The Black Resurrection

by Nick Wisseman

  Whatever it was, she seemed to be well regarded. In each section of the city they wound through—whether it be Metican, Espan, Filipine, or otherwise—someone hailed her or slapped her on the back. And when they entered Chintown, she was almost immediately greeted in the street by a hulking Han who, despite his size, had the ink-stained hands of a scribe.

  “This is him,” Haru said in Espan before returning the man’s greeting in his own tongue.

  Warrior, orphan caretaker, and linguist. It was a compelling mix. If you didn’t have more important things to worry about.

  Isaura forced a smile for the scribe’s benefit. “Show him the note, please.”

  “In a second.” Haru stepped aside to let a young Han couple by—a wiry, stone-faced man pushing a thinner woman in a wheeled chair. The chair was cleverly constructed, but that wasn’t what caught Isaura’s eye: the woman looked ill, and she was propped up by an elegant set of bamboo braces.

  Perhaps embarrassed by her condition, the woman refused to meet Isaura’s gaze. Haru seemed to recognize the man, though. She nodded at him as he passed, then turned back to the scribe.

  “Peng here will read the note for another of your coins,” the Nippon said after a brief exchange, “and I’ll need another for translating.”

  Warrior, caretaker, linguist … and extortionist. The last quality was less compelling but all too relevant.

  “Fine,” Isaura said through gritted teeth. “Just show it to him.”

  “Once we get to his office. It’s only a few stalls down.”

  “Will it cost another peso to enter?”

  Haru grinned. “Not if you’re quick.”

  “Stall” was an apt description. Peng’s office was barely large enough to accommodate his bulk, let alone guests. Amadi waited outside to allow Isaura and Haru to squeeze in.

  “Well?” Isaura asked after the scribe had pored over the note for what felt like an eternity. She’d been waiting to find out what those flowing characters said for so long now. Weeks and weeks of not knowing where Shoteka was, or how he was being fed, or how he’d grown … Was he talking now? Walking unaided? How much had she missed?

  “Please,” she added when Peng only gave her a quizzical look.

  He said something to Haru, who raised her eyebrows and asked for what sounded like clarification. “Peng says there’s no charge,” she elaborated after a moment. “And I won’t need anything more either.”

  Isaura nearly threw the coins at them anyway. But her voice came out as even as it ever had: “What does it say?”

  Haru cleared her throat. “It says, ‘If you want to see your son again, meet me in Huancavelica in six months’ time—Shen Da.’”

  Six months. That was the detail that struck Isaura first. She and Amadi had been on the hunt for a little over two months already. Which meant that at best—at the absolute, god-damned “best”—she wouldn’t see her baby for another four months. “Does it say anything else?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” Haru’s sympathy seemed sincere.

  But it didn’t help. “Where’s Huancavelica?” Isaura asked, trying to be a glacier, to freeze the hot spring boiling beneath her fracturing calm.

  “In Biru—to the south. It’s a long way.”

  Of course it was.

  Peng said something. Haru winced, but translated anyway. “There’s a mine there, for quicksilver. People call it ‘La Mina de la Muerte.’”

  The mine of death. How lovely.

  “Last question,” Isaura said after a moment, hearing how strained—how hot—her voice sounded, but caring so, so little. “Ask him if he’s seen a cart driven by two Han and an Anglo with a handprint scar on his forehead. They would have had a Kiksha child with them. A baby.”

  She didn’t say “my baby.” She didn’t need to.

  Haru conversed quickly with Peng, then shook her head. “He hasn’t.”

  Isaura ground her teeth. She hadn’t expected a different answer, but hearing it confirmed the course of action she didn’t want to take. Four more months of long, arduous travel; four more months of imagining the worst.

  Four more months of not holding Shoteka.

  “I’ve seen a cart,” Haru said softly.

  Isaura froze. Truly froze, like the ice of the glacier she’d been trying so hard to mimic.

  “I only saw one Han, but the scarred Anglo was with him, and they had a babe.”

  Ice turned to hope, and hope became a question: “When?”

  “Yesterday.” The Nippon slid past Peng and peered into the street. “Near the northern causeway. And I saw the Han again today. That man pushing the woman in the wheeled chair? That was him.”

  Chapter Eight

  Complicit

  Chase went limp with relief as little Bolin finally—at long, bloody last—closed his eyes and gave into his dire need for a nap.

  He’d been a good sleeper the last few weeks, finally seeming to accept his new caretakers. But he’d been restless without Jie today, and Chase had tried every trick he could think of to get the boy down for his midday rest in the covered section of the cart. Rocking him gently, telling stories, singing songs … Once again, it had been a bawdy tune about “Geela the Bar Wench” that had done the trick.

  Chase tapped the side of his nose. “That’s between you and me, Captain Messy Bottom,” he whispered. “I doubt Jie would approve.”

  With luck, Bolin would stay down for at least an hour. And with a little more luck, Da and Jie would be back before the boy woke up.

  Chase leaned against the side of the cart. His shoulder objected to the pressure, but the arrow wound he’d taken from Bolin’s namesake had healed well, and the pain had lessened to a dull ache. Just enough to keep his mind sharp.

  Angling himself a bit let him see through the back window and to the northern causeway. The view was filtered by the window’s thin pane of … cloth? Stretched wood? He still wasn’t sure what Da had used (or made), but whatever the material, it somehow combined impressive strength with near-translucence. What a marvel this cart was.

  Even when it felt like a cage.

  Oh, there wasn’t a lock on the back door, or a barrier of any kind in the front. And no one was around to watch him. But he knew from bitter experience that if he tried to step out with the intent of doing anything other than relieving himself or preparing food, his thoughts would cloud with purple fog and he’d find himself back inside with no memory of how he’d returned. Just thinking about it made him woozy. Best to mull something else.

  His hand strayed to his pocket, and his fingers caressed the metal figurine the Red Wraith had molded out of that first dragon. The figurine’s likeness to Kip was extraordinary. Every detail made Chase’s heart ache to behold, so much so that he preferred touching the image of his son to gazing at it.

  And as always, he wondered if the figurine was a gift or a taunt.

  The Wraith had seen enough of the past to know what Kip looked like. Surely the all-powerful shaman had also seen why Chase no longer had any family in the world.

  Still … he was glad to have the figurine.

  “See anything?” he called softly out the window.

  “Just more people,” a young voice whispered back from the nearest set of bushes. Rong couldn’t have been more than twelve, and he’d quickly tired of waiting for Chase to give him something to do.

  But there wasn’t anything to do except wait. Da had pointed out that Chase and Bolin couldn’t go into the city, because Amadi and Isaura would recognize them. The Han had promised to send a messenger back in case Chase needed to report something, and Rong had appeared last night, looking proud that he’d been able to find the cart and excited for his next bit of spycraft. Yet in the time since, they’d done nothing more thrilling than changing Bolin’s nappy after a particularly exuberant soiling.

  At least the causeway was interesting to watch. It was almost always busy, especially during the early morning and late afternoon, when all manner of people traveled
to and from Metica City’s vast marketplace. Many of them were Metican, or Tlaxallan, or of some other red-skinned origin. There were plenty of Afrii too, and Espans, and the occasional Anglos, Francs, and Netherns.

  And most surprisingly, there were buckets of Han.

  Chase had never seen anyone from the Orient before a few months ago, but now eastern farmers, fishers, and muleteers were everywhere he looked. Hell, he’d even learned a bit of their language, and faster than he’d thought possible. One of them, anyway. Jie had told him the other day that while his Mandarin now bordered on “passable,” there were hundreds of other tongues spread throughout the Chin Empire.

  It didn’t bother him, though, seeing so many colors mingling together on the causeway. Not like it would have in his days as the Firebrand, days—years—filled with fire and hate. Had the events on the earthen pyramid changed him so much? Sharing in the Wraith’s memories; being healed by Quecxl … when either original man easily could have killed him. Was the purple fog blurring his anger?

  Or was it Jie?

  He missed her, even though it had barely been a day, and he’d only been able to talk to her for a handful of weeks, and she was too young for him by half. Yes, her eyes were narrow, but they were also beautiful, and she was kinder and braver than she had any right to be given her fickle health. “It’s a wasting disease,” she’d explained a few nights ago. “I’ve had it since I was young. Da made my first brace when I was sixteen.”

  Da … Now there was an easterner Chase still hated.

  He appreciated what the Han did for his ailing sister—the braces were impressive, and according to her, he’d given up his shot at passing the civil service examination to care for her, even though his “eight-legged essay form” was flawless (whatever that meant) and he’d lost “much face” for backing out. But beyond that, the wiry bastard was nothing but condescending orders and purple, mind-controlling sorcery.

  “Would you mind varying the shade a bit?” Chase muttered to the sky. “Maybe a red haze next time he buggers my thoughts? Or some orange clouds? Or if you want to go crazy, let’s try a mix, a pretty rainbow of compulsion for ‘ole Chase. That would make this ‘Yes, sir, master Da’ business an absolute lark.”

  It didn’t help that the Wraith had once steered him with similar mental spurs. It wasn’t right. No one should be able to make you fight for them, or steal a child, or—

  “Hey, Anglo,” Rong whispered from the same bushes, his voice terse this time. “I see a big Afrii with no hair. He has tattoos!”

  Chase sat up straight and refocused on the causeway. He didn’t have to ask for more direction: the man Rong had described stood out immediately. Partly because he was running, moving quickly despite a slight limp. Partly because the rest of the traffic on the causeway was giving him a wide berth.

  But mostly because he was Amadi.

  “Hide,” Chase murmured. “Fast.”

  Some brief scrambling sounds suggested Rong had scurried under the cart.

  “Good lad.” Chase pressed himself against the side of the cart as much as he could without losing sight of Amadi. The Afrii was making rapid progress toward the end of the causeway, but what would he do then?

  After deciding they couldn’t afford to bypass the city—that Jie had to see a doctor about her cold—Da had moved them a few hundred yards down the coast and spent hours camouflaging the cart, growing vines and shrubbery over it until it blended into the surrounding foliage while still affording a view of the causeway. He’d looked exhausted afterward, but judged the work good enough to pass all but the closest inspection, especially with the oxen and the horse tied up further back in the woods.

  Of course, he’d also thought Amadi and Isaura wouldn’t come to the northern causeway. That, if anything, they’d check the southern causeway on their way to this Huancavelica Da thought so important. The Han had been wrong about that. Would he also be wrong about his efforts to disguise the cart?

  They were about to find out. Amadi had reached the end of the causeway, and he was gazing in their direction.

  “Look away,” Chase muttered. “There’s nothing to find here except more bloody trees.”

  For a long moment, it seemed the Afrii had seen otherwise, that he’d pierced Da’s green veil and discerned what lay beneath. But Amadi eventually turned his head to peer at the other side of the causeway, and Chase breathed easier.

  Until Bolin gave a small cry and rolled over.

  “Hush,” Chase murmured. “Keep sleeping, little captain.”

  The child seemed near to waking, however. He cried again, and one eye fluttered open.

  “Oh, hell.” Lying flat on the cart to keep his movement below the window, Chase wriggled over to Bolin and gently wrapped an arm around him. The embrace soothed the boy for a few heartbeats, but then he whimpered again, and the other eye came open.

  Sorry, Jie. This was an emergency. “There once was a barmaid named Geela,” Chase sang softly. “And if you were lucky she’d feel ya …”

  He had to go through all ten salacious verses before Bolin settled back into his nap. How long had that taken? Five minutes? What had Amadi done in that time? “Do you see him?”

  “No,” Rong whispered from under the cart. “All I see are plants.”

  “Right.” Chase didn’t dare remove his arm from around Bolin, but sitting up a little would allow him to peek out the window without exposing himself much … There.

  Amadi was gone.

  “Thank you,” Chase said to the heavens. “I know I don’t deserve much, but I appreciate—”

  The Afrii burst from the brush on the other side of the causeway, his bald, gleaming head scanning from side to side. He must have been searching along the coast.

  Jaysus. Had he come this way already? Or was he about to?

  “Chase Harper!” Amadi yelled, causing Chase to go even more rigid. He was still holding his torso up enough to look out the window, and his abdomen had started to feel the strain.

  The Afrii hurled a jagged stick—a branch he’d broken off while searching through the forest?—into the lake. “I will find you,” he roared, causing several merchants on the causeway to give him an even wider berth. He held up his hand, palm outwards. “I will find you, and I will brand you again for what you’ve done.”

  Chase winced, his forehead flushing at the years-old memory of Amadi, his regenerating skin superheated by the pyre that had failed to kill him, reaching out with hot, scarring fingers.

  But this wasn’t a direct threat. The Afrii wasn’t looking at the cart, or anywhere in particular. He didn’t know Chase was in earshot … did he?

  No. After scanning the coast again, Amadi knotted his upraised hand into a fist, spun around, and ran back up the causeway.

  Gratefully, Chase lowered himself to the floor of the cart and relaxed his screaming stomach muscles. He’d stayed as still as possible until it seemed safe to move again.

  “What was that?” Rong asked, his voice small and scared now.

  The little Han wouldn’t have understood the shouting—Amadi had spoken in Anglo. But the sound alone must have been fearsome, easily carrying from the causeway and projecting intense, unmistakable hatred.

  Hatred that was deserved, many times over.

  Still slumbering, Bolin fastened a hand in Chase’s arm hair. He responded with a gentle squeeze … and swallowed. He knew whose child the boy was, even if Da had tricked Jie into thinking the little half-breed was a “gift from the Tao.” He knew what he was part of. He knew he could have called out, that there had been no purple fog keeping him from answering Amadi.

  Just guilt.

  And shame.

  And weakness.

  “That was your cue,” Chase said eventually to Rong. “Go into the city and find Da. Tell him Amadi and Isaura know we’re here.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Ballcourt

  The Han sailor saw how short Haru was and scoffed. Then he realized she was a woman and scoffed
again.

  Haru hid her smile by inclining her head so she could pull back her hair. The man was as easy a mark as Ju-long had said. Big, yes, and strong enough to wield that massive sword he kept swinging about. But he was over-confident, and his feet looked as slow and clumsy as they were large.

  “Place your bets!” Deepak bellowed in Espan. Technically, the stocky Hindoo wasn’t allowed to organize fights here in the Meticans’ confiscated ballcourt. But for a cut of the proceeds, the relevant officials generally looked the other way, and Haru saw several white faces in the stands today. She recognized a few, but the newcomers seemed to be betting on the Han sailor. Probably because the way he handled his sword made it look like he’d seen action in the Chin civil war. Had he fought for the Manchus or the Ming? It wouldn’t matter. The handful of locals were wagering on her for good reason. They knew.

  “Let’s move this along, shall we?” she called to Deepak. “I’ve things to attend to this afternoon. Like a nap.” And finding a kidnapped child.

  Several members of the crowd laughed, and more money changed hands. Haru wondered how many of the Meticans’ ancestral spirits looked on disapprovingly. As usual, she promised to honor them with her performance.

  Deepak rolled his eyes and turned to the sailor. “Ready?”

  The big Han likely didn’t speak Espan, but the context was clear enough, and he nodded.

  Deepak glanced at Haru. “And you?”

  She hefted her ko-naginata. The slender shaft and its curved blade, long as her forearm, felt as perfectly weighted as ever. “I said as much, didn’t I? Throw your silly ball.”

  The Hindoo snorted in mock exasperation, but he still tossed his ulli—an authentic Metican playing ball—into the air, caught it, and whipped it through one of the stone rings the original ballplayers had once competed so hard to score on (with their hips, a feat Haru would have liked to see).

  “Begin!” Deepak shouted when the sailor looked puzzled.

  Nodding, the big Han smiled derisively at Haru and charged.