Master of Devils

by Dave Gross

  And the boxer’s staff.

  That guy was quick with the blade, throwing it out and pulling it back as if it were a fishing pole. The second throw brushed my scalp. I barely felt the incision, it was so sharp, but seconds later my neck was hot with blood.

  I felt the shadow of the blade on the back of my neck as I ran the last few yards toward the pack. The Moon Blade Killer knew where I was headed. The trick was for me to get there first.

  Still pumping my legs, I sped myself with mind and spirit, striving to remember Burning Cloud Devil’s lessons. One second I was yards away, the next I had the ringed staff in hand, raising it up to where my head should be.

  I caught the moon blade on the staff. Its inner edge squealed and caught on the staff’s ringed head.

  A few trunks away, I heard the grunt of the Moon Blade Killer as he pulled on the staff. It was no use. The staff held the ring in place. I stabbed its butt deep into the ground.

  Before he could wise up and leap around for a better angle, I jumped onto the chain and ran up at him. He hesitated a moment, deciding whether to drop the weapon and let me fall.

  A moment was all I needed to get my fingers around his neck.

  Up close I didn’t need the moonlight to see his features contort as I squeezed his windpipe shut.

  Somewhere in the dark below us, Burning Cloud Devil chanted his spell. I felt it tingling in my hands and in my belly.

  All I could think about were the dead boys and their father. They wouldn’t be bringing us roast duck later. Instead, I’d be digging their graves.

  The Moon Blade Killer scratched my face, but I didn’t care about my looks anymore. He kneed me in the soft spot, but that wasn’t what it used to be either. I opened up the big smile into his old-man’s face as he mouthed words like “no” and “please” and “mercy.”

  In Tien or Taldane or the speech of devils, I decided I didn’t know what those words meant anymore.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Assassin’s Chain

  The injuries I suffered at the hands of my fellow students paled in comparison to the threat of Master Wu’s inquisition as to the instigation of our fracas.

  Despite his aggressive and brutal tactics, a portion of my sympathies lay with Master Wu. It was his duty to preserve order in the temple and administer discipline whenever and wherever it was required. The brawny master of martial instruction was as feared for his ability to root out the perpetrators of mischief as he was for the swift and brutal justice he meted out. This time, however, he made it clear to all of us disciples that a beating was the least we could expect. He promised that those who had beaten me faced expulsion for delaying the completion of the warding scrolls.

  A wicked temptation urged me to name my attackers, but I refused to indulge it. While I would not lament the expulsion of Karfai, Runme, or the other brutes, I wished no harm to Mon Choi. Crude and simple though he was, he remained the closest thing I had to a friend within the temple walls.

  Even if I could point the finger at the others without implicating him, still I hesitated to testify against the bullies. No matter that I would report only the truth; turning against them would only further diminish my reputation among the disciples. Moreover, surrendering my personal revenge to the machinery of authority would leave an indelible stain on my honor as a count of Cheliax, a Jeggare, and a venture-captain of the Pathfinder Society.

  For now, I would keep silent, and I would abide.

  I harbored no hope that my silence would earn me appreciation from the other disciples. Yet despite my disdain for my so-called brothers, I felt perversely disappointed in that prediction. No matter how long I lived aloof from my peers at home, it was no pleasure to remain the outsider. It was, alas, my fate.

  Through the hot summer days, none of the other students offered me so much as a nod in recognition of my silence. Their hazing waned, but not out of respect for me; rather, they feared to attract the suspicions of Master Wu.

  Mon Choi was once more the exception to the silent wall of ingratitude. He insisted on trading places with those who had been assigned to mix the red ink for my scrolls. When he volunteered to take my place in the kitchen, he attracted Master Wu’s suspicious eye. He added half of his supper to my bowl when he thought others would not notice and constantly offered folksy advice on herbs and isometric exercises to speed my recovery. Much of the latter was surprisingly accurate, and I once again reevaluated my earlier appraisals of his knowledge and intellect.

  While he never gave Master Wu enough cause to accuse him, Mon Choi’s fawning over me earned the resentment of the belligerents. Karfai, Runme, Lu Bai, and Yingjie exhibited no fear that I might identify them to Master Wu. Indeed, they were safe, even the two principals of my assault. All other factors being equal, a sudden vengeance would leave me unsatisfied. I had no taste for petty revenge.

  My revenge, when its time came, would be grand.

  Despite my best efforts to achieve serenity during combat, my desire for retribution smoldered during our drills. The angry emotion interfered with my training, and that I could not allow. Of the Six Sacred Weapons of Irori, I was adept at only the sword. Setting aside my spite as best I could, I concentrated my energies on mastering the other five: fist, staff, knife, spear, and wrestling.

  I most detested wrestling, which placed me in intimate contact with these sweaty brutes. The other disciples soon recognized my aversion to physical contact and used it to their advantage. A smack on the buttocks or a pinch of my nipple was a sure route to vexing my concentration, whereupon I soon found myself flat on my back, the bout decided.

  I fared better in staff and spear, which at least conformed in general to the tactics of swordplay. Fist and knife were more difficult, but I had a hundred times observed Radovan dispatch street thugs. Thus had he indirectly taught me a few techniques unknown to my rivals.

  More and more often I found myself on the brink of victory in our sparring sessions. Sometimes I relished the surprised disbelief on my opponent’s face as I placed the tip of my weapon at his throat. Afterward I would bow with a mask of humility upon my face. After the third or fourth time, I felt I had perfected the illusion of calm indifference.

  More often, especially when facing my most hated rivals, I allowed my opponent to prevail, concealing my ability. Far better, I thought, to reinforce the impression that I remained a feeble old foreign devil. Overconfidence in my rivals could prove the most potent weapon of all.

  Still I could not achieve the serene detachment that Master Wu demanded in physical exercise and Master Li described during our meditations. Only in the scriptorium could I achieve the tranquility that we sought in martial and spiritual exercise. In the realm of the intellect, I was at home. My most perfect mantras were the acts of reading and writing. Serenity fell upon my shoulders as my hand lifted the brush.

  Yet even in the haven of knowledge, distractions rooted me out.

  Chief among them was Jade Tiger’s absence. At first I imagined the eunuch avoided my company because I had attracted the displeasure of Master Wu. Objectively, I could only approve of his caution, for he had both his own and the princess’s reputations to guard. Yet every day he failed to visit me was another lost opportunity to learn a spell enabling me to contact Radovan.

  Since learning the tricks to overcome my disability, my command of magic had improved dramatically, yet Jade Tiger had shared far fewer spells than I could prepare as flying scrolls. I suppressed the impulse to seek him out, instead creating and re-creating flying scrolls to the limit of my abilities. Some ineffable premonition caused me to conceal a few of them on my person before hiding the rest within the scriptorium.

  When separated from the solace of my studies, I turned to Master Li’s mantras for help clearing my mind. Far more than our martial training, his guided meditations complemented my efforts both in
the scriptorium and outside in the Cherry Court, where I resumed my writing of the major scrolls for the temple wards. Typically I turned to silent recitation of passages from Unbinding the Fetters after glimpsing a sneer of contempt from one of my tormentors. My natural inclination was to rise to the affront and challenge the jackanapes. Instead, I turned my focus inward and recited a sutra on emptiness. It helped to soothe my ire, but I did not expect it would bring me a shadow of transcendence.

  Yet then it did.

  My brief transportation occurred not during a moment of conscious meditation, but while I copied the mystic characters in red upon yellow paper. A sound stirred me from a trance, and I realized that Mon Choi had been calling to me for some time. I was surprised to see dozens of dry pages beside the easel, the fruits of over an hour’s labor.

  I thought only a few minutes had passed.

  “Brother, Master Li summons you.”

  I did not wonder what the venerable master might want of me. I simply set aside my brush and moved to obey. “Very well.”

  Mon Choi appeared nonplussed. “He summons you to the Persimmon Court.”

  Only after the second trials would we novices be permitted into the Plum Court, where our elders trained and resided, much less the mysterious Persimmon Court. When we asked about the western quarter, whose persimmon trees we glimpsed above the highest walls on the mountain, the masters shook their heads. The Persimmon Court was forbidden to students. Only masters and their invited guests were welcome there.

  Overhearing Mon Choi’s message, Kwan and Lu Bai collected my work and lingered to hear more. Lu Bai turned away a guilty expression, but Kwan regarded me with astonished envy.

  Mon Choi led me to the Plum Court gate. There Lo Gau awaited us. The kitchen master whirled his hand in a hurry-up gesture I had seen all too often while chopping carrots and taro root. When the other students attempted to follow me through the door, he blocked the way.

  “I’ll take those.” He nodded at my yellow scrolls. Kwan and Lu Bai surrendered the pages.

  As I passed through the gate, Mon Choi bowed solemnly before a loutish smile creased his face and he waved like a child saying farewell to an elder brother leaving home. Beyond his beefy shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Jade Tiger for the first time in weeks. The eunuch furrowed his brow as he saw where I was going. Rather than return my inquiring gaze, however, he summoned Kwan to his side and whispered to him. I desired to observe their exchange, but my ability to read lips was poor in any language but Taldane. Before I could guess the shape of a single word, Lo Gau closed the door.

  We ascended a narrow, twisting stairway to the higher court, where once again a gatekeeper stood waiting for us, keys in hand. He opened the portal, and we stepped through onto a grand plaza paved in blue-green river stones. Behind rows of manicured plum trees stood ancient stone buildings similar to those in our dormitories, but of a finer quality.

  Through open panels in one such structure I heard the rhythmic shouts of two dozen of our elder brothers as they drilled with three-section staves. None appeared to be above the age of thirty, and the youngest were barely older than the novices, myself excepted. Such was their discipline that none glanced in my direction as I followed Lo Gau through the compound to the western gate. Once more we ascended a winding stair and came to a second portal, where he handed over my pages to an aged servant who led me inside.

  The walls of the Persimmon Court were carved in reliefs of fabulous scenes, some of which I recognized from my reading of the chronicles of Lung Wa. Prominent among them were depictions of the Dragon Ceremony, in which the dragon’s heart appeared as a pearl the size of a cannonball.

  One look at the image reminded me of my original goal in traveling to Tian Xia. How strange that I should forget it, I thought. I had to acquire the husk, locate Radovan and Arnisant, and return to Absalom.

  But foremost in my thought was the sense that my duty was to protect the princess and follow my masters to the Dragon Ceremony. That obligation discharged, then I could attend to my personal desires.

  Through a dragon-faced iron grate in the western wall, a mountain stream entered the inner compound and flowed around a tiny island. To my left jutted the lowest roof of the Temple of Irori, whose entrances opened into the lesser three courts. On the whole, the Persimmon Court resembled a public park, although like none in my native Cheliax. The flora appeared at first glance to grow naturally between the walls and the waterway, yet careful observation proved every detail was cultivated and maintained. Even the stones lying upon the stream bed appeared in perfect, if asymmetrical, order.

  Beneath the many trees—and indeed the persimmons were dominant—a number of modest structures lay in no obvious pattern. I found the marriage of nature and construction in this area far more agreeable than the regimented order of the Cherry and Plum Courts.

  Lo Gau led me to a small wooden house on the island. To reach it we crossed one of three small bridges connecting the island to the north, east, and south banks. As we approached the round door, we heard the conversation within.

  “When you return to Iron Mountain, Brother Su Chau, please inform my brother that we shall bring him fifty-four guardians in spring.”

  At a small tea table, Master Li sat beside a pair of men wearing the dusty saffron robes of traveling monks. Each man carried a tome upon his hip suspended from a wide leather belt. One glance at the arcane characters on the bindings told me these men were not just monks but also wizards, no doubt the mystics we had been expecting to renew the temple wards. Around their necks hung strings of prayer beads ranging in size from apple to melon. Lesser men might have bowed under such a weight, but not these two. Robust of belly and limb, they resembled brawlers who had won monks’ garb in a game of Fortune Tiles. They might have been brothers by blood as well as sect, so alike were their chubby faces. One was slightly larger and wore a thin beard around his mouth.

  “So few?” The smaller exclaimed with clownish surprise.

  His bearded companion laid a hand on his arm and smiled. “If they are from Dragon Temple, Wen Zhao, it shall be enough.”

  “But, Elder Brother, if the reports are true, surely Burning Cloud Devil intends—”

  Su Chau lifted a finger to silence his companion as he noticed my arrival.

  I bowed to all present.

  Master Li indicated my person with a gesture. “This is Brother Jeggare, the student who prepared the red glyphs.”

  Neither of the monk-mystics could conceal his surprise at my foreign appearance. Wen Zhao stared at my Avistani features and half-elven ears, but Su Chau laughed aloud. He continued to laugh as he looked me up and down. I stiffened at the affront, but the unconstrained jocularity of his tone somehow blunted the offense.

  “A foreign spirit,” he said. “I think it a good omen.”

  Su Chau trod perilously close to the pejorative “foreign devil,” but instead he used a term that indicated a benign entity. Lest I embarrass Master Li, I bowed as if receiving a compliment.

  The servant who had delivered me presented my latest glyphs to Master Li, who passed them to the monks. Su Chau nodded and hummed approval as he examined the yellow sheets. Wen Zhao barely glanced at them. He walked around me for a closer examination of my foreign features.

  “Now I understand how such a talented hand avoided a position in the Royal Court,” said Su Chau. “You are cunning, Master Li, to import a scribe to improve the temple’s reputation.”

  Master Li offered him a polite smile, but I detected discomfort in his eyes. Su Chau’s boisterous personality disarmed even the sage of Dragon Temple.

  “And our good fortune as well,” said Wen Zhao. “We need not waste time rewriting the glyphs. Your students are renowned for their fighting skill, not their calligraphy.”

  Su Chau once more deafened us with his laughter.

  Mas
ter Li winced. I sensed he had heard the criticism before, and I felt a pang of pride in my precise hand, which I had taken for granted since I was a child.

  “Nor are they usually known for their magical skill,” said Wen Zhao. He unfurled one of my flying scrolls. I had not even felt his touch upon my sash.

  “What is this, Brother Jeggare?” said Master Li.

  I bowed, but my indignation at Wen Zhao’s liberty stopped me short of kowtowing. “Forgive me, Venerable Master Li. I have been restoring the spells I lost while traveling to Dragon Temple. Only after I finish copying the chronicles, I promise you.”

  Wen Zhao eyed me with suspicion, but Su Chau patted his belly and beamed as if delighted by a precocious child who had delivered an improbable excuse when discovered stealing treats. “Perhaps we should return to Lanming,” he said. “They train their own wizards at Dragon Temple these days.”

  Master Li’s reaction was more difficult to discern. He took the flying scroll from Wen Zhao and squinted at it. He passed it to me. “Demonstrate.”

  The scroll was an evocation of disruptive bolts of energy, useful in a fight but problematic to demonstrate in the master’s tea room. I removed another scroll from my sash, causing the eyebrows of all three men to rise. “Perhaps a less destructive spell.”

  I flicked the scroll to the tip of an unlighted candle. The strip of yellow paper flew, disintegrating as it released the cantrip that ignited the wick.

  Master Li frowned. “You had no spellbook when you arrived.”

  Despite his distracted demeanor, there was nothing slow about Master Li’s mind. He had only to ask one question to put me in an impossible position. I struggled to control my breathing.

  Master Li’s lips tightened. “I see that this is not your first visit to the Persimmon Court. I should not be surprised, considering your inability to respect the boundaries set for novices.”