Dragon by the Bay

by Garnett Elliott

  "Stop that. People will see."

  "I don't care."

  Carson tried to dissuade him from further recklessness as they marched towards Chinatown proper. Along Dupont Street, celebrations for the Year of the Tiger were already underway. People milled under the lanterns while gongs wailed and strings of firecrackers popped, flinging shreds of scorched paper. Amid the crowd, a group of performers lofted a silk dragon on poles, making it dance above delighted heads.

  Manny pushed through the throng. They reached an intersection of streets, and Carson felt a sudden swish of air. Something bright came tumbling out of the crowd towards him. He managed to jerk his head to one side as a knife whirled past. It struck the wooden lamppost behind him point-first, quivering. A red tassel trailed from the hilt.

  "You dare show your face."

  Now the crowd was melting away on all sides, a human tide receding. A dozen figures remained. Green Turbans, in their black changshans and jade skullcaps. Ruby lantern-light glowered off an unlikely assortment of hatchets, sabers, spears, and knives. At the group's vanguard stood Nine Serpents Hsien.

  Gongs and fireworks faded into silence.

  "You're too late," Manny said. "We've already returned Yin Mei Shen to her father. The Earth Dragon will sleep peaceably another forty years."

  Hsien's angular face shook from side to side. "There's still time to steal her back again. After we've taken care of you two fools. Make peace with your ancestors, Liang Man. You're a good fighter, but no match for all of us."

  Carson became acutely aware of the shotgun jammed behind his pants. A twist of the waist, a grab, and he could cut down enough Turbans to try and make a getaway. His hand edged towards the back of his coat …

  "Wrong!" cackled an old man's voice behind them. "Liang Man is more than a match. And he's not the only virtuous boxer in Chinatown."

  Wood creaked as great grand-uncle Wei, sitting cross-legged in a produce cart, wheeled himself up to the curb. Flanking the cart came two men. Carson recognized the leftmost as the one-legged beggar he'd seen in the alley, though now he walked with the aid of a crutch and a tall rattan staff. The other was rotund, bearded, and carried a heavy cleaver tucked beneath his leather apron.

  "Allow me to introduce Cripple Chou Fe and Butcher Cheng," Wei said.

  Hsien laughed. "All I see is a fat cook, an invalid, and a pig-chopper. So much for your 'virtuous boxers,' old man."

  "You misunderstand the true spirit of kuo shu," Manny said. "Humble origins don't mean a lack of skill."

  "Enough lectures." Hsien exhaled sharply and hooked the fingers of his strong hands into claws. The Green Turbans took this as a signal to charge.

  Carson whipped out the shotgun and steadied both barrels on his forearm. Hsien's eyes widened. He leapt up arrow-swift as Carson jerked the first trigger, jumping so high the lethal cloud of pellets tore into the Turban behind him. Before Carson could adjust his aim a second hatchet-man had come barreling forward, axe held high. Carson fired point blank. Shot gouged a bloody hole in the Turban's chest.

  Well and good, but there was no time to reload. A saber came whistling down towards his head. He thrust up the shotgun and checked the blade. Shock tore the weapon from his hand. He leapt backwards, defenseless.

  Snap. A sash whipped out and curled around the man's sword-arm. Manny yanked; the sabre went clanging to the ground. A calloused hand shoved Carson aside. It was Butcher Cheng, already swinging his cleaver at the newly-disarmed Turban. The heavy blade caught him on the base of the neck. Hot arterial blood sprayed, soaking Carson. A tasseled spear came thrusting at Cheng, who parried the shaft with his wrist, pivoted, and kicked his attacker high in the stomach. Ribs snapped.

  For a moment Carson felt safe as the trio of experienced fighters waded forward. Cripple Chou Fe swung his rattan staff one-handed, forearm wrapped around the shaft for extra leverage. He smacked a knife-wielding Turban on the temple, then shifted his weight by thrusting the staff down, leaning on it, and swinging his crutch for a follow-up. The surprise blow sent the Turban sprawling.

  Manny, meanwhile, leapt high and came down in the thick of the fight, a sash in either hand. Qi stiffened the cloth to razor-sharpness as he spun, a silk whirlwind slashing red furrows across faces and arms. He cut a path towards Nine Serpents, who seemed content to hang back and direct his men.

  Carson's moment of safety was short-lived. A Turban slipped around Cheng and headed straight for him, brandishing a ridiculous weapon. A pole split into three sections, connected by short lengths of chain. Ridiculous or not, Carson was unarmed. He took a step back and bumped into the lamppost. Something hard pressed against his spine. The hilt of the flying-knife.

  He groped for it, just as the Turban snapped one end of the pole at him. Carson ducked, jerked the knife free. The pole's other end came whirling out of nowhere and struck him on the jaw. A tooth cracked. Carson dropped to one knee, thrusting the knife out blindly. The blade met wet resistance. He'd stabbed his attacker in the stomach, but the Turban still had enough spirit to lean forward and wrap the flexible pole around his neck. The lacquered wood pressed against Carson's carotids, his windpipe, blocking blood and oxygen. Now his pulsing vision went gray around the corners, tinged with black. He did the only thing he could do; he grabbed the knife and ripped upwards. Something slick and pink spilled out over his hand to coil on the ground. The pressure against his neck slackened.

  With a groan, the Green Turban slumped sideways. Carson swayed to both feet, coughing, refusing to look at the mess he'd freed from the man's stomach. The three-section pole fell away with a clatter. He considered snatching it up and rearming, but no fresh enemies presented themselves.

  Now the numbers were tilting in their favor. Manny, Butcher Cheng, and Chou Fe approached Hsien from three directions, hewing through the remaining Green Turbans. Cheng reached him first. With a triumphant howl, he chopped the cleaver at Hsien's thigh. The heavy blade struck, but didn't cut. Cheng looked up, dumbfounded, and Hsien raked his hooked fingers across his chest, shredding through the leather apron and flesh underneath.

  Cheng stumbled backwards. A wounded Green Turban took the opportunity to thrust a saber through his back. The curved tip emerged from Cheng's breast. Despite the wound, he turned and made a final chop at his slayer's throat. A geyser of blood doused both men as they fell.

  Chou Fe loosed a war-whoop. He threw aside the crutch and balanced on his one foot, freeing both hands to bring the staff down in an overhead blow. The rattan splintered into fragments when it struck Hsien across the shoulders. Nine Serpents spun and kicked Chou Fe's good leg out from under him. He raised his foot for a head-stomp—

  Snap. Manny's sash snaked around his ankle. For a moment it looked like Hsien would be jerked off his feet, but he slashed through the silk with a knife-handed blow.

  Snap. The second sash whipped out to caress Hsien's cheek. Sparks flew from the contact. But Golden Bell proved stronger than Iron Cloth; Hsien shook off the blow and jabbed a pair of rigid fingers. Manny dodged aside in time to avoid having his larynx torn out.

  Carson remembered the extra shells in his pocket. He could end the fight now if he could find the shotgun … where had he dropped it? There. The stock protruded from under a fallen Turban. He wrestled it free and broke open the breech. Two shells of double-aught would put a stop to all this kuo sho nonsense.

  He hurried over to where Manny fought Nine Serpents. As he closed, the still-prone Chou thrust his crutch between Hsien's darting feet. Nine Serpents pitched forward. Manny caught him, bringing his knee up under his chin with an audible crack. Before Hsien could recover, Manny pinioned one of his arms. Chou grabbed him from the other side and did the same.

  "Yield," Manny said.

  Carson emphasized the point by shoving both barrels into Hsien's face. "No," Manny said, slapping the gun aside. "There's another way." He wrapped his free arm around the man's neck and grunted. Hsien kicked like someone being hanged.

  "Hardened skin o
r not," Manny said, "he still has to breathe."

  Ten seconds later Hsien's feet stopped dancing and his body went limp.

  "Is he …?" Carson said.

  Manny shook his head. "I still want that technique."

  He might've said more, but in the next moment a gust of wind came howling down the street, scattering lanterns and New Year's banners like jackstraws.

  "He comes!" shrieked Wei, behind them.

  "Who comes?" Carson said.

  He had his answer seconds later, when a lone figure floated down Clay Street some fifteen feet in midair. The savage winds bore Twin Fury Xue aloft. He bobbed like a leaf on a breeze, his golden robe and scarlet jacket fluttering. The wind's howl became a roar as he drew close. Carson watched, wanting to scurry away roach-like but unable to move, transfixed by the display of power. Xue settled to the ground a stone's throw away. Despite the perfection of his features Carson realized the man was a hunchback; his left shoulder protruded several inches above his right.

  "Now we're in real trouble," Manny said.

  Wei, wheeling his cart forward with gnarled hands, began a sing-song chant. Xue made a contemptuous gesture. A sudden squall blasted the cart, hurling Wei's body like a puppet. The old man skittered across the street and struck the curb with his shoulder.

  Not fully aware of what he was doing, Carson leveled the shotgun. Xue gestured again. When both hammers fell there was a whoosh rather than a bang, as tongues of blue flame leapt from the barrels and flared out along the breach. Carson dropped the gun like a live thing.

  "Wind and fire," Xue laughed. "When I finish with you two, you'll wish you were back in the pit keeping my Zhen bird company."

  He raised his arms above his head. A whirlwind-gust spiraled among the bodies of the fallen Green Turbans, lifted sand and grit from the street. Windows shattered. Carson clapped singed hands over his ears, to block out the unholy shrieking, but sand scoured at his eyes even after he shut them tight. All he could do was curl into a ball. There was a ripping sound, as he felt the seams of his abused coat parting. Wind pushed him flat. The coat tore free and flapped away.

  The winds died.

  He opened his eyes. The same tempest that had torn at his clothes had stripped the silk finery from Xue's body, leaving him nude and gleaming in the lamplight. Carson nearly choked when he saw the 'hump' on the immortal's shoulder wasn't a hump at all, but a head, covered with matted black hair. Eyes rolled in a bestial face as it glared out over Xue's shoulder. A half-formed mouth muttered obscenities. Part of a neck and clawed hand protruded as well, as if the conjoined form was trying to free itself.

  Manny whispered: "That's why he's called Twin Fury."

  Xue patted at the lumpen head. "You're the first mortals in a long while to get a glimpse of my brother. When I've finished stripping the flesh from your bones I'll feed him some."

  "Threats," Manny said, somehow managing not to avert his eyes. "Base talk."

  "Come forward, righteous boxer, and I'll show you how much is 'talk.'"

  Manny untied the final sash around his waist. A short distance away, Chou Fe had struggled up on his crutch and started to limp towards the immortal, his jaw set. Carson wondered what these Chinese were made of. How could they expect anything besides horrible death at the hands of Twin Fury Xue?

  He thrust his smarting fingers into his pocket and touched the coolness of the Spirit-Emulsion Pearl. A tasseled spear lay near his feet. He grabbed the weapon and almost immediately dropped it as pain shot through his burnt skin.

  Manny leapt with a fierce shout, closing the distance between him and Xue. His hands did the blurring trick. Out snapped the sash. Xue, moving even faster, caught the end and yanked. A hollow popping sound echoed over the street as Manny's right arm dislocated at the shoulder. Xue raised a clenched fist high over his head, ready to bring it down like a hammer.

  Carson hurled the spear.

  For someone who'd never touched a javelin before, he thought he made a decent cast. The spear-shaft arced true. Xue glanced at it, a breeze following his gaze. The breeze became a violent updraft, sending the weapon spinning hundreds of feet into the night sky. Xue uttered a tinkling laugh—

  Thwack.

  The Pearl struck him in the middle of the forehead. Carson had thrown it right after the spear. Xue blinked, momentarily dazed. Ashen-pale, Manny grimaced and thrust out with his left hand. The Thunder-Pealing Palm caught Xue flush on his naked chest. He shot backwards into the brick wall of a storefront, his brother's head absorbing the brunt of the impact.

  "The banner," Chou Fe shouted. "Use the banner."

  Manny followed his pointing crutch. Between him and Xue lay one of the scarlet New Year's banners, twisted in a heap. Still grimacing, he stooped and snatched it up. His right arm hung limp as he twirled in a small circle, the banner flaring outwards until snap, it became rigid with qi, a six-foot blade of fabric. He swung it into Xue.

  The banner sheared through porcelain flesh, nearly severing the immortal's head at the shoulder. Quicksilver, not blood, spurted from the terrible wound. Xue's head slumped, held on by a single strand of trapezius muscle. But his eyes remained open. His arms reached up with superhuman vitality and steadied the head. Then he ran, backwards, his brother's vision directing them both as they sped down Clay Street and out of sight.

  "Sweet Jesus," Carson breathed.

  No one had the strength to pursue. Carson and Chou helped Manny sit down, before Carson went over to where Wei sprawled. The old man was still breathing. A gentle shake brought him around. His rheumy eyes searched up and down the street. "What happened to Xue?"

  Carson told him.

  Wei exploded with phlegm-flinging laughter. "I'll be damned. I'd figured we were all cooked chickens. A xian bested in combat. Never thought I'd live long enough to see that."

  "It wouldn't have happened without your help. Which reminds me …"

  Carson searched the street for several minutes, before coming back with the Spirit-Emulsion Pearl. He placed the clouded pebble in Wei's hand.

  "Thanks for that. It turned out to be as powerful as you said."

  "This?" Wei tossed the Pearl over his shoulder. "I was having fun with you, going on about all that 'semen from Heaven' crap. It is just a rock."

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Damndest party I ever saw," said Constance Perine.

  She'd closed the telegraph office early, and against her better judgment allowed a trio of Chinese as private guests. They'd brought along dumplings, fried noodles, and ceramic pots full of plum wine, this last diminishing some of the tension between East and West.

  "I'm losing good money on this shindig," she reminded Carson.

  "I've got something that'll make it up to you, sweetheart. Chinatown's still a little too ornery for my friends to throw a proper celebration."

  Cripple Chou Fe and great-granduncle Wei, both bandaged like mummies, lazed on the camel hair settee, attended by Pearl, who'd changed into a red silk cheongsam for the occasion. Manny sat nearby, his face flushed and his right arm bound in a sling. They were all playing a drinking game called "Finger Guessing," which seemed to involve a lot of hand-waving and shouting. Every now and then Manny's face would grow somber, and he'd call a toast to honor Butcher Cheng.

  "Are you going to tell me what the hell happened with that blonde?" Constance said, watching the merrymaking with disapproval. Her mood was actually better than it should've been, on account that Anna had returned the previous night, a bruise on her forehead and some wild story about almost marrying a Russian dignitary. Constance wasn't buying it.

  "I'll tell you everything," Carson said. "In the boudoir."

  Some of the scowl left her face.

  She hurried him up the steps and through the kitchen, where Anna was inhaling a plate of lo mein. "Mind your figure, girl," Constance warned. She nearly shoved Carson through the doorway into the bedroom.

  "Slow down. We've got all night."

  "Promises, promises."


  She locked the door behind them. Carson loosened his bowtie, a task made difficult by bandaged fingers. He was thinking of the spectacle he'd witnessed earlier that day, while recovering from the fight in the tumbled remains of Wei's apothecary. A raven-haired Spanish beauty had come stalking down Clay Street. Well-heeled, by the looks of her, and what was stranger, she had been asking every passerby about the whereabouts of "Mr. Xue," growing angrier with each mute response. What had that been all about?

  Ah, well. He'd plumbed enough mysteries for the time being.

  Constance wasted no time shrugging down to her bloomers. She perched herself on the edge of the bed.

  "Don't you want to know what happened?" Carson said.

  "We can talk about it afterwards."

  "Let me just lay out the bones of the story, first."

  He told her everything. The Dragon Palace in the bay, the three sisters, the wild battle with Twin Fury and Hsien, everything. Constance just smirked.

  "I saw some strange things down there, beneath Chinatown," she said, "but you're out of your head if you think I'd believe all that."

  "Would you believe this?" He fished a lustrous black pearl from his pocket, big as a quail's egg. "It's for you. I think that should cover the fifteen dollars I owe."

  "Carson … where in all of Creation did you find this?" She'd seemed to have forgotten about the physical act. For once.

  "Nicked it on the way out of the Dragon's palace, when Manny wasn't looking." He didn't add he had four more in his pocket, all larger.

  "But—if what you told me was true, won't that dragon be mad when he finds this missing?"

  Carson shrugged. "Wei thinks he already woke up and went back to sleep. Should be another forty years until he hears the rooster crow again."

  "Forty years. That'll be 1906. Think you'll still be in San Francisco by then?"

  He smiled. "A man like me? Darling, not even Heaven knows the answer to that."