Bone Jack

Ben paced the deck, rolling like a landslide, for the whole rest of the trip into the docks of Khuurai Dalain. The two spires stood taller than any built thing that he’d seen before. The rest of the settlement inched into sight. Khuurai Dalain was the only place Ben had ever seen in the razor grass that wasn’t built on a hill, as far as he could tell by looking. It was a wide, low square of white-brown stone, with the Razorgrass Sea lashing it like prisoners determined to break their prison. Ben had heard of it, but never believed it. No one could say how the long-dead civilization that built it had done it.

It didn’t look all that big from a distance. Perhaps a slab of a mile or two square. But, like mountains would, its image deceived. It seemed never to stop growing larger till the stone loomed higher than the highest ship Ben had ever seen. The wall didn’t rise straight up from the razor grasses, but canted at a slight angle too steep to climb. Men atop it looked small as mice.

The two obelisks stood into the sky, as if someone had placed mountains there, but hadn’t liked the shapes of them. After an aggressive reshaping, all that was left of the mountains was two pillars, pointed at the top.

The dreadnaughts veered to the starboard, but from signals given from towers on the walls, the Riot knew to head to larboard instead. The signals directed them to head for a yawning cavern in the side of Khuurai Dalain. It looked like it was a port. Ben could make out some quays in the shadowy interior.

A prairie barge plodded clattered out to meet them. The barge thunked on spiked wheels through the grasses, powered by heavy gears and several oxen walking backwards on heavy treads inside the barge.

Captain Younes gave orders to take in sail. The Riot lost speed, inching toward the barge. The barge, meanwhile, rotated slowly in pace. Ropes and chains were tossed back and forth between the Riot and the barge, and the barge pulled the ship under the deep shadows of Khuurai Dalain.

The dock space echoed, and not with heavy activity. At least a hundred long quays stuck into the cavern. Most of the stone quays had nothing moored at them. Any vessels sitting there were wrecks, picked to the bone already by scavengers. The ground was dry dirt under the ship, either for want of sun or because of some stone foundation. Either way, somehow the razor grass had failed to take root.

Behind the quays, the shadowy expanses looked like a place that the designers expected to be well lit and filled with the bustle of a dock. The walls honey-combed with stone alcoves, and only after a long floor of stone. Nowhere showed signs of recent use, except the occasional abandoned clues of sailors who’d set up short-term camps. None of them looked recent.

Only one corner had any light, and that corner was the furthest back and the furthest to the left. Braziers of coal glimmered in that corner, and several quays had been tidied and had ships moored to them. Men hurried about the usual work of maintaining moored-up ships. These ships mostly had the bamboo-ribbed sails that the Khans favored over the canvas sails of the north and the west.

The barge pulled the Riot to an empty quay, even as they approached being cleared of the debris of disuse. A few men carried an unlit and coal-filled brazier out to the end of the quay. They poured oil on it, then cast a torch onto it.

It blazed. Its flickering light cast about like an overcharged, if localized, morning. A shadow on the quay resolved into Itzal, when the light reached him.

Ben knew he’d been pacing for worry about what had happened to the boy. He was damned if he’d let anyone see that, though. He frowned a frown deep with wrinkles, squashing the breath of calm that almost might have been a gasp of relief. If the boy had been closer, the outburst might have been even more obvious. Ben could only feel glad to avoid that.

The business of mooring up the boat took a few minutes, but all the people involved—even the Khuurai Dalain men on the quay—knew their business well. Soon the gangplank clunked onto the quay.

In spite of himself, Ben was the first down it.

“All right, Blue Jay?” Ben said with a grunt. “Made it through? Good. Good.”

“I did, yes,” Itzal said. “Did you ever meet your wife’s grandfather, Rajul Aldhy Yajeal Al’Akadhib Sadiqatan3?”

“I, um,” Ben said, pausing to see if it made sense to talk about it. It didn’t, but he went on with the thought anyway. “No. I never did.”

“He sounds like an interesting man, is all,” Itzal said.

“I’ve heard that,” Ben said.

“Stubborn, I understand,” Itzal said.

“He was famous for it.”

“Anyhow, I’ve got a contract for you to sign,” Itzal held out a scroll covered in written Khel4, the language of the Tal Khumuus5. If the disparate people of the prairies had one language and one name for themselves, Khel and Tal Khumuus were those words.

“I don’t sign papers I can’t read,” Ben said, looking at the scroll. “Besides, what I can make out of this says it’s buuj ogokh. It’s a surrender.”

“Look at that, you can read it,” Itzal said. “So now you can sign it. Make it happen before we all experience the hospitality of the Mad King of Khuurai Dalain.”

“What do you want me to surrender, Blue Jay?”

“Just a few things,” Itzal said. “Don’t fret over it. I negotiated the terms, so you know they’ll be cleverly contrived.”

“Blue Jay,” Ben said.

“Yes,” Itzal said, failing to meet Ben’s eye.

“I’m going to say this once and I hope it’ll penetrate so I never have to repeat myself.”

“All right,” Itzal said.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Itzal said.

“Kindly take your clever contrivances—”

“Yes,” Itzal said.

“And stick them up your jacksy.”

“My jacksy,” Itzal said, just to confirm.

“That’s where you should stick all of your cleverness and contrivances.”

“I see.”

“Good,” Ben said.

“If you’re sure…”

“I am sure.”

“Right,” Itzal said, and he sighed, reflecting that Ben had essentially asked him to give up the main part of his personality. “If you’re sure.”

“Tell me what this paper says, Blue Jay,” Ben said, waving the contract in front of Itzal’s face.

Perking up again, Itzal said. “How about some history first.”

“Some histo…some what?” Ben said.

“You wouldn’t think that a senior slandersmith from three generations would have much to do with a tribe of Tal Khumuus…”

“Blue Jay,” Ben said, trying to cut Itzal off. Itzal had already got his steam up and wouldn’t be quelled.

“You would be wrong. It so happens that one group of Tal Khumuus had an outpost quite far southeast in the Razorgrass Sea. They were called the Khar Orgos. Do you know what happened when your wife’s grandfather and the Khar Orgos tribe met?”

“I suspect I can’t stop it,” Ben said.

“They had a bit of a battle,” Itzal said. “Of course they did. The Khar Orgos called the area their home, and your wife’s grandfather wanted to establish a base. They had a bit of a fight, and do you know who won?”

“I know this one,” Ben said, resigned now. “My wife’s grandfather won.”

“Sort of. See, the battle went on for a long time, and the Khar Orgos didn’t have enough men to maintain it. They’d called in reinforcements from neighboring tribes. When the battle wore down to its nub, the chief of the Khar Orgos demanded surrender from your wife’s grandfather. The chief of the Khar Orgos at the time wasn’t a particularly liked man, though, and the reinforcements had been secretly negotiating with other Alwatan outposts for weapons. So when he demanded surrender from your wife’s grandfather, the chief of the Khar Orgos didn’t have much of an army to back up his claim. So, even though he technically won the battle—technically, it was still his battle to win, even though most of the soldiers belonged to others tribes. Anyway, even though he technically ‘won’ the battle, he never got a surrender from your wife’s grandfather.”

Ben thought about this, then he gave it up. Even after a good think it didn’t make much sense. “So…?” Ben said, hoping the rest of the question would fill itself in.

“The lieutenant in charge of the Aimshigtai is a descendant of the Khar Orgos tribe. He had a pendant on him that had the black thorns of Khar Orgos. I recognized it from a heraldry class I had. That battle with your wife’s grandfather has been a mark on the family ever since then. They’re still paying of the blood debt they racked up with neighboring tribes. Any association with that day can be expensive and get in the way of any social advancement.”

Ben gave that another think. He gave it up again. Still didn’t help. “So…?” he tried again.

“Descendants can negotiate terms for old debts, under Tal Khumuus law. Lieutenant Ganzorig is happy to accept your surrender on behalf of your wife’s grandfather, and it will be a surrender recognized under their laws.”

“I don’t like surrendering,” Ben said. “Especially to fights I’ve never been in.”

“Yes you do,” Itzal said. “You surrendered to Trouble back in Garnison. That must have been some sort of clever legal thing.”

Ben tried to retort. Itzal was, unfortunately, correct. “That was different,” he said.

“Hmm,” Itzal said. “Just sign the paper.”

“What does it say I’m surrendering?” Ben said, looking at the Khel again.

“Only your pride, which I understand isn’t that awful around here. You’ll be an honored defeated guest. They treat their defeated guests well, if they’re foreigners.” Itzal stopped talking, as if that was it, then, as if it’d just occurred to him, he said, “Oh, and you surrender all control of a small sliver of land at the southeastern edge of the Razorgrass Sea. The area where your wife’s grandfather tried to set up shop. He came home, didn’t he?”

“Couldn’t stick it that time,” Ben said. Then, almost to himself, added, “Sort of why I’m here, actually.”

“So that’s not much to surrender at all,” Itzal said.

“How can I know if Alwatan will honor this contract of surrender?” Ben asked, mostly to the air, and not really expecting Itzal to have an intelligible answer to the question.

“I feel certain that’s a question with an answer long, long in the future,” Itzal said. “As for today, you are safely put into a hazardous port. Isn’t there a saying about gift horses?”

Ben, frowning, looked at the contract again. “I feel strange,” he said.

“Between the two of us, I haven’t stopped shaking since I left the Riot,” Itzal said.

Ben frowned at the contract for a few silent seconds. The crew of the Riot bustled around the jetty about their business, skirting the oblivious Ben.

“How do you know any of this?” Ben asked.

“I read it in seven or eight books,” Itzal said. Ben turned his frown on Itzal, lowering his bristly eyebrows. In the tone of one unsure if he had explained well enough, Itzal said, “The footnotes helped especially, I recall.”

“They would, I imagine,” Ben said.

“Yes,” Itzal said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If Ben didn’t know Itzal better, he would have thought it a sigh. “I want to go home,” he murmured.

The perfumed wood-fire smell of a fine cigar preceded someone. The person followed it shimmered like a shining silk shadow with no face except the glowing nub of the cigar. He loomed closer, and he did well at looming. He was at least as broad as Ben, and taller than Captain Younes. The impression of being a silken shadow only became more shimmery when he got closer, and started to glint. He wore floor-length robes of black silk covered in gold-laced embroidery. The mild smile of an elated stoic held the cigar in place.

“Ben, Captain Younes,” Itzal said. Captain Younes walked up. “Please meet Mori Ganzorig, lieutenant of the Aimshigtai, and, if the Empty Sky is merciful, soon to be a head of a new family, and your advocate in Khuurai Dalain.”

“I anticipate a comfortable agreement for your family and for mine,” Ganzorig said to Ben. “You may find your days in Khuurai Dalain most comfortable,” he continued, and then in a tone of perfect geniality that, nevertheless, succeeded perfectly in being a threat, he said, “or you may not.”

Ben felt his jowls aching from his frown. He looked at Itzal, who at least had the decency to look back with apologetic eyes and a faux-smile of forced calm.

“I do not like being leveraged,” Ben muttered to Itzal. He was never much of a diplomat. Ganzorig had brought a scribe with him, and the scribe had pen and ink and sealing wax. Ben took the pen and made his mark on the contract. The scribe dribbled a splotch of blood red wax for him, and Ben pressed his mouse-and-sword signet ring in, making the thing official. Then, seeing the bright side, and now the thing had been done, Ben said, “I’ve never led a military action before. I guess I have now, and possibly with the least inconvenience I might have asked for.”

Ganzorig chuckled. He had one of the most genuine chuckles Ben had ever heard. He clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You can now enter the halls of your forefathers with your head held high.”

“Most of my forefathers were thieves,” Ben said. That made Ganzorig chuckle again.

“Then perhaps you might build a hall for them,” Ganzorig said. “There is all the more honor in that.”

Ganzorig took Itzal, Ben, and Captain Younes to an open-topped horse-drawn carriage parked nearby. It faced up a ramp with stone walls where torches flickered every now and then, and in the distance it opened to sunshine. From there, they drove through the skeleton of a great city. All the streets and the bearing portions of the buildings were made of the same pale stone as the foundations of the settlement.

The architecture favored steep angles, square windows, and thick walls. It had all been built well enough that they only rarely passed buildings crumbled to ruin. Aside from frequent cracks and the smoothing of weather-wear, it looked similar to new. Except that any wood or cloth or metal that had been part of the buildings had long since crumbled or rotted or rusted away, leaving the bones of a city that had something of that shape and color. It echoed with the emptiness of a place long abandoned. It had been a great city.

The carriage passed the people of Galzuu Khan. They took up residence in the sturdier and more cleared-out buildings. They had always favored tents and yurts in their own establishments. Walls that had probably been wood long ago were hanging oil cloth or tapestries. Itzal found the image interesting. They looked like large tents with stone supports.

Further from the docks the space between buildings grew wider, and the buildings grew taller and cast darker and cooler shadows. Some shadows fluttered from being cast by sail-sized tent canvas making walls where old walls had crumbled away and roofs where roofs had long ago fallen in.

Between them were lengths of land full of plantlife, like small estates around mansions. Most of the estates were overgrown. Vines and weeds and bushes tangled together in the hot scratchiness of neglected plants in good soil. Some of the estates had been cleared and trimmed and showed all the signs of regular maintenance. All the signs including gardeners in straw hats doing the maintenance. Each mansion hung with the standard of some noble house of the Khans.

Through gaps in the mansions and the occasional trees growing around them, Itzal saw longer expanses of green. He asked Ganzorig about it.

“No city would be great without its own farms,” Ganzorig said. “They have begun yielding good crops in abundance this last summer. We have made great progress cleaning them up, though we have far yet to go. Soon we plan to import cattle and goats.”

Itzal nodded. It was taking a great deal of willpower to avoid asking where to find the legendary prisons and torture chambers. He held his quiet and kept alert.

At one point, through a wide gap, Itzal saw a tall temple looking thing in the middle of the expanses. Then the trees hid it. Itzal had a feeling they’d be going there.

Not, apparently, first, though. First, the carriage trundled through a gap in a low wall onto the grounds of one of the mansions. On either side of the door of the stone-tent mansion hung the black thorn standards of Khar Orgos.

Seeing Itzal looking at the standards, Ganzorig said, “Not for much longer,” and he laughed.

“Not to Galzuu Khan first?” Ben asked.

“Trust old grandfather,” Ganzorig said. It was an idiom of the Tal Khumuus, not a commentary on Ganzorig’s age. Ganzorig was younger than Ben. “You do not want to see the Khan until you have been thoroughly announced.”

“We don’t,” Ben said, making it half of a question.

“Far from wise,” Ganzorig said.

“I guessed I should know that,” Ben said.

Ganzorig chuckled around his cigar. He escorted them to tapestry-draped quarters on the topmost floor of his mansion, assuring them that they would be comfortable.

“And safe,” he also said.

“Why would we need to be safe?” Ben asked. “We’re not wanted criminals here.”

Itzal made a note to check around and see whether Ben’s wanted poster appeared anywhere in the city.

“Enemies of my house might find reasons to maltreat you,” Ganzorig said. “It is enough that I brought you here in spite of the orders of the Great Khan to chase away all comers. Now you are here, word of your arrival will travel, and suspicion of your identity will spread. Suspicion is motivation enough for danger in Khuurai Dalain. I assure you, you will be safe if you stay in this house.”

With those words, Ganzorig left them, to treat with the Great Khan. He said he did not know how long that would take.

When they were alone, Itzal took a piece of fruit. The fruit sat in a wooden bowl. The wooden bowl sat on a table with legs made of mammoth tusks. The table sat on a rug made from the skin of a bear, but a bear twice as large as any bear Itzal knew about. Biology had always been one of his weak subjects. The fruit had a wrinkled skin, slightly purple and too bitter to eat. The insides were green and mushy and quite pleasant.

“This is far from the plan Ben Mouse,” Captain Younes said.

“Oh, you had a plan?” Ben said. “I would say that I’m sorry an act of desperation interfered with your plan, but…wait, I’m not sorry.”

“There is always a plan,” Captain Younes said.

“Was there?” Ben said through a frown. “I just knew I had to get away and that you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you this,” Captain Younes said. “My ship is moored in a hostile dock, awaiting what fate I shall not try to imagine. And I am here, prisoner to barbarians.”

“You could have fought them. You made a decision not to do that.”

“I did not know what they would do,” Captain Younes said.

“I didn’t know either. How could I?”

“You could have given me something,” Captain Younes said.

“I had nothing to give,” Ben said. “I have never been here.”

Captain Younes had more to say. Itzal could see the signs of a man uncomfortable because of ignorance. Ben had a similar look. They’d keep fighting forever if he let them, and they’d never get anywhere. They both wanted to be told more about their situation, and neither of them had more information about their situation. It would go nowhere.

“Captain Younes,” Itzal said. “Could you stuff your boot in your gawp for a minute and think.”

“Could I stuff my what in my what?” Captain Younes snapped, looking at Itzal with his eyes full of ice. It did the right thing, though, and both men stopped arguing and looked at Itzal.

“Are you fellows feeling out of control of your lives? More than usual, I mean,” Itzal asked. He sucked a little more of the green fruit out of the bitter skin.

“Hostile territory on all sides will uncalm you,” Captain Younes said, and Itzal thought it a fair thing to admit. “You may discover that, if you live long enough. Forgive me if I do not bet in favor of that.”

“We can control our situation better with more information about it,” Itzal said.

“I do not predict these people offering us an abundance of opportunities to investigate,” Captain Younes said.

“No,” Itzal said. “We must steal our opportunities to investigate.”

“Must we?” Captain Younes said making it clear he did not think they could.

“Yes,” Itzal said. “You see, I am fairly skilled at sneaking about quick and quiet and listening at things.”

That did not bring forth a loud vote of confidence in Itzal’s favor. It left the room pensive, in fact. Neither Ben nor Captain Younes said anything. They stared at Itzal, as if they were waiting for the punch line.

Sighing, Itzal rubbed his eye. This would be tiring, he could feel it.