The Sack of the Summer Palace

A changing of the guard

By the time Lin Ben won free of his duties, two crowds had already formed in said garden, one for each faction; the loggers, for their part, gravitated toward the prickly cacti, leaving the palace staff to congregate around the aloes. The centerpiece of the succulent garden was a grove of towering cacti, which the barbarians who brought it were pleased to call Sky Worshippers for the limbs that protruded like arms from the main trunk. This grove was clear of celebrants, and Lin Ben saw Lin Aden casting an apprehensive eye at it. A boy he recognized from the stables did likewise, as did two men he did not know. The Cat Who Swats at Thunderheads, for his part, chatted easily with anyone who came by, and cast suggestive glances at the small knots of palace women who clearly wanted to come by, but did not dare. From these the maid Shakti was oddly absent. 

He felt a hand at his elbow, a warm presence by his side. "Lin Ben," Chesa's voice whispered from beside him.

"My interlocutor," he murmured. "What service can I render?"

"Withdraw your challenge."

Lin Ben's face darkened. "It is for another's good name that I fight," he said.

"Another's? The Blue and Black, whose?"

"The Cat Who Swats at Thunderheads made salacious implications about the behavior of your colleague Dalha.”

"If there is a brother of the Green Morning, here or anywhere, who has not made such implications over wine, then he has heard them from a brother and let them pass without comment. Dalha will live to take her pleasure in questionable men whether you die tonight or not."

"The terms are to insensibility," Lin Ben said stiffly.

"The terms are not my concern," hissed Chesa. "Come, Ben, use your mind. A stranger wanders in, provokes a slew of challenges; he carries a straightsword, and his style invokes clouds? Hast forgotten Aditi's tale?"

In truth, Lin Ben had done so, or at least failed to see the points in common with the present circumstances. "A laundress's ghost story?" he said, not entirely suppressing a derisive laugh. "The Cat Who Swats at Thunderheads is a lumberjack with a pretty sword and a too ready mouth. I only fear that the stableboy will thrash the fight out of him before I have my own chance."

A murmur began to travel through the throng; the men and women of the palace lowered their voices, though conversation did not cease. "You lie, Lin Ben; your hands are shaking, and well they should." Lin Ben turned his head away, but Chesa continued. "He must defeat eight men in single combat; then he wins the right to all the flesh touched by the firelight." Chesa made an expansive gesture, encompassing the torches and bonfires that illuminated the courtyard, from keep to parapets. "Withdraw your challenge."

"Eight men," said Lin Ben. "There is your counterpoint, dear interlocutor; he has accumulated only seven challenges."

"Very well," a voice rang from the cactus grove. "Let us settle this and be done."

Lin Ben and Chesa both snapped to attention at the words. Colonel Gawang stood just outside the stand of cacti, a greatsword strapped to his back. Lin Ben looked around; the crowd had trebled in size since he arrived, and every visible window of the keep had a nose or two pressed against it. 

"I almost regret to interrupt the theater of this thing," said Gawang, "for these men would all learn well from a drubbing, and perhaps the Azure Wind could even give better than he got. But I have no patience for play-fighting, and less for men who bait boys to their deaths."

"The terms are to insensibility," the Cat Who Swats at Thunderheads said, with a grin and a light tone that froze the water in Lin Ben's spine. 

"Very well," said Gawang, drawing the greatsword. "Bring it to me, if you can."

The Cat Who Swats at Thunderheads was in the air over the cactus grove before the words had left the Marshal's mouth.

Gawang moved quickly enough, and for a handful of moments the two fencers seemed matched; the Marshal's immense weapon moved with a speed that shocked Lin Ben, readily turning the Cat's swift thrusts and forcing him to dodge rather than parry. The Cat Who Swats at Thunderheads took a great leap back, landing as lightly as his namesake. Lin Ben remembered his own study of the Crane's Migration Step and realized that the power and speed of the Cat's leaps marked him a master, or near enough.

"You are quick with that truncheon," called the Cat.

In reply, Gawang transferred the sword to his left hand and set his right, palm up, before his chin. He puffed out his cheeks and blew, and a spray of jewel-colored flames leapt out toward the Cat.

Lin Ben nearly cried out in exultation, forgetting for the moment his own desire to cross blades with the Cat—but the Cat took another leap, this time interposing the cactus grove between himself and the Marshal of the Summer Guard.

"Come," said Gawang, "show yourself. The meager privilege of spilling your blood is hardly worth the lives of the King's cactus."

"Very well," said the Cat. The field of battle was silent; the Cat sauntered leisurely up to the grove, then picked his way daintily among the cacti until he was exposed to Gawang. "Here, I am shown. Immolate me!"

"You think I cannot control my weapon's range?" said Gawang. 

"Show me you can," said the Cat.

The same polychrome flame licked out toward the Cat, who did not move. When the flame was gone, he was not burned. 

“Your fire falls short,” said the Cat. He waggled the point of his straightsword, then laid it against the nearest cactus. "I hear tell these things store a sweet liquor for the dry months," he said. "Perhaps they are not so different from maples after all—and I am known far and wide as the bane of maples."

Gawang had wasted no more time with banter; he charged the Cat at full speed, sword poised above and behind him after the Archipelago dueling style. The Cat waited until the Marshal had covered about two-thirds of the distance between them, then sprang forward, directly at him.

Lin Ben could not suppress a gasp—but Gawang brought his weapon to in time, or so it seemed. A few strikes and parries followed, quick as snakes, the Cat pressing Gawang close. The Marshal's parries grew awkward at the distance, then slow; the tight maneuvers with the huge blade bled his strength. The Cat's blade licked out past the greatsword to draw a red stripe on Gawang's cheek. There was a flurry of motion, too fast to follow; when it ended, Gawang was on the ground. The Cat kicked him in the temple, three quick strikes of the boot-toe.

The Marshal neither moved nor rose. 

The Cat spread his arms, sword in one hand, then strutted back and forth, to the rough shouts and praise of the gathered loggers. "Come, squabblers, your chaperone is indisposed!" he called. "Who first, before he wakes and robs our fun?"

Lin Ben set his jaw, then opened it to call out—but there was a hand on his shoulder, opposite the side where Chesa still (miraculously, deliciously) stood. He turned to see Lin Lagba, panting. "Not you," he said between gasps. "Gregarious and Iron have taken sick. We're to guard the King's door."

"How, us?"

"Us and six others. The Chrysanthemum Cloud presiding, if I can find him."

Lin Ben hissed in irritation, then looked to Chesa. The relief in her eyes was insult and benediction both. He wrenched his eyes away and put his hands around his mouth to make his words echo. "When my shift ends," he called, "then Lin Ben will find you, Cat Who Swats at Thunderheads, and we will have words."

"So be it!" said the Cat. "There are six more men in my dish, and a cat can play with its dinner until daybreak." 

Lin Ben turned to Chesa, not knowing what he would say. But she was gone. "Shall I help you find the other men?" he asked.

"I've seen most of them from the window; I know where they are. Just relieve Iron and Gregarious. They need the doctor."

Lin Ben said no more, and took off at a run.