by Dave Gross
“Such a noisy little brute,” said Judge Fang. “Catch him before he does what he promises. We need Gust.”
I shouted at the Goblin. He turned to me and screamed, “Get back, you nasty dog!” I smelled the stink of fear all over him. He puffed up his chest and kept on inhaling. Soon, his body grew so big that his arms and legs looked like twigs poking out of a rain barrel.
When he looked ready to burst, he blew out a stinking gale. We flew off the ground and tumbled through the air. We struck tree limbs and fell back to the dirt, still choking on his foul breath. Broken twigs and leaves rained down on us, and the sun shone through the naked branches.
Judge Fang’s muffled voice pleaded beneath me. I rolled away, and the cricket-headed kami struggled back up to his feet. He gaped at his bent wings and shook his walking stick at me.
“Clumsy dog! You gave him too much warning.”
I ran up the hill, this time without shouting. At the top, Gust floated beside the statue’s head. Beneath her, the Goblin climbed up its stony body. As he grabbed the stone beads around the statue’s arm, Gust trembled and wept. Her tears slicked the statue, and the Goblin slipped down a few feet. He cursed and shook his fists at Gust.
He was so angry at her that he did not see me coming.
I leaped and caught the leg of the Goblin’s pants in my teeth. My weight did the rest, pulling down hard. The flimsy cloth tore away, leaving the Goblin with one bare leg. He shrieked as he clutched the slippery statue.
“Get away, get away, get away!” He gulped and gave himself the hiccups. He was too frightened to puff himself up. Above him, Gust chortled and sparked.
“Leave ...the cloud ...alone,” Judge Fang wheezed. The little kami puffed as he ran up behind me. “I require her help. There is a ...disturbance of the ...Celestial Order.”
The Goblin climbed higher, thrusting his elbows over the statue’s arm. “There is a disturbance in my belly.”
“There are many rats in the canyons behind us. You need only—”
“I don’t want a rat! I want the tasty little cloud. She is so sweet and moist. Besides, she laughs at me!”
Judge Fang glared at the Goblin for interrupting. A tiny rumble of thunder rolled down from the little cloud. Her wispy body turned dark gray, even though the sky above was clear and blue.
“You must do as I command,” said Judge Fang. “You are barely more than a common goblin, while I am appointed magistrate of this region by the Red Crowned Crane, August Overseer of Natural Beasts and Minor Kami within the Cradle of the Wall of Heaven Mountains, South of the Golden River and North of the Green Marshes, and All Mortal Lands Contained Therein, Wild and Settled, beneath Heaven and above Hell.”
The Goblin blinked. “You call me a minor kami? Minor?!”
Judge Fang stroked his ruffled wings the way my master smoothes the tail of his coat before sitting in a chair. “Perhaps it is not evident to one who has not passed the Imperial Exam, as I did in my mortal life, and the Trials of the Celestial Bureaucracy, as I have done in my current—and no doubt temporary—existence among you lesser kami.”
“‘Temporary’ sounds right,” said the Goblin. He inhaled, but this time it was his back instead of his belly that expanded. All the quills lifted up and trembled. “Prepare for your next life, you pompous bug!”
Judge Fang screamed when he saw me leap. I shielded his body as the quills rained down. They were longer than thorns, and they burned like hot coals. A whimper slipped out before I could turn it into a growl.
Above me, the Goblin capered on the statue’s arm. He hooted and pointed down at Judge Fang, who lay still on the ground where I’d landed. He was so small that I hoped I hadn’t crushed him. The quills hurt so much that I wanted to bite the Goblin.
I leaped up. My jaws did not reach the Goblin, but the statue rocked on its base. The Goblin yelped and clutched the carved beard to keep from falling.
“Stupid dog! You can’t touch me.”
I jumped again, this time with all my weight against the statue. It moved a little more, but not enough to throw down the Goblin.
The Goblin whooped and hollered. He shrugged his shoulders to show off the quills he had remaining. There were many.
A crooked white spark shot out from Gust. It struck the Goblin in mid-leap. His legs splayed out like a frog’s, and he fell hard onto the statue’s arm, landing on his exposed crotch. The Goblin’s pupils rolled back into his eye sockets, and he slid off the statue to fall onto the damp ground.
I stood over him, my jaws inches from his face. With one bite, I could snap his thin neck.
“Wait,” cried Judge Fang. He rocked from side to side for a moment before pushing himself to his feet. “This Goblin is more formidable than I realized. It is possible his is the spirit I sensed.”
Gust let out a tinny sound of thunder, and I knew she wanted the Goblin killed. She did not speak as other creatures do, but her electric smell and the changing air pressure were all she needed to convey her thoughts.
“No,” said Judge Fang. “There is a kami within him. I must meditate on this problem. It could be that—”
The cloud kami repeated her demand that we kill the Goblin. She emphasized her thunder with a crackle of lightning.
“I shall do nothing of the sort, especially if you keep interrupting me, you impudent little vapor.”
The Goblin stirred beneath me. His eyes flickered open, and he cringed when he saw my teeth so close to his face.
Judge Fang snapped his fingers. “We must take them both!”
“What?” said the Goblin. “I’m going nowhere with you. Definitely not with this ...this ...dog!”
“Yes, you will!” I told him.
The Goblin curled his arms and legs close to his body. I smelled his fear.
Gust began to float away.
“Come back,” said Judge Fang. “We need your help, and it is your duty to obey the Mandate of Heaven.”
Gust laughed, her body roiling like wind on the water.
“You must,” I said. “Or I will carry this Goblin anywhere you go until he eats you.”
A flash of lightning lit Gust from within. She was threatening us.
I remembered what my friend Radovan does when talking to someone who does not wish to do as he asks. I gave Gust the big smile.
She gasped and released a light rain. I knew she had agreed at last.
I looked at Judge Fang to see what he wanted to do next. As he looked back at me, his mandibles twitched. Just as I began to think he was displeased with me, he said, “What a good dog.”
Chapter Eleven
Silk Sisters
Burning Cloud Devil caught up with me the morning after the killing. Right away he demanded to know why I hadn’t waited at the inn. He shoved me before I could answer. I was in no mood for horseplay. I raised the ringed staff to crack him on the head, and he froze.
“Where did you find that?”
“Just some drunk. Things got a little rough, so he didn’t need it anymore.”
“You fool, he was a priest!” He pointed at the rings. “Those rings chime as he walks, warning beasts and kami not to attack his holy person.”
“This guy was no priest.” Not unless he was a worshiper of Cayden Cailean, I thought. I doubted they knew of the Lucky Drunk this far from Absalom.
“There are usually three rings on such a staff. They represent the mind, the body, and the spirit,” said Burning Cloud Devil. “A master who has transcended his desires may add a fourth. Only the greatest prophet would dare add a fifth.”
There were seven rings on this staff. The hairs on my neck prickled.
I offered the weapon to Burning Cloud Devil. “All right, you take it.”
He shied away, a shadow of fear on his face.
“Fine.” I raised it like a javelin and aimed for the tall weeds.
“No! The moment you touched the staff, you were bound to it. To discard it now would be more dangerous.”
“You just made that shit up.”
He shook his head.
After that we walked for days without speaking more than a few words outside of our morning practice. He’d been drilling me in his Quivering Palm technique. I liked that, and had half a mind to use it on him.
But I knew better. Burning Cloud Devil was no dummy. He wouldn’t teach me something I could turn against him. Either he had made himself invulnerable to the attack, or he knew how to stop it. Still, it was tempting. I kept the thought in the back of my mind.
We’d been traveling north, passing fewer cultivated fields and more forests. As we approached the Golden River, we came across more towns. Before we showed ourselves, Burning Cloud Devil paused to cast a spell disguising our appearances. Me he made appear like a gangly Tian youth, complete with a real wicker backpack in which I carried enough food to get me through a week or so without resorting to raiding farms or killing drunks. Burning Cloud Devil turned himself into a different one-armed man.
“What are we supposed to be?”
“You are a young tax collector,” he said. “No one will bother you, hoping to avoid your attention.”
“And you?”
“Your bodyguard.”
“How come you don’t give yourself back your arm?”
“Because it would be only the image of an arm. Should someone offer me a bowl of wine ...” He shrugged away the rest of his answer.
I smelled bullshit, and he sensed my doubt.
“Because I don’t deserve it. Not while Snow suffers in Hell.”
That sounded more like it, but it made me wonder again why he wore an empty scabbard at his waist. It was too slender for a weapon I could imagine Burning Cloud Devil using. The green floral pattern didn’t suit him, nor did the delicate gold chasing at mouth and butt. Was the scabbard also a remembrance of Snow?
It was good to eat at a table, sitting in a chair, served by a pair of pretty girls, each of them plump as a ripe peach. I considered coaxing one of them up to my room, but knowing what lay beneath my magical disguise quashed that thought.
Burning Cloud Devil and I had that much in common. In failing to save those closest to us, he’d lost his arm, I’d lost my whole body.
Maybe neither one of us deserved them back.
We got away from the inn before Burning Cloud Devil’s illusion evaporated. Less than an hour later, we were back to our usual selves. One look at us scared most travelers off the road. Those bold enough to pass within a few feet of us bowed low, or else they kept their gazes locked on the dirt road.
We turned west, then north at the next village and traveled undisguised for days. The sorcerer cloaked us in the same illusion whenever we came to an inn or a village. Sometimes he’d drink more than a few catties of wine, and he’d end up singing old songs. The man could carry a tune, I gave him that.
During his hangover the next morning, I’d ask him to translate the songs for me. My favorite was “The Proud, Happy Wanderer,” but he also taught me “Two Peach Blossoms,” “The Monkey and the Rat,” “Five Silver Bells,” and a few more. He hassled me about my fiendish words when I tried singing them, but eventually I learned to understand another hundred or so Tien words, even though I couldn’t speak them with my devil mouth.
When we weren’t singing, we walked in silence. Burning Cloud Devil seemed more interested in selecting pebbles from the road. He chose one every mile or so. If it was just the right weight and size, he added it to a little bag with a smile that invited me to ask him what he was doing.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction.
A hundred times I considered slipping away while he slept and finding my way back to Cheliax, and damn our revenge. I’d take my chances that Burning Cloud Devil couldn’t kill me if I got far enough away. Still, whenever I thought of the tiny bits that were left of the boss, I thought how much I wanted to tear out that dragon’s heart.
My mind kept returning to the danger of carrying the stolen staff. I held the thing so as not to let the rings jangle. Burning Cloud Devil paused long enough to notice my caution. I caught him smiling.
“You can kiss my bare copper-colored ass.”
That translated just fine, but it didn’t rile him.
“Speaking of your bare ass—”
“I know, I know.” My makeshift clothes wouldn’t hold up much longer. I still got an unwelcome thrill now and then when the summer breeze hit me in the right spot. I’d wanted to buy a new getup in the last town, but Burning Cloud Devil pointed out the obvious problem: the tailors couldn’t fit me without seeing my real form, and one look would send them running.
“Leave it to me,” he said. “I know a pair of seamstresses.”
He refused to elaborate until a few days later, after we’d secured a ride downstream.
Bales of leaves and wrapped bolts of raw silk filled the center of the river barge. Four guards sat atop the cargo.
The bargeman had been too frightened to refuse Burning Cloud Devil’s request for passage. With us aboard he’d probably never had a safer trip. Still, he sang out prayers for protection as he leaned into the pole that propelled us downstream.
Burning Cloud Devil sat on the edge of the barge and let his bare feet cool in the water, so I did the same. A dozen tiny fish gathered to suck at his feet. One came over for a taste of mine. The instant its mouth touched my heel, the whole school turned and fled.
Burning Cloud Devil let out a half-hearted huff of amusement. It was too hot for a proper laugh, especially with the sun reflecting off the river’s surface. I didn’t mind the heat so much as the glare. I kept my eyes on the banks.
Thick, green mulberry trees bowed their heads over the water. The locals had planted the trees everywhere that wasn’t a road or a house. Burning Cloud Devil explained that white mulberry leaves were the only food for the region’s silkworms. This close to the river, they reminded me of the willows of Ustalav and some of the secrets I’d left in their shadows.
“We go to the House of a Thousand Silks,” said Burning Cloud Devil. He pointed downstream and recited a story.
For years, this couple of sisters owned a big dyeing house known for its many colors. Eventually they became so famous that they were the only ones allowed to produce the royal yellow cloth. Since the king chose them, everyone from lords to merchants took their business to the sisters.
That lasted until a rival silk dyer cursed them, or spread nasty lies, or nasty truths, or something like that. The rumors spread, and eventually cost the sisters the royal monopoly. For a while it cost them a lot of money, too. Everyone wanted to buy from those who made the royal yellow silk.
Rather than close shop, the sisters began selling their clothes at a premium and calling them magical. They produced a hundred shades of every color, and every color produced a different charm. They had colors for attracting a husband, colors for getting rich, colors for winning a fight. They had so many colors they had to invent new names for them.
The hell of it was these magic clothes were the genuine article. Some eccentric gambler was their first customer. He had them dye a lucky green sash for him, and he broke the bank at a half-dozen crooked gambling houses. When the gangsters tried to put an end to him, they all fell into a trap set by the local magistrate, and the gambler got a fat reward.
People came from all over the province to pay fortunes for a robe, a cloak, or a pair of slippers. Rich men sent emissaries bearing a prince’s ransom for wedding clothes or funeral garb. Nobody gave a damn about the royal yellow anymore.
The silk makers who held the royal monopoly were unhappy. That meant the bureaucracy was unhappy, and eventually so
me court eunuch saw an opportunity for glory. He accused the sisters of witchcraft and sedition. When he showed up with twenty soldiers, the sisters kicked their asses all the way back to Lanming.
Just the two of them.
The story of the eunuch’s defeat prevented anyone else from bothering the sisters. The prospect of a humiliating whooping was worse than that of disappointing the royal silk dyers, who couldn’t afford much in the way of a bribe these days, with all the big money going to the House of a Thousand Silks.
“I’m starting to like these girls,” I said.
Burning Cloud Devil turned his face toward the bright mirror of the river.
We arrived an hour or so before dusk. I knew it was the right place by the pungent smell of whatever stuff it is they use for dyeing. With that keen nose of his, the boss could have identified every flower and bug it came from.
The bargeman docked at a pier with a couple of skiffs attached. He raised a flag at the head of the dock while his guards unloaded the silk. Five servants with dye-stained arms arrived to take delivery. The bargeman poled his vessel back into the middle of the river and continued downstream to the eastern markets.
The servants led us through a small wood. On the other side was a brook that joined the river a few hundred yards farther on.
The House of Silks crouched over the stream. It was big as a barn. Age and rain had grayed its timbers. In contrast, long strips of bright silk draped over drying racks in the yard. Today’s work was all in peony red and dandelion gold. Workers wound the dried silk onto spindles and covered them in paper.
A servant led us through the big building. From the rafters hung bolts of freshly dyed silk, still dripping red and yellow tears onto the floor. We passed enormous vats, their interiors stained dark from the touch of hundreds of different colors. A waterwheel in the center of the room filled a trough which in turn filled one of the vats with clear water.
We came to a room decorated with screens and lanterns. A tall silver mirror stood in each of the four corners. The servant invited us to make ourselves comfortable in the padded chairs and left us to fetch his mistresses.