by Fonda Lee
Lan dropped a strong hint of reproof into his voice. “I’m not seeking an advantage for No Peak. Any law the council passes regarding the KJA would apply equally to my clan as it would to Ayt Madashi’s.” He leaned forward so his elbows rested on Son’s desk. The motion tugged up his shirt sleeves, and for a second the chancellor’s eyes flicked down to the glimpse of the jade-studded cuffs on Lan’s forearms. “Jade is our national resource; it should never be controlled by any one person or group. There needs to be a balance of power.”
Chancellor Son scratched the side of his face and said thoughtfully, “It would be difficult to word such a law to prevent circumvention. A determined party could work through subsidiaries or intermediaries to gain a controlling interest.”
“I’m sure the government has clever people who could figure it out.” Lan relaxed his tone, realizing with satisfaction that they were moving from the if into the how. “Trigger an automatic redistribution of ownership among the other shareholders if any one clan and its affiliates reaches a forty-five percent ownership threshold. Or create a provision that nationalizes the KJA if it falls under single-clan control. I don’t think there would ever be need to take such an extreme measure,” Lan added, upon seeing the chancellor’s incredulous expression, “but it would dissuade any clan from thinking it can control the country’s jade by eliminating rivals.”
Son breathed out heavily through his nose and drummed his sausage fingers on the desk. “A law isn’t made and enacted by magic or by my will alone, of course,” he said with a smile. “It would need to pass the Royal Council; for that, we would need the support of every No Peak–affiliated member and nearly all the independents.”
“It’s a good thing, then,” said Lan with an equally meaningful smile, “that I came directly to someone whose friendship to the clan is so old and strong. A man who has the influence to make these things happen.”
The chancellor grunted and gave a little wave of his hand but looked pleased. Before entering political life, Son Tomarho had been a reasonably wealthy Lantern Man in the No Peak clan. His daughters now ran the family textile business and still paid their clan tributes in the proper amounts and on time. Son was the highest No Peak man in government; everyone knew that. Nearly all the councilmen and their staff in Wisdom Hall were affiliated with one of the Green Bone clans; the council treasurer, in the office down the hall from Son, was a well-known Mountain loyalist.
Gold and jade, never together, Lan’s father had told him more than twenty-five years ago. The axiom had not turned out to be as simple as that. After the war, the Green Bones, led by the examples of Kaul Sen and Ayt Yu, had indeed faithfully acted in accordance with aisho, eschewing political power and retiring to private life. But they were out of the shadows for good. They no longer hid and trained in the mountains, but lived openly in the cities they’d fought to liberate. In the years of postwar chaos and rapid growth, the common people continued to look to them for protection and favors just as they had under decades of oppressive foreign rule, and they provided it. Their secret network of affiliates—the Lantern Men—became a vehicle for business instead of war. They wielded influence and granted appointments and contracts to comrades and loyal allies from the occupation days. Those that the Shotarians had branded as criminals had become the ruling class of the island. And while not formally a part of the Kekonese government, the clans were so enmeshed in its workings that the two had become, in many ways, indistinguishable.
It was why, coming to this meeting, Lan had had no doubt of its eventual outcome—Son Tomarho would do as Lan had asked. It was only a matter of how quickly, how enthusiastically, and at what price. Now the chancellor sat back and said, with the practiced friendliness of a senior statesmen, “Kaul-jen, you know me. I want what’s best for the country, and I agree with you one hundred percent. We are in full accord on this issue. But I anticipate that it might be difficult to get all the votes we need. Loyal to the clan as they may be, some of the councilmen would be wary of publicly supporting something that appears to deliberately single out the Mountain’s behavior. It would be much easier to garner support for your proposal if the clan gave some sign that it was eager to take other substantial steps in the public interest.”
“Didn’t we agree that creating this law is itself a large step in the public interest?” Of course, Lan had anticipated that Son would push for more, but secretly, he was annoyed all the same. The chancellor ought to realize that protecting the KJA from one-clan rule was within his civic duty to pursue regardless of whether No Peak granted him other patronage requests. But Lantern Man habits died hard.
“We did, we did,” Son conceded amiably, “but the common citizens also have more immediate, more tangible concerns. The smooth functioning of our city port, for example. As you surely know, there was a workers’ strike in the Docks some months ago that dragged on to the city’s detriment. My family and several others asked for assistance from the Horn of No Peak but were, unfortunately, not granted it.”
“I leave the Horn’s decisions to the Horn,” Lan said, “and in this specific case, I agree with his judgment.” The Son family and other Lantern Man petitioners had wanted Hilo to send his men to intimidate the union bosses and break up their gatherings, rough folks up if needed, force them back to work. Hilo had snorted. “What do they think we are? Hired thugs?” The workers in the Docks were No Peak constituents, too. The union bosses paid tribute. Lan had been impressed by his brother that time. Hilo was never hesitant to show force, but at least he was calculating about it, and he knew not to let Lantern Men think they could get away with asking for too much.
Now, though, Lan needed Son’s cooperation, so he said, “I appreciate your concerns and understand the burden it must have been to take those business losses. I’m sure there’s something we can do to ease the strain. The Weather Man is especially busy these days, so I’ll ask Woon-jen to make sure this is prioritized.”
In saying this, Lan communicated that he was giving Woon permission to speak. As was expected of any subordinate member of the clan in this situation, he had remained entirely silent as the Pillar alone did the talking, betraying no emotion but carefully observing the opposing party so he could later corroborate or dispel his boss’s impressions. Now, though, the Pillarman leaned forward and Lan waited, with some nervousness, to see how his test would go.
Woon said, “Chancellor, I understand that some industries, textile and garments for example, are facing stiff competition from foreign imports. Perhaps a clan-enforced tariff at point of entry would help level the playing field for our Kekonese producers?”
Lan was pleased. It was a good thing to offer: Increasing dock taxes on imported foreign textiles would bring in revenue for the clan, would be fairly easy to implement and enforce, and would benefit the Son family’s business handsomely without granting too much for nothing to other Lantern Men. The chancellor was pretending to ponder Woon’s words, but Lan could see the satisfied smile he was holding in check. “Yes, that would indeed be beneficial.”
Lan stood up, straightening his cuffs. “We’re agreed, then.”
The chancellor heaved himself to his feet and walked them to the door of his office. “Your grandfather—may he live three hundred years—how is he these days, Kaul-jen?”
“Sadly, age steals from all of us eventually, even Green Bones,” Lan said mildly, recognizing the seemingly considerate question for what it was: a prying into how much Kaul Sen still ran No Peak from behind his grandson. Son wanted to know if he could count on the agreements he’d made with Lan to be the final word from the clan. “My grandfather is not his old self, but he is still well, and enjoying his much-deserved retirement.”
Son touched his soft, meaty hands to his forehead in salute.
CHAPTER
15
A Bargain with Demons
Outside the warehouse stood a dozen souped-up Torroyo motorcycles in the garish neon shades preferred by Janloon’s northside bikers: violen
t red, lime green, electric blue. Hilo paused to admire a couple of them, patting the contoured leather seat of a particularly striking vehicle, bending to examine the gleaming engine and peering briefly over the dash before continuing on to the aluminum door of the repurposed building, which vibrated with the pounding bass of loud music.
With him were Maik Tar and two senior Fingers that Hilo hoped to soon promote to Fists: The clever but slightly pudgy and unassuming Obu had better Deflection than anyone Hilo had ever met, but needed to learn how to command if he was to advance; the other Finger, Iyn, had no especially superlative jade talent, but like many female Green Bones, particularly on the Horn’s side of the clan, she was accustomed to working harder than her male counterparts, which Hilo appreciated. Iyn Ro and Maik Tar had an on-again, off-again relationship, which was currently off; they were too similar, and as lovers, they fought like cats.
The four Green Bones strode into the motorcycle gang’s headquarters. Roughly twenty bikers, almost all between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five, were sprawled on battered old sofas, drinking and smoking, some shooting pool, a few watching television. Three men were openly counting a pile of money in one corner. Hilo looked around with interest. As far as gangs in the Coinwash district went, the Chrome Demons maintained one of the better equipped and appointed abodes, with relatively less filth, vermin, and drugged indolence.
All eyes turned to the intruders. A second later, every member of the Chrome Demons was on his feet, hands going for guns and knives and whatever other weapons were on hand: bottles, pool cues. The trio of men in the corner jumped up and tried, amusingly, to hide the large stack of money behind them.
Tar shouted, “Listen up, curs!” Someone shut off the music.
“Who owns the beautiful fire-red Torroyo RP550 out front?” Hilo asked.
“I do,” came a reply from the back of the room. A surly man stepped forward. He was heavily built and, typical for his gang, wore a leather jacket with the sleeves sliced into tatters. His thick hair was styled into two stiff and vaguely phallic humps on his head. He appeared a few years older than most of the youths around him, and Hilo deduced from his superior vehicle and his authoritative swagger that he was the leader of this cell of Demons.
“What do you value more, your face or your bike?” Hilo asked him.
“What?” growled the man uncomprehendingly.
“Your face or your bike,” Hilo repeated. “Which would you choose?”
The man’s eyes flicked down to the jade studs visible across Hilo’s collarbone, and then over at Maik, Obu, and Iyn. “My face,” he said hesitantly.
Instantly, Hilo struck him, breaking his nose. The man fell back, eyes streaming, stunned with pain; he hadn’t even had time to raise his hands in defense. A few of the younger Demons, who were less wise to the world, made sudden moves to unload their pistols, but before a single shot could be fired, Obu flung a Deflection that hurled every member of the gang back against the walls and caused the sofas and heavy pool table to skid out of place.
As the Chrome Demons staggered back to their feet, Hilo said reasonably, “We’ve heard many complaints about the noise and disorderliness of street racing in this neighborhood. Also the number of robberies is getting out of hand. It’s obvious from such fine rides parked outside that the Chrome Demons are not short on money. So it’s only fair you criminals should pay tribute to the clan that takes care of the law-abiding people you so carelessly inconvenience.”
As Hilo spoke, Iyn walked the warehouse floor with a large canvas bag, collecting the ample pile of cash from the back table and confiscating guns with businesslike efficiency. With Maik and Obu watching every move, no one dared to put up an additional fight. The Chrome Demons were a rough lot, with street-hardened, tattooed, glowering killers among them, but many of them rapidly handed over their weapons and money in resignation; they’d obviously been fined by Green Bones before and understood that they were guaranteed to get out alive if they cooperated and guaranteed not to if they didn’t. Clan oversight over every aspect of society, including crime, was largely accepted as part of life in Janloon. One foolish man leered at Iyn, but she turned such an eagerly murderous look on him that he stopped contritely and emptied his pockets before she could break any of his bones. Hilo was pleased with both of his Fingers; so far they had taken their cues from him and applied the proper amount of force. Neither had overreacted, yet no one in the room questioned they would shed blood without hesitation. It was a tricky balance that a Green Bone had to strike.
Iyn came back and set the bag of weapons and money on the ground at Hilo’s feet. “Normally,” he said, “I would take your ill-acquired gains and leave you with the warning that if I heard more complaints I would send you and your bikes to the bottom of the harbor. But that’s something I could’ve sent any of my Fists to do. It’s not why I’m here.”
“Why the fuck are you here?” slurred the leader, holding his face.
“Good of you to ask,” said Hilo. “You know of Three-Fingered Gee?”
“Gee’s dead,” someone in the room called out.
“Feeding the worms,” Hilo agreed. “The man who killed him works for the Mountain. I’m sure of it, but I want to know how. I want to know what he’s doing and who he’s working with. A lot of this”—Hilo nudged the sack of money and guns with his foot—“comes from the brewing and selling of street shine to jade thieves and smugglers. The sort of folks that buy and trade with black market carvers like Tem Ben. So here’s my offer: Follow your contacts. Your thieves and pickpockets, your shine dealers and pimps. Do it quietly. Find me Tem Ben and as many of those who work with him as you can, and I’ll walk out, leaving this bag on the floor.” Hilo turned his hands up and gestured magnanimously around the disordered warehouse. “Obu, Iyn, and Maik Tar will come back expecting news, but you won’t see me again so long as you don’t cause any more trouble in No Peak territory. What you do or take from across the border, however—in Fishtown or the Stump—that, I’m willing to overlook.”
There was a pregnant silence punctuated by murmuring shuffles. The Horn of No Peak had, with certain caveats, essentially given the Chrome Demons a free pass. A reprieve from clan repression and taxation in exchange for information, and he’d all but encouraged them to wreak havoc in Mountain territory and steal back across to Coinwash without repercussion if they could get away with it. The men in the warehouse shifted with dubious excitement; the Horn must be angry indeed. Clan war might spell opportunity.
“We should agree, Okan,” one of the younger bikers said in an eager whisper to the leader, who was staunching his bleeding nose with his shirt.
“I’ll decide what we do,” Okan snarled at the youth, evidently trying to reassert his severely diminished authority. He turned back around and frowned fearsomely at the intrusive Green Bones but did not quite meet their eyes, staring instead at the bag between the Horn’s feet. The man had no jade aura, of course, but Hilo could still Perceive the tension in him clearly: humiliation and pain, warring with the growing sullen awareness that he was being offered something he would be deeply foolish to refuse. At last he said, “So do we get a cut when you take out Tem Ben and the Mountain’s people?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hilo said sharply, and the easy manner that he’d displayed thus far vanished so quickly that everyone in the warehouse, even Hilo’s own people, flinched at the change. “That’s clan business. You find me Tem and tell me about his activities and connections, but what happens after that is between Green Bones. I’m putting you in a better spot than the Reds or the Seven Ones or any of the other gangs. You abuse my generous nature on No Peak ground and I’ll find out, and gods help you. Now tell me your answer.”
Okan mumbled, “All right; we understand each other. We agree.”
“That’s ‘Yes, Kaul-jen,’ and kneel when you pledge your word to the Horn, you dog,” said Maik Tar angrily. Hilo thought that last bit was unnecessary; the gang leader was already resentful and c
owed enough, and as much as Hilo appreciated the younger Maik’s fervent nature, Tar’s excitable cruelty detracted rather than added to the impact of the Horn’s words.
Hilo said nothing, making a mental note to himself to correct Tar later. Instead, he picked up the canvas bag at his feet and held it back out to Okan with an air of mild ceremony, symbolically restoring enough of the man’s lost respect that he was reasonably confident the rest of the gang would abide by the agreement reached tonight.
The leader of the Chrome Demons, still seething, knelt in front of Hilo on the concrete floor of the warehouse and raised his hands in a salute.
CHAPTER
16
The Jade Mine
Shae paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead. The Espenian city of Windton where she’d attended business school had been an arid, high-altitude place surrounded by prairie farmland and heavy manufacturing. She’d hated the bitterly cold, howling foreign winters, but now she found the oppressive humidity of Kekon’s mountainous interior difficult to adjust to. Despite the brief downpour the night before, here on the southern side of the island, this was already considered dry season. At the height of the spring blossom rains, torrential downpours washed out the roads and shut down the area entirely.
The mine site office was a short but steep walk up a muddy path from where the driver had parked the coughing, rusted truck on a gravel lot next to two dirt-encrusted excavators. Each step in Shae’s two-day journey had been taken by progressively slower means: first, the city subway to Grand Island Station, then the long bus ride out of Janloon to the predominantly Abukei town of Pula, then the hired truck, and now the last bit covered on foot, each squelching step taking her a little closer to the source of jade itself.
The canopy of green overhead filtered the sunlight that cut through the high branches in bright shafts. The chittering of birds and the occasional hoot of a monkey reminded her of how vibrant and alive the forest was, and despite the fact that her shirt clung unpleasantly to her skin and beads of sweat ran down between her breasts and made her itch, Shae felt happy to have agreed to Lan’s request after all. Janloon was a study in contradictions that could befuddle even someone born there: a bubbling, dirty stew and a modern, glamorous metropolis at the same time, a place overly conscious of trying to be a world-class city, despite being at its core a system of clan fiefdoms.