Rise of the Dragon

by C K Gold

  “Louder,” Fang hissed.

  “All’s well!”

  “Now where is it?” Fang’s heart pounded. Help would arrive soon — help for the crew, not him. He’d arranged no reinforcements. He strained to look around the cabin without giving the captain an opening to struggle free.

  The cabin shared part of the aft wall of the boat’s hull, and had paper-covered windows. The rowboat had been instructed to pull away at a distance and await their signal before closing in. There wouldn’t be enough time for that now. His other plan was to swim for it - the river was cold and deep and dirty, but the current at the port was slow and gentle, even with the banks as rain-swollen as they were. Freezing to death was less of a concern in the summertime.

  The captain held his tongue. Fang wasn’t willing to carry through with his threat, and the man knew it. Fang’s stomach churned; the captain wasn’t at fault. He was just the unlucky bastard who’d gotten the job.

  “Bro!” Goat thrust a small, gleaming coffer into the light. It was dark wood inlaid with silver and stones in a design Fang couldn’t quite make out. The lid was half open, revealing a grayish lump on a crimson cushion.

  The captain lurched forward, nearly cutting his own throat in the process. Fang struggled to grapple with him without wounding him. The captain was strong enough that he bashed into Goat. The coffer and stone fell to the cabin floor. Goat tied the sack to his rope belt and picked up his knife. With surprisingly good aim, he coshed the captain in the head as Fang restrained him. The man slumped in Fang’s arms.

  Their struggle attracted more attention. This time, the captain couldn’t answer. It was only a matter of time before they had the door down. Fang scrambled for the stone. Someone had tied a plain leather thong to it, so he pulled it over his head.

  The aft window rattled suddenly. Fang and Goat looked at each other, then the barred door. Before they could say anything, a hook smashed through the paper. Fang lunged for the other window and broke the shutter off in his haste to see what new storm was brewing.

  Birch was at the other end of the hooked pole. He was standing in a small rowboat, someone else at the oars. The boat rocked as he balanced himself, clearly about to climb aboard. Seeing Fang already in the cabin clearly changed his plans for the better — Fang could just barely make out his pleased smile.

  “Jump!” came Birch’s voice.

  “Goat, toss the bag,” Fang said.

  Goat pitched the bag into Birch’s boat. It landed with a thud, wobbling the boat. Surely one of the sailors had noticed Birch’s arrival by then.

  “Now jump,” Fang said.

  Goat looked at him wild-eyed.

  “I know you can’t swim, just jump!” Fang pushed him out and followed after, two small splashes as the cabin door rattled beneath a rain of punishing blows. Too many close escapes lately, he thought, and hit the water. He plunged into the icy depths and reflexively straightened his body. His foot brushed something below.

  Intuition told him it had to be Goat. Of course the kid would sink. Fang reached out without a second thought and grabbed a flailing arm. Goat latched on, limpet-like, almost wrestling Fang. They struggled and Fang realized he’d made a critical error, grabbing someone who thought he was drowning. They fought blind, Goat convinced he was drowning and Fang desperately trying to drag them both to the surface. His one free arm hit air first.

  Goat kept knocking the air out of him and he was rapidly tiring. Each time he almost had a breath of air, Goat pulled him back down. They didn’t have long before the alligators took an interest—

  The back of Fang’s hand hit something solid. He grabbed it on instinct and found himself being pulled in. His lungs burned as he finally pulled his head all the way above water. Birch reeled them in as Goat also surfaced; as his lungs found air, the choking, coughing boy’s panic finally subsided. Still he clung to Fang.

  The cold water was sucking the warmth and blood right out of him. Birch grabbed his arm to pull him in, but Fang hoisted Goat up. After a moment, Goat grabbed on to the edge of the boat, then managed to get in without capsizing it. Fang climbed in last, feeling slower and far weaker. Overhead, torches and lamps blazed, lighting up the dense fog.

  Birch heaved him the rest of the way by the back of Fang’s tunic. Empty-handed, Fang lay in the hull of the boat. He’d lost his knife somewhere in the river. Two of his best followers were dead, and he’d robbed a man at knifepoint.

  The boat’s oars cut into the water as men’s cries rang out. They’d been spotted at last thanks to all the splashing. Fang was too battered to care. Beside him, Goat vomited up river water.

  They’d captured the artifact. The other rowboat wouldn’t come for them without the signal. Once the alarm went up, they had probably fled — that would’ve been the smart thing to do. Fang pushed himself up to sit up, but Birch pushed Fang’s head down between his knees.

  “Archers,” Birch murmured.

  Fang twisted a little to see who was manning the oars. He didn’t recognize the shapes in the dark. The sack rested at the bow, enjoying pride of place; it had escaped being soaked by his and Goat’s arrival.

  Birch didn’t move his arm. Fang shivered, struck by how cold the night air was now that he was soaked to the bone.

  “We’re going to land upstream on the other side of the river,” Birch murmured. “There’s a riot at the docks right now. Word got out that someone infamous was there, so some Knives showed up, and so did some Society members, and so on. Lots of people glad to make trouble. The alarm didn’t help matters. Everyone ashore thought it was about the riot, since pilots started unmooring their boats when the fire started.”

  “Fire?” Fang croaked.

  “Apparently your name is enough to get some folks real heated up.” Birch let go. For a moment, Fang missed the warmth, but a blanket that smelled of horse settled over him, thick, coarse, and warm. “They’d started getting it under control when we cast off. You’ll never guess who I saw in the thick of things, either.”

  “Big Wei.” The shivering was faint, but he couldn’t bring it entirely under control.

  “The very same. Not clear if he was helping or hurting, really.” As they pulled farther into the fog, the noise of the harbor faded.

  Fang felt the fighting readiness leach from his bones the farther they went. He rested his head in his hands.

  “Are you all right?” Birch asked, suddenly concerned as he leaned away. “Wounded anywhere?”

  Fang’s laugh grated. In the past couple weeks, he’d taken more beatings than he’d had in years of training. The cuts from Big Wei’s sword hadn’t fully mended, and he could tell that the sutures had torn without having to look. He’d jumped into a river that was dirtier than the average open cesspool and probably inhaled several flagons of it to boot. The cracked bones he’d no doubt earned hadn’t had time to heal, and not a day had passed in the last month where he hadn’t been even sorer than a harbor whore.

  “Did they finger me for the one on the boat?” he asked, once the laughter subsided.

  “No. Not yet, anyway. Might chalk it up to careless rumor when the ashes cool. You need to be somewhere else for a bit and let things sort themselves out. Goat can report in your stead.”

  Fang squeezed his eyes shut. He had to let Red Hand know, had to bring the artifact and papers. “I can’t,” he rasped, agonizing.

  “I guarantee that if you show your face at the docks right now, you’ll be carted off to answer for the riot and the robbery,” Birch said. He squeezed Fang’s nape reassuringly. “It’s better for everyone if you lie low for now.”

  “I can take the stuff to headquarters,” Goat said. He was leaned partway over the side of the boat, having evidently gotten most of the river water out.

  “No,” Birch and Fang said simultaneously.

  “But—”

  “You’ll be alone. If you’re mugged, what do I do then? Besides, we lost the artifact.” Fang said. The words came out harshly. “And Red Hand w
ill wonder why you don’t have the reports if you tell him that we got out—”

  “Well, that’s easy. I tell him we got separated,” Goat said.

  “You’re gonna lie to the boss,” Fang said flatly.

  “Huh.” Birch snapped his fingers. “Ballsy. You really didn’t get the rock?”

  “We jumped but we got separated in the river, mostly on account of I can’t swim,” Goat said. “We barely made it out, but knowing you’re the loyal kind, you’ll deliver if you’re alive, right? Meanwhile, we’ll keep our heads down. The authorities won’t look kindly at a bunch of criminals and peasants nearly burning down the harbor. It’ll be hard to organize a search.”

  “Smart,” Birch said approvingly. “Listen to your little brother, Fang.”

  Fang shook his head. It wouldn’t work. He opened his mouth to say as much, but instead, almost pitched forward into the boat hull again.

  Chapter 6

  Fang woke up on his back. His mouth was dry and cottony and he felt like he was roasting alive. He rolled on his side and stopped as pain burst through his ribs, forcing a noise through his lips.

  A cold hand pressed into his brow. He knew it from the calluses, didn’t even need to open his eyes. The familiar soap and sweat scent told him he was at one of Birch’s hideouts. How did Birch slip me past the Rootless Society? Fang would’ve made a great prize, dead or alive. His brain throbbed. He’d caught a fever from jumping in the damned river.

  “You faking being asleep?” Birch asked, but his voice was soft, pitched low to accommodate Fang’s pounding head.

  “How long?” he rasped. He opened his eyes a slit. Finding the room dim, he opened them the rest of the way. Birch looked a little haggard, a far cry from his usual unflappability.

  “Not long. It’s afternoon. Hungry?”

  “I’d rather piss,” Fang admitted, too groggy and disoriented for courtesy. He tried to sit up, but stiffness had set in. At least he hadn’t been woken up by Goat sticking him with a sewing needle again. He exhaled and tried again. Birch offered a hand. After a second’s hesitation, Fang took it. He lurched to his bare feet, finding a soft rug on the floor.

  Someone had dressed him in soft, loose trousers and competently dressed his wounds, old and new. A heavy bandage covered the throbbing hole in his side. The stab wound hadn’t sealed yet. Only luck, it seemed, had let him avoid a pierced gut. He would’ve surely been dead by now. Birch threw a robe over his shoulders before they stepped out.

  Birch led him out of what turned out to be a hut at the edge of a village. Fang recognized it as the one around the river ferry leading to Deepwater. Riverbend. A simple name for a quiet place. The air smelled almost clean — less of the heavy, clinging smoke of thousands of fires, less of the smell of too many people living too close together. A few villagers gave him curious looks; his was a new face. But with the robe covering all the bandages, all he had to do was try a pleasant smile.

  He enjoyed a few minutes of clean air before the chills swept through him. It had been years since he’d taken a fever, and he’d forgotten how it sapped strength from the limbs and made simple concentration into a monumental task. He found Birch sitting on the hut’s step and almost joked that he was surprised Birch had let him go alone.

  But where would he go? He’d woken up with the stone no longer around his neck. He wasn’t even certain that snagging it had been more than a fever dream now. If he showed his face to Red Hand without it, he was as good as dead. The boss didn’t tolerate a broken oath no matter what the circumstances.

  Birch looked up, smiling, but the mirth seemed to drain away quickly. He rose and grabbed Fang’s elbow and steered him back inside with the same solicitousness a man would show his aged grandfather.

  Fang shuddered and broke into a sweat. “Y-y-you,” he stuttered, but Birch ignored him and pushed him down on the bed.

  “Stay there, don’t move,” Birch said, holding out one of his hands as if to ward Fang off. “I’ll just be a minute. Be glad you didn’t get the black spot. I think you drank half the Silver.”

  Fang struggled and gave up, miring himself in the borrowed robe and bedding. Everything smelled like Birch. He couldn’t stop his shaking, not for all the stupid rocks in the world. The worst part wasn’t even that it hurt, that it pulled at his abused flesh, but that he was so tired he couldn’t even control it. His body was the fever’s puppet now.

  Noise signaled Birch’s return. It took Fang a while to realize that all the commotion wasn’t just Birch alone. Strange faces and harsh smells filled the room. He drank something hot and bitter, worse than the cheapest tea by years, but he was so thirsty that he didn’t care and didn’t even have to choke it down. Everyone knew that the best medicine was the bitterest. It had a strangely cloying aftertaste that left his tongue fuzzy and numb. The same feeling slowly spread through his chest and into his head.

  Voices communed over him; he was the subject of the conversation, but not part of it, and he couldn’t follow it.

  His next few days followed much the same pattern as the fever ran its course. He remembered Orchid sitting by him, stroking his hair, and waking up to Birch singing something soft and tuneless.

  When his fever broke, it left him wrung out like an old rag. The sickness chewed through his reserves. Birch’s clothes fit him loosely, if a little too short in the arms and legs. He swiped a hand through his hair, stiff and sort of sore from old, dried sweat. He needed a bath; rinsing off the filth would let him feel human again.

  Fang stepped out of the partitioned-off bedroom and into the hut’s common space. Birch looked up from where he pored over scrolls, copying out information in his indifferently printed characters.

  “Oh,” Birch said. “Your stuff’s over there.” He pointed with the pen to a jumble of baskets by cluttered shelves. “I’m just,” he waved a hand, and bent his head to finish inking a thought. The movement bared his neck, tan from keeping his hair cropped rebelliously short.

  The sight moved Fang with a sharp, unspeakable pang. He hesitated, but retrieved his clothes — and on top, the stone, though the leather thong had dried stiff and twisted. He pulled it on anyway. He checked and found the hole in the black tunic had been stitched, and any hint of a bloodstain was gone. The length of the gash reinforced how lucky he’d been.

  The pang didn’t pass. He sat heavily in a spare chair and stared at the shirt. He had the artifact. Birch had the scrolls. He’d survived. He could go back, triumphant, and prepare for his next move.

  My next move.

  What do I do now, father? What’s justice, mother?

  He could feel something coming loose, something that had formed the foundation of the man he’d become. The vengeful warrior, the secret knife, waiting for the right moment, the perfect moment. If that stone fell free, that knowledge of himself would fall apart. He knew it, felt it.

  “Fang?” Birch’s chair legs scraped over the floor.

  Fang hid his face with one hand, acutely aware of his shame, that he was about to lie to his oldest friend, someone he loved dearly, and who had saved his life not just once or twice. He owed Birch his life and more, whatever Birch could ask for, but this was the single thing Fang wasn’t able to give up. His pride, his honor as a man — he would sacrifice them for vengeance’s sake.

  “The physician said this might happen,” Birch said. His fingertips lightly settled on Fang’s knee.

  Unable to speak without betraying himself, Fang waited, mute, trying to bring his heart and mind under control before he broke and handed over himself and the artifact to Birch’s plans.

  “You’ve worked yourself to the bone, brother. The physician thought we’d rescued a slave. You never told me you got whipped. For the love of…” Birch’s voice cracked. “Can’t you just rest a while? Orchid thought you were going to die on us. You lost a lot of blood, and you were burning up before we got you here. You’ve still got injuries from the Knives that haven’t even gotten to scar yet. If Red Hand wants you ba
ck so bad… Fuck him. We can take him down without a man on the inside. Hell, that Goat might do it, he’s not half bad—”

  “No,” Fang managed. “This is my duty.” His family, his blood, his duty.

  Birch drew back and sighed. That was plainly the answer he’d expected. “What are you going to do about Red Hand, then?”

  “We got information. That’ll have to be enough,” Fang said.

  “You think he’ll be satisfied with that?”

  “If he’s not, I’ll just kill him right there.”

  Birch gave a surprised laugh. “Not sure that trick works twice, but sure. You’re not going to change your mind. You never do.”

  Fang slid his hand down his face. At least he had the control to not weep; anything more unmanly and he’d die of pure shame. Looking at Birch now just twisted the knife in his heart. “You know,” he said, “I think you owe me an explanation.”

  “For what?” Birch asked, eyes widening a hair.

  So he did have a secret. He was a good liar, but he’d always had a tell that just whispered to Fang. Some things hadn't changed from childhood.

  “Back at the Pearl,” Fang said, “there was a little—”

  “I was drunk! And you were being difficult—”

  Fang forced the grin. The victory of putting Birch on the rhetorical defensive felt hollow when it was based on false pretenses. “So you thought you’d try a change in tactics?”

  “It was a diversionary measure,” Birch agreed.

  “A little bump and grind before you squeezed through the window and into the night?”

  “As I remember, it was noon.”

  “It’s poetical. The poetical night,” Fang said.

  “Well, anyway, it was a joke,” Birch said, and Fang’s heart clenched, “and you started it anyway.” Birch must’ve seen something in his face, but didn’t translate it right. “Do you need to lie down?”

  Fang felt his foundation cracking further. The strain was too great to bear; rather than lose his will completely, he looked away, his hands tightening into fists in his bundled clothes. “I wasn’t joking,” he said.