Rise of the Dragon

by C K Gold

  Big Wei still stalked the city streets and still sent tithes to the boss. It was that line of coin that had to be keeping him in good standing; otherwise, his absence would’ve been enough for Red Hand to cut him off and perhaps put a bounty on his head. Fang felt no compunction about interfering with him; cutting his lifeline would help Fang and reduce Four Winds’ income.

  Fang’s efforts were paying off, too. Perhaps too well. His eyes and ears were even reporting losses in Jun’s operations, which made little sense. Big Wei’s payments had become irregular, and the excuses from his go-betweens about muggers and thieves rang hollow. Ranu seemed as oily smooth as ever, but earnings at his establishments were down. Fewer people played. They were discouraged by rumors of lower payouts and worse odds.

  Of course, if everyone but Fang was being hit with bad luck, it looked suspicious. Since he had very few ventures of his own, there was less to interfere with, and his were all legitimate stakes in stable enterprises — harder to toy with in a subtle way. This was one of the few times when his disinclination for the seediest parts of gang life actually paid off. Virtue won sometimes, after all.

  The least he could do to avert suspicion was to show up and provide some security. Fang sat on the deck outside Ranu’s gaudiest parlor and rolled bones with one of the junior brothers, a burly man whose skills ran more toward bouncing than toward gambling. It was poor form for one of the godsons to take money from a subordinate, though, so Fang did his best to lose. It wasn’t hard; he didn’t regularly play games of chance.

  The evening air was heavy and sticky with more pending rain. Everyone was a little irritable, more so than usual. Fang had already helped give a couple of angry bums the heave-ho out into the street. Nothing too strange. Exceptionally hot and humid days always saw a little spike in men’s fighting spirits.

  The place still wasn’t full, even with all the staff Ranu had pressed into waving fans and serving chilled spirits. Fang mopped his brow and accepted another cup of watered wine. Even with it, he had the acute sense he was being steamed alive.

  Incense smoke curled heavily around the building, keeping the whining mosquitoes at bay. Even in the city, the things were a scourge.

  Someone grunted in surprise. Fang looked up, alert. Almost two dozen men and women in peasant dress approached. They carried mostly makeshift weapons, but Fang saw some long knives deeper in the group’s ranks. He stood casually, but wished he’d brought a club. The other brothers noticed quickly, all rising to meet the determined “peasants.” They moved like people who’d studied fighting, not like regular laborers and farmers. Everything about it stank of the Society to Fang, which meant Birch was involved.

  The Rootless Society fighters stopped short a few strides from the edge of the deck. One of Fang’s brothers had already warned the men inside; many of the guests were making discreet exits. A familiar-looking woman in the lead gestured, and without a word, the group attacked.

  The brothers fought back, clearly unnerved by the silent assault. They fell back into the parlor itself, and things quickly degenerated into a stew of thrown tiles, broken furniture, and the crunch of broken bones. Fang seized a snapped-off leg from the main table and used it as a club to beat back the Society men while rallying his own into a line.

  They stepped over, and sometimes on, the fallen as they pushed the Society fighters into an ever smaller section of the hall. Fang was conscious of the exits; preventing his enemies from retreating would only end with an outright massacre.

  Finally it seemed like the Society gang would break and run. It didn’t matter – Ranu’s hall already looked like a typhoon had ripped through it. The damage to his reputation had already been done, and the loss of a day’s earnings would leave a bad taste in his mouth. He’d be satisfied with more bloodshed, but Fang couldn’t condone it, not when these were Birch’s people.

  Moreover, Fang’s men were tiring fast. They’d been drinking before the Society arrived — good for a bar brawl, not for the opening shots of a war.

  “If you leave now, we won’t kill you,” he said. “The doors are at your backs. Go!”

  The woman from before, who seemed to be the leader, spoke up. “Our fallen?” she asked, slightly breathless.

  Fang gestured; two of his men dragged the unconscious bodies of a man and woman out and heaved them, one after the other, into the Society side of the room.

  “Next time you stop by, spend money or get your knees broken,” Fang called out after them. Then he realized where he knew the Society woman from – she’d been part of the Moon Knives’ street ambush. She was the one with the rope dart!

  “Should’ve busted their skulls,” one of the brothers complained as they watched the Society fighters go.

  Another, cradling his bloodied arm, said, “You almost got your own staved in. What were you doing with that knife, anyhow? You slashed me, too!”

  Fang said nothing. It wasn’t his hall; his stake in the matter only extended as far as his brothers’ suspicions did. Though it was by far the most harmless of Ranu’s pursuits, it wasn’t exactly on the up and up. Fang wouldn’t mourn the place if it failed.

  ⁂

  The Society didn’t stop with the attack on the gambling parlor. Jun returned limping one day with his small coterie bruised and bloody. Big Wei’s payments stopped arriving at all. Two of Ranu’s establishments burned in one night, and the man himself went into hiding after an attack or a rumored attack — Fang’s sources weren’t too clear on that.

  Staying in Big Wei’s rooms had made Fang increasingly uneasy. His paranoia warred with his need to be seen while the rash of disasters continued. Vanishing was too convenient. Yet staying to be observed went against all Fang’s instincts. Worse, he didn’t know what kind of traps waited for him in those rooms. They didn’t feel like home.

  He left a note about the strange woman – that possible spy – at one of the few message-swapping points in Dockside that he still trusted. He hoped that Orchid checked it soon. Shaking his tail just to reach the spot had been a real pain, but the Rose Maze was still his stomping ground.

  His worry wasn’t mere paranoia, either. Fang was being watched. After finding a peephole in one of his walls that pointed into a sitting room, Fang snapped. It was bad enough to have his comings and goings observed; the reality of a voyeur watching him in the rooms Red Hand had assigned him was too much.

  He retreated to his canal apartment, startling the brothers who’d posted themselves as guards there. They straightened as though they were provincial guards in the presence of the governor. Just looking at the brothers drained Fang’s energy.

  “All’s well, boss!” one said.

  Wearily, he waved them away. “Thanks. I’ll be here awhile, so you guys can take a break, do what you need to do.” He didn’t wait to see what they’d decide. It’d be easier for him if they left for good, because then he didn’t have to suspect them of spying rather than showing him some loyalty.

  He threw himself on his bed. The blankets smelled stale. Everything was slightly dusty. Even just a couple weeks made the whole place feel unoccupied. At least someone had thrown out the fruit on his sole table; they hadn’t wiped up the moldy circles the fruit had left behind, though.

  After a few minutes, he sighed. Living in filth was intolerable, and it wouldn’t get better by ignoring it. He dragged the blankets out into the sun and draped them over the side of the building, then anchored them with his dead potted plants so they wouldn’t blow away. Given a few hours of sunlight, the mustiness would be driven off.

  He swept the apartment out, sweeping dust out onto the rooftop before begrudgingly tossing it into a potted plant. They hadn’t withstood the prolonged rains. It’d been nice having them around while they lasted. Much like having Orchid around. She’d always cleaned up. She’s always cleaned up after me. He shook his head. He hadn’t repaid that care well. It was unlikely that he ever could.

  By the time he’d gotten the place tolerable again, his men ha
d left and an afternoon shower had blown in, ending the day early. He sat by the table in the light of a lone lamp and flipped through one of his father’s old books. A damp but fresh wind blew in through the partly open door. The good thing about rain was that it tended to beat the canal smell down during hot stretches.

  The door creaked. Something about it didn’t seem like the breeze. Fang looked up to see Birch there. He held himself stiffly, like he was ready to repeat their fight from before. Fang closed the book and slid it away from the lamp just in case. If Birch was angry about what’d happened at the parlor…

  He crossed the apartment quickly, fast enough that Fang didn’t even gain his feet before Birch was leaning over him, one hand on the back of his chair and the other resting on the cover of the manual. His face was almost unreadable; the poor light only made it worse. Fang tensed, anticipating the accusations that were sure to come.

  “Who does a man have to beat down for you to count it as courting?” Birch asked.

  Fang leaned his forehead against Birch’s and laughed, relieved that at least something wasn’t going to be a battle. Birch laughed with him.

  “I thought things were going a little too well. Then I thought, nah, I’m just that good,” Fang said. He could almost feel Birch’s lips curve into a smile.

  “I’m told Big Wei is furious. But don’t worry, all that silver’s going to good causes.”

  “Ranu’s gone into hiding and Jun looks like a wagon ran over him,” Fang said. “No one’s going out in groups of less than four. My men are waiting for a Society hit squad to come knocking — I guess it’s good luck that it started to rain.”

  Birch huffed a soft laugh. “You already beat most of our best black and blue.”

  It was too easy with that closeness to become even more aware of Birch — slim, powerful, stubborn. Fang cupped the back of his neck and tugged his head down to meet his, ending their shared mirth with a kiss. It was a risk, and not a calculated one. Unlike the last times, there were no alcohol or life and death circumstances to blame temporary madness on.

  After a second, Birch responded by relaxing into the kiss. It deepened from something sweet to something filthy and needy. Fang curled his fingers in Birch’s hair and stood so he could unsubtly guide Birch toward somewhere more comfortable. They blundered through twilight shadow into a low sofa. Birch fell back into it, breaking their kiss. In the amber light, his eyes and mouth glittered like gold. Fang rested a knee on the sofa and went in for another kiss, pushing Birch back until he caught Fang by the hips and half pulled him onto his lap instead.

  “Maybe don’t pin me,” Birch suggested, breathing a little faster. “You’re kind of…”

  Fang looked down at him, then inexorably at his lips. An image of what he wanted to do with that mouth passed through his mind and he flushed, suddenly glad that Birch wouldn’t be able to tell.

  “The couch is a little narrow,” he said. Birch’s fingers kneaded his hips. Fang shifted restlessly; he leaned in for another kiss, and then added, “Let me take you to bed.”

  Birch’s breath was hot against his cheek. It hitched at the invitation. Fang rose, hand dropping from Birch’s shoulder to take his hand, unwilling to break the connection. Birch remained almost frozen, and Fang’s heart started to sink. He’d gone too far. Maybe it had only been a whim.

  Birch squeezed his hand tightly, almost painfully so, and stood. Fang dove in for another quick kiss to test his good fortune, then led him to the aired out bed, still faintly warm from the sun. It was easy to press him into the blankets and explore his mouth, like he’d finally received permission to do something he’d been waiting for his whole life.

  Outside, the sounds of rain doubled as the evening storm grew into its strength. The city took shelter in all its various forms, resting its usual rhythms.

  ⁂

  The next couple of weeks were almost magical; certainly more so than the inert piece of granite Red Hand fawned over back at headquarters. Fang teetered on the sharp edge of bliss and frustration. For every two steps forward with Birch, there was always one back. They stole hours of kissing, but for all that, Fang hadn’t even undressed him. The easy social nudity of baths and dressing evaporated in the heat of mutual desire. Birch had turned surprisingly shy.

  Fang had never brought himself off so many times in his life. It was like returning to the madness of boyhood, always finding excuses to be alone and furtively hiding what he was up to. But Birch cooled quickly when Fang was too open with his desire; he didn’t want to push his luck too far. He reminded himself to be patient each time Birch withdrew. Nothing would be gained from pushing.

  They’d had a hard night of drinking after one of Birch’s teams limped back, half of them dead after a bad tangle with Jun’s men. Birch was still asleep in Fang’s bed when the sun rose. Fang traced the line of Birch’s cheekbone lightly, aware of how his callused finger caught and dragged on the fine, smooth skin. Birch had stripped down to just drawstring trousers. The rising sun gilded him through the open window, and Fang marveled silently. He wanted badly to touch, but was afraid of breaking the moment. The only times he’d felt real fear, he realized, all involved Birch — from their young days all the way to today.

  Fang had done his best to shield Birch from every wicked twist of fate he could. For that, Fang had earned a reputation of being violent and willful. But Birch had been a small and beautiful child, and Fang had realized early on what that meant to a certain kind of person. Almost as offensive were the ranks of men and women waiting to care for Fang in return for whatever secrets they imagined his father had taught him. He’d been too young to be initiated into any mysteries; they were all invariably disappointed when he told them nothing.

  He took a deep breath. Those times were past. Birch was still beautiful, but there was nothing fragile about the man sprawled in his bed. He almost glowed. Fang was sure it was no mistake — he was the son of a priest, but Birch was the one who’d been most interested in his father’s teachings. If Red Hand hadn’t struck, Birch might’ve become a scholar or a sage. Now neither of them would ever know how things might have turned out.

  At least Birch had escaped so many of life’s scars. The visible ones, at least. Fang looked like a butcher’s block in comparison. He was rarely conscious of it; women had never needed much convincing to fall into his arms, but Birch was different. Fang felt compelled to seduce him, and there was very little beautiful in the angry knots of scar tissue Birch had already seen. It made Fang look incompetent — too slow or too stupid to avoid being hit. His fortune lately had been bad enough that he was even starting to doubt himself. Maybe his best days were behind him. Maybe he’d already hit the limits of his abilities. But an insecurity like that could only weaken him.

  Birch stretched and bumped into Fang. The sudden contact seemed to rouse Birch the rest of the way. He looked up at Fang, already alert for any mischief, but the hard edge faded quickly as he searched Fang’s face. Fang had to look away as he realized he’d left his feelings unguarded. It would only burden Birch.

  “What do you want to do when it’s all over?” Fang asked, silently willing Birch away from the topic of them.

  “When it’s over?” Birch sat up and swung his legs over the other side of the bed.

  Fang stole a glimpse of his bare back, of corded muscle flexing as he found his shirt from last night. He looked away again, quietly running a hand down his face as if to wipe away unwelcome thoughts.

  “I still don’t know,” Birch admitted. “Too many ideas. But it all depends on how the end game plays out. If this were a game of weiqi…” He shrugged. “We’re close to a stalemate, but Red Hand’s black pieces could still overwhelm us.” He walked into Fang’s bare larder and looked at the cobwebs stretched among the jars. “And then there you are, a piece who could be captured by either side.”

  That stung. “So that’s how it is,” Fang said.

  “Is it?” Birch closed the door on the sorry scene. There wasn’
t even so much as a handful of rice back there; it had all vanished during Fang’s time at the safe house. “I’d like to think we’re both on the same side. It’s natural to have reservations in the current circumstances, though.”

  “Is it?” Fang echoed. “You know I’ve dropped anchor in your harbor. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Birch turned to look at him again. Fang mastered his initial urge to bristle under Birch’s scrutiny, and only looked back, patient, waiting for his moment.

  “You make it difficult,” Birch said at last.

  Fang raised his eyebrows, inviting Birch to continue. He leaned back into the couch, arms resting along the back, legs spread, the most open body language he could project. There was nothing else he could do.

  “I’ve tried keeping my distance. Losing my family not once but twice almost ruined me. What if I lose you?” Birch’s steady gaze barely flickered. “If you fall, or worse, if you decide we’re not worth as much as what he offers, that would be it for me. I don’t know how many new beginnings I have left. I want to believe. I want what you’re offering me. It’s a huge leap, Fang. You’ve always been better at those than me.” He finally averted his eyes.

  Fang’s throat clicked as he dry swallowed, but he studied Birch, standing in the threshold between the kitchen and the sitting room, filling Fang’s small apartment with his presence. Birch was his lifeline to sanity, to a world beyond smuggling and murder. Imagining losing that was too easy. Fang already fought not to lose himself with the Four Winds. Doing his best at whatever task came before him was just his nature. He’d long since given up on doing anything else. That was what made him the perfect sleeper agent, the perfect piece to move close to Red Hand.