard and into the hive fields.

“These bees are playing havoc with your telemetry functions,” Mimi says. “I am having difficulty separating their signatures.”

“The bees always did mess things up, right?”

“Not so much as this. My sweeps are wildly inconsistent. You should leave the area. Bees can be dangerous.”

So can I. “Ghannouj!” I yell. “Where are you? Hello! Is anyone here?”

There's no reply.

I walk down a row of beehives, which are swimming with activity even though a third of the rows have been destroyed. The bees, however, get agitated at my presence, their buzz increasing, then dimming as I pass.

“Ouch!” I slap my cheek and pull away a crippled bee.

“Did you kill it?” someone asks—a girl's voice, nearby.

I scan the rows.

No one's there.

I inspect the bee. Its wings are bent but intact, and no legs are broken. “No. Just stunned it. Lucky bee.”

“No,” the girl says. “Lucky you.”

“Ow!” A rock pings off my forehead. I yell, “There's no reason to assault me! I'm here to—ow!—help.”

A small girl dressed in a white
gi
rises from behind a row of hives. She's dressed like an acolyte, but I don't recognize her.

“She doesn't recognize you, either,” Mimi says.

“Master Ghannouj says all who come in peace are welcome at the monastery.” She twirls a sling and fires another rock at me. “Except for vipers. Those we chop in half!”

I snatch the stone out of the air and drop it on the ground. “Look, I'm trying to help you. Where are the monks?”

I hear another child cry out, followed by more screams. I turn to see a dozen—

“Seventeen,” Mimi says.

—children converging on me. They are brandishing practice swords and sharpened sticks.

I hold up my hands to fend them off. “Wait, wait, wait!”

“Get him!” the sling girl yells.

They attack anyway, striking every part of my body, whacking my knees and ankles, a pinpoint blitz meant to knock me down.

“I'm not Sturmnacht!” I say, letting my armor block their strikes. “I'm here to help, you little idiots!”

“Sturmnacht would say that!” the girl yells.

“No! I'm really here to help!”

“Sturmnacht say that, too!”

A sharp stick hits my face. I grab it and break it over my knee. “No hitting the face!”

“What is your plan of defense?” Mimi asks.

“There is no plan! They're children. I'll just block them until they get tired.”

“Good luck with that,” Mimi says.

“Where is your master?” I repeat. “Where are the monks? Where is Vienne?”

“Stop!” the sling girl snaps.

The children stop hitting me and turn to her, waiting for orders.

“Sifu Vienne is gone,” the girl says.

“Gone where?”

“She took a job to buy food,” she says. “Then the Sturmnacht came.”

“But why did the Sturmnacht come?” I ask.

“Because,” Master Yadokai says, rising from behind a hive, “they were searching for you.”

CHAPTER 23

Sarai

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 14. 10:10

 

 

“Guards!” Tahnoon yells. “Arrest her!”

Vienne hooks Tahnoon's nostrils and hauls him to his feet as his bodyguards race into the tent. Nikolai ducks and steps outside.

“Catch!” She shoves Tahnoon toward the guards, turns, and kicks the center tent pole loose. She dive-rolls outside as the heavy canvas fabric billows down, trapping Tahnoon and his bodyguards.

“Kill her!” Tahnoon's muffled voice comes from the tent. “Help!”

“Help yourself,” Vienne says.

“Bravo!” Nikolai starts clapping. “Is called bringing down house,
jaa
?'

“What, may I ask,” a woman with a husky voice asks, “is going on here?”

Nikolai stops laughing. He snaps to attention, and Vienne whirls to see an older woman walking toward them. She is wearing camo pants, a black tee, and a camo jacket. Her hair is cropped at chin level, and she's packing four different sidearms—one on each thigh, one on her right hip, and one under her left arm.

“Mother Koumanov!” Nikolai says. “Come meet new mercenary!”

“Nikolai?” “Mother asks. “What has happened?” She points at the tent and the wriggling masses beneath it, then nods at Vienne. “Your work?”

For a few seconds, they seem frozen in time and space, eyes locked but still somehow taking the whole of the other in.

Then Vienne bows. “May peace be with you.”

With a sly step to the side, Mother bows. “May peace be with you, as well.” She gestures to the tent again. “Well done, but not the best way to start a job. Nikolai, help them.”

A few minutes later, Tahnoon and his bodyguards are sprung. The Elder emerges, his oiled hair askew. “I want her head!” he screams.

Vienne beckons him forward. “Come and get it.”

Tahnoon turns to his bodyguards. “Cowards! She is just one woman!”

“You don't pay enough,” the tallest says, “to fight that susie.”

Tahnoon throws his hands in the air. “Now you see why I must hire mercenaries! Such cowards these men are! Where is Mother Koumanov? I will speak to her about this.”

“Right here, Tahnoon,” Mother says, her voice less husky. “It is a blessing to see you once more. Please forgive my absence. It was a necessary thing.”

But Tahnoon is not so easily placated. “I demand restitution for this affront! This young woman is a menace!”

“Which is unfortunate for the Scorpions.” Mother kisses his cheeks. “She seems to be quite the fighter.”

“But she is fighting her employer!”

“From where I was standing,” she says, “it looked as if she was lucky to defeat such a great man as yourself.”

Tahnoon laughs. “You damn me with faint praise, Mother Koumanov.”

“My praise, when offered, is never faint. And please, don't call me Mother. Do I really look old enough to have birthed those young men? Be careful how you answer that.”

Tahnoon laughs again. “Come, let us watch the wrestling match and discuss the terms of our bargain.”

“Wrestling!” Mother Koumanov joins him but gives Vienne a backward glance that says, “We're not through here.”

 

“Don't worry about fight with Tahnoon,” Nikolai says as he and Vienne take a place in the crowd to watch the match. “Now, there is no doubt you are good fighter.”

“Right,” Vienne says. But it's not the fight—it's the fact that when she and Durango took on jobs, they shared the decisions, and she usually set up the defensive plans. Here, no one is interested in anything. “Do you think they have anything to eat?”

“Jaa,”
he says. “Is always food at wrestling match. Come with me.”

But before they have a chance to make their way to a line of food mongers, Mother Koumanov appears in the crowd ahead.

“Might I have a moment with you, young monk?” Mother Koumanov calls above the noise.

What now?
Vienne thinks, and starts in that direction.

As she weaves her way around the spectators, there's a huge roar from the wrestling pit. She looks back to see a fighter throw his beefy arms in the air, then beat his chest in victory. The crowd cheers even louder.

“You're a Regulator, I take it?” Mother asks when Vienne reaches her.

“How—”

“Did I know? In my profession, observation is the most important skill. When you spoke to Tahnoon, you instinctively shielded yourself. There is also of the matter of the bandaged stub of a left pinkie. If I didn't know better, I would take you for a spy, but the ribbons in your hair would prove me wrong.” She touches one, and Vienne flinches. “Ribbons of contrition. A vestige of a culture lost during the ethnic cleansing of a misguided generation. I'm glad to see that the custom has survived.”

Vienne pulls away. “What do you want?”

“A soldier's directness.” Mother clucks her tongue. “Another tip-off that you're not the person you seem.”

“ The brothers call you Mother, but you just admitted to Tahnoon that you're not their mother.”

“Touché,” Mother says. “A woman of few words. I like that. There is so much dancing about in diplomacy; it is refreshing when one encounters someone who cuts right to the chase.”

“Then why don't you?” She blows a black ribbon out of her face. “Tell me what you want.”

“Let me put it to you bluntly,” Mother says. “Tahnoon is a dangerous man. As long as he believes you can help him, you are safe. Once the caravan is in New Eden, however, your life will be as worthless as the dust under your boots.”

“I like the dust.” Vienne lifts her boot. “And I can take care of myself.”

“I hope so,” Mother says, “because if you can't, no one else will.”

A cheer arises from the wrestling ring. There's a loud clang, followed by silence.

“Nikolai said there would be seven mercenaries on this trip,” Vienne says. “You, me, and the four brothers, that makes six. Where's the seventh?”

“The seventh is—”

Her voice is drowned out by a chorus of loud boos. A chunky young man, naked to the waist and marked with cuts and bruises, blunders out of the ring. He holds a spittoon over his head. On the side of it, there is a dent about the size and depth of a man's skull. “A fight ain't over till I say it's over!”

“There,” Mother says, “is our seventh.”

As the crowd jeers, the man shakes the spittoon like a hard-won trophy. “That'll teach you poxers to mess with the likes of Leroy Jenkins!”

Vienne bows her head. Not him, she thinks. Anyone but him.