by Dave Gross
“You’re a rotten cheat.”
“Perhaps a ladder will help.”
The knife-woman’s blades flew from their sheaths, their butts sinking into the front of the platform. Their blades formed a deadly ladder from the ground to the lip of the dais. The Monkey King blew a spray of wine down upon them, and their edges gleamed with magical sharpness.
Climbing those blades was going to be a lot harder than walking coals.
I covered my hand with the sleeve of my robe and touched the first knife. Even under gentle pressure, the blade cut through the enchanted cloth and slit my palm.
Giving up on protecting my hands, I pinched the blade from below. My fingers were inhumanly strong in devil form, but I weighed a lot more than usual, too. Seemed like a bad bet to put my hands and feet on those knives. They’d be calling me Stumpy.
Then I thought of Burning Cloud Devil’s sword-capturing move.
I stuck the staff through my sash and slapped my palms on either side of a knife. Bracing my feet to either side of the “ladder,” I pulled myself up one knife at a time before reaching up to slap my hands around the next.
Above me, the Monkey King slapped his knee and barked out a laugh. He drank a toast at every rung.
It was hard to appreciate the encouragement. I tried not to look down. It was enough to know that if I lost my grip even once, I’d fall on every blade beneath me. They’d be calling me Mincemeat.
I focused all my strength on the task at hand, but my thoughts returned to the Monkey King’s words. He’d pronounced the words “snow” and “spring” with unusual emphasis.
Somebody’d been talking about me. But how would some monkey-faced tough guy end up talking with the ghost of Burning Cloud Devil’s wife? And why?
The thought distracted me from my task. My hands slipped, and the sharp blade cut an inch-long slice off my palm.
The why could wait. I concentrated all my effort on clapping the knives tight. It got harder with every rung, especially since the Monkey King kept dribbling wine down on me, making the blades as slippery as they were sharp.
At last I threw an arm over the edge of the dais and pulled myself up. The consorts recoiled as I drew the staff from my robe and struck the floor to make the rings chime.
The Monkey King grinned and offered me the bowl of wine he’d been about to drink. My impulse was to dash it from his hands, but I’d come here for a reason. No amount of hospitality was going to make me forget it.
I let the staff fall to the floor of the dais and focused my thoughts. I sketched the mystic gestures to summon ki into my hands, and I put my heart into it. The power surged through my body. It felt delirious and calming at the same time. It would work, I could feel it. I only had to reach out and press the unraveling energy into the Monkey King’s heart, and he would die.
He sat there, smiling placid as a prophet, holding the bowl of wine in one hand while he tugged open his vest with the other, letting me have my shot. He was really going to take it. I could see it in his eyes.
I knew those eyes. I’d seen them close for what I thought was the last time at a roadside inn last spring.
I lowered my hands.
“The righteous path is difficult,” he said. “But those who falter suffer far more than those who reach the end.”
I took the wine and drank it in one gulp. I threw the empty bowl over my shoulder and was somehow not surprised when it shattered on the floor only a few feet below the dais.
“I guess this is yours.” I picked up the ringed staff and offered it to him.
He let it fall casually into the crook of his elbow, as if it had always belonged there. Still he held his vest open, inviting me to hit him.
I shook my head. I’d murdered the guy once before, by accident. After all the blood I’d spilled since then, more than anything else I wished I could take back that killing.
“I’m sorry about before.”
The Monkey King’s grin softened, and I saw the boyish features of the Drunken Boxer plain on his face.
“Forget it,” he said, patting a spot beside him. “Have another drink, my goddamned little brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Red-Tasseled Spears
The moment our seniors opened the gate to the Persimmon Court, my brothers raced to the two great armories in the eastern quarter: one for the Six Martial Weapons of Irori, another for the Six Subtle weapons.
Some of the weapons were enchanted or otherwise fabled by virtue of their presence at the massacre at the Gates of Heaven and Hell thirty-six years earlier. Everyone wished to distinguish himself in an advanced weapon technique and win the honor of wielding one. Most had already been claimed by senior students, but in the imaginations of the new disciples those that remained were equally glorious.
None was so fine as the Shadowless Sword. After my use of magic to defeat Kwan and the decision of the princess to declare me the victor, apparently against her eunuch’s advice, I felt little pride in wearing the royal blade. Fortunately, the masters left us no time for ruminations. After a quick ritual bath in the winter-cool stream, we donned the gray robes of our elders and immediately resumed our martial training.
With the assistance of the seniors, Master Wu first instructed us in the Six Martial Weapons: the battleaxe, hammer, snake halberd, glaive, tiger fork, and monk’s spade. The strongest brothers favored these heavier weapons. Mon Choi demonstrated an immediate affinity for the double hammer technique, sweeping the field of as many as four opponents at once. Lu Bai proved just as formidable with the battleaxe, reducing practice dummies to sawdust so quickly that he was required to dedicate hours of his practice time to constructing replacements to obliterate the next day.
Others were attracted to the Six Subtle Weapons: the rope dart, double crutches, three-section staff, chain whip, and tiger hook swords. In our enthusiasm over our new privileges, none of us thought to ask: What is the sixth subtle weapon?
It was days before I realized that, alone among all the disciples of Dragon Temple, I knew the answer.
In the meantime, Runme proved adept with the rope dart, finally exceeding all other students in one style. Soon he abandoned all effort to develop the other advanced techniques, and pride in his accomplishment smoothed his rough demeanor. Harbin learned to combine the chain whip with a single butterfly knife, giving his attacks a reach they had previously lacked.
Yingjie expanded his repertoire to include the snake halberd and spear, as well as his favored staff. Soon he could sometimes defeat even Kwan with the new weapons.
Kwan took easily to the double-crutches and three-section staff, but he focused more and more of his energies on his Condor Fist style. Not even the senior students could defeat him in an unarmed contest. In fourteen of the remaining sixteen techniques, even against the seniors, Kwan prevailed in every bout.
Only in sword did he fall short. He could no longer defeat me, even without my use of spells.
The Shadowless Sword made the difference. Holding it, my hand became precise enough to divide a falling snowflake, steady enough to catch it on the point of the blade. Even my vision felt sharper, and the elation I felt in wielding the fabled weapon consumed none of my stamina. Aside from any martial advantage the sword lent me, its most miraculous effect was one I had long since thought impossible.
It made me feel young.
The enormity of the blessing was not lost on me. The joy I felt while using the sword diminished even my painful regret at further alienating my brothers by winning it. Without the full heat of my resentment to muddle my thoughts, I gradually began to appreciate the perspective of my rival disciples—even those who had tormented me.
With an eye toward vengeance, Karfai dedicated himself to the tiger hook swords. I admired his tactic, simplistic though it was. With curved blades designed
to capture an opponent’s sword, the tiger hook swords were the logical antidote to a sword-wielding opponent. Karfai trained so intently that within two weeks he could defeat any other brother wielding a single sword.
With my own thirst to vanquish Kwan so freshly slaked, I felt a surprising sympathy for Karfai’s desire to defeat me—not enough to yield a match to him, certainly, but enough to add a few complimentary words after evading the trap of his hooks and tapping the point of the Shadowless Sword on either side of his neck.
“Excellent technique, Brother Karfai.”
He sought any trace of insult in my voice or gaze. There was none to find, and at last the muscles in his neck relaxed. He bowed with something approaching respect.
The youthful feeling bestowed by the Shadowless Sword soon turned my thoughts away from martial matters. Within the bounds of the Cherry, Plum, and Persimmon Courts, I sought every excuse to catch a glimpse of the princess when she strayed from the visitors’ quarters.
Alas, after the second trial she retired to the Peach Court and had not since emerged. Jade Tiger’s reaction to her awarding me the royal weapon all but proved that she had defied his advice. I wondered why she had done so. The most reasonable if unsatisfactory of my speculations were of some courtly intrigue whose clues lay far from Dragon Temple. And yet I could not help wishing the princess were motivated not by guile but rather by affection.
Perhaps even desire.
“There is no fool like an old fool.” How often had I seen men forty years my junior demonstrate the truth of that axiom? Invariably the cause of the proof was a woman. Invariably she was young. Invariably she was beautiful. I comprehended the full absurdity of my wistful thought. And yet ...
Surely I did not appear so old as a human even half my age. Without benefit of a proper mirror, I could not say whether the traces of gray at my temples had grown wider. I fancied they had vanished altogether as a result of the taxing but healthy regimen I had enjoyed at Dragon Temple. Certainly I was more fit of limb than I had been in many decades.
Princess Lanfen’s manner betrayed no recognition of the disparity in our ages. She called me brother, not uncle. She had smiled, laughed, leaned toward me as we sat beside her guqin. Against all objective margins of taste, she praised my singing voice. Our conversations, while brief, evinced a promise of friendship, even intimacy.
And she had granted me the honor of bearing the Shadowless Sword.
Upon such slender evidence I lay my doubts and smiled.
Twice I spied the princess, both times in the company of her advisor.
The first time, Jade Tiger turned a baleful gaze upon me and hastened their return to the Peach Court, the one location within Dragon Temple that remained forbidden to me.
On the second occasion, Elder Brother Deming observed my disappointment at their similar retreat. He approached me with a grin too open to harbor hidden mockery.
“Do you know the tale of Chuntau and the fisherman’s son?”
He needed say no more. I knew the tale of caste-crossed romance. I knew a hundred more from the countries of my native Avistan, although their outcomes occasionally favored the lovers. Such was never the case in the stories of Tian Xia.
Deming leaned on his monk’s spade. His weapon of choice was a polearm with the eponymous blade on one end, a crescent moon on the other. He leaned back on the nearby wall and said, “The princess is far from home, where she never spent an hour beyond the company of her sisters.”
This too I understood, but I saw no reason to utter the thought.
At last he clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture that no longer offended me. “Come, Brother,” he said. “Show me more of your sword and spell skill. My father always wished I had a talent for wizardry.”
“You are a wizard in the kitchen.”
He shot a playful punch to my arm. “You mock me!”
“No, it is true,” I said. What little pride I felt in my meager success near the end of my tenure as “First Brother of Kitchen” evaporated when Deming took over. His skill was such that even the fearsome Lo Gau deferred to his authority.
Despite my best efforts to escape, Deming clung to me until I agreed to show him a cantrip. We went to the arcane library in the Persimmon Court, leaving the wall panels open to enjoy the fresh air of a sunny winter day.
There I explained the elements of wizardry, and Deming listened in perfect stillness. Distilling the dreary lectures I had endured at Korvosa’s Acadamae into the briefest possible summation, I described the verbal and somatic components of evoking a spark. To demonstrate, I threw a flying scroll to light a candle.
Deming nodded at the effect. “Do you need the scroll?”
His perceptive question surprised me. “You have studied arcana?”
“No,” he said without a trace of guile. “It just seems superfluous to the process you described.”
“And so it is,” I said. Reluctant to describe yet again the nature of my special dysfunction, I changed tack. “Forget the scroll. Show me how you would cast the spell.”
He smiled, embarrassed. “Brother, I have no magic.”
“No wizard does before casting the first spell.”
Immediately I regretted my words. Learning to cast even the minutest spells required weeks if not months of theoretical study, and success required both knowledge and a modicum of natural talent.
Before I could stop him, Deming imitated the gestures I had showed him. He uttered the syllable of fire.
“Ah!” I recoiled as a spark burned my neck. “How—? I can’t believe—”
“Forgive me, Brother,” said Deming, bowing. “I missed the candle.”
“Never mind that,” I said. “I am unharmed. It is simply that ...”
“What is it, Brother Jeggare?”
“You have spell skill, Brother Deming.”
The next morning, Master Li announced that any disciple wishing to study the Sixth Subtle Weapon of Irori would report to me for the two hours before sunset. All fifty-three of my brothers joined me beside the arcane library that afternoon. Most found my instruction tedious and soon returned their attentions to mastering their chosen weapons.
On the following day, fifteen students sat at my feet and tried to light candles.
Four succeeded.
The next evening, eight more returned to hear my tutelage. In the days that followed, more and more demonstrated a basic aptitude for magic before some inevitably gave up in frustration.
After two weeks, I had nine dedicated students, each able to ignite the wick of a candle with arcane magic.
Deming was one of the more adept students, but I was dumbfounded to watch the honor of “First Brother of Cantrips” go to Karfai. Alone among the junior students, he had persevered through my arcane instruction. Even before his seniors, Karfai understood without instruction that he could cast the spark cantrip with either a gesture or a word alone. Respect for his aptitude, and pride for the role I had taken in unleashing it, banished the last remnant of vengeance lingering in my heart.
Karfai wasted no time basking in his accomplishment but went directly to Master Li with a plea to extend our lessons. When Master Wu approached me in the Persimmon Court, I winced in anticipation of his displeasure. Instead, he ordered me to forgo further martial training in favor of instructing the other adepts. He made a point of stating that I was not a master, merely First Brother of Spells. I should not presume more than that.
My gratification was countered by the knowledge that I would now be confined to the Persimmon Court all afternoon, preventing me from seeking out Princess Lanfen during the time she was most likely to emerge from the Peach Court. I tempered this disappointment with the hope that she would hear of my achievement and seek me out.
Yet for agonizing days she did not appear beyond the walls of the
Peach Court, at least not while I was vigilant.
Only a few times did I spy her, always at a distance, always in the company of Jade Tiger, and always followed by her guardian spearmen. The heightened security was only prudent after the assassin’s attack, but I could not help wishing her protectors were more lax in their duties. Only the masters of the temple dared approach as she strolled the compound.
And I was not a master.
One day in late winter, the setting sun cast a long purple shadow across the court and threw the silhouettes of the persimmons against the eastern wall. Kneeling on their rattan mats, my nine pupils copied the spell from the large scroll on the stand behind me. The Plum Court gate opened for the royal entourage. After the appearance of four guards, however, the next to emerge were Princess Lanfen and First Brother Kwan.
Jade Tiger appeared a few moments later, trailing at a discreet distance and followed by another quartet of guards. Kwan and the princess spoke too quietly for even my half-elven hearing to detect their words. I stood for a better vantage, stepping to the side as they passed behind the trees. Reading the lips of one speaking Tien was challenging enough, but their movement and the changing line of view rendered my effort futile.
“Master Jeggare?” said one of the students. He had asked a question I failed to hear.
Deming chucked him on the arm. “Do not call him ‘Master.’”
“Indeed,” I said, barely looking at them. Across the courtyard, the princess smiled at something Kwan said.
The student apologized and repeated his question, but I could spare him no further attention. The procession made its way to the Peach Court, where all entered except Kwan. He bowed low—not kowtowing, but offering the courtesy of a lord or emissary—and withdrew from the royal presence. Once the gate closed, he dashed back to the Plum Court, the buoyancy of his step confirming my fears that his had been a social encounter.
“Brother Jeggare?”
“Just copy it again. Your brush strokes are too heavy.”
“But—”