The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1)

by James Calbraith

  The Yamato boy looked nervously around before leading Bran into the litter. The dragon rider climbed in, bending his legs and back in a most uncomfortable position. The cloth cover fell down and he became enveloped in stuffy darkness, his legs cramped in the tight space. For a fleeting moment the curtain parted and the boy looked inside. He covered his mouth, then disappeared and it was blackness again.

  The litter rocked, heaved and rose up into the air. Bran found a horizontal slit in the curtain through which he could peep outside. He saw the bare back of one of the porters. It was the first time he had been in a vehicle not powered by magic, mechanics or animal muscles, but by a human being. The box hobbled out through the gate, out onto the cobbled streets of the city. He could see it for the first time in daylight, up close. He hoped they were taking him to Dejima at last, but he could not tell‌—‌by day, all the streets looked the same as well.

  The litter was‌—‌deliberately, he guessed‌—‌carried along the less attended alleyways at the backs of long wooden townhouses, shops and inns. There were mostly porters here, unloading their wares, store workers in blue jackets with large white Qin characters on their backs, merchants counting their stock, servants cleaning up the cobblestones and sweeping pavements. Some wore straw sandals or wooden clogs, but most walked around barefoot. The servants wore only loincloths, and scarves wrapped around their heads. It was a warm day and they did not seem at all uncomfortable.

  Bran quickly learned to recognise which of the people on the street were of a lower rank; they stood with their heads bowed down, or even prostrated themselves on the ground when the palanquin passed them by. Others paid no attention to him. There were nobles and commoners in his homeland, of course, and the divisions were stronger east of the Dyke, but even the Seaxe peasants were not obliged to kneel or fall face down in the dirt whenever a nobleman’s carriage passed by.

  As everything so far in this remarkable country, the city was immaculately clean, even in the back alleys. There were no unpleasant odours. Brigstow, he recalled, had stunk mostly of mistfire fumes and wyvern dung; Goa, the Vasconian outpost in Bharata, was filled with humid vapours from a nearby jungle and the salty odour of the open ocean. The aroma of Fan Yu was that of food, fried, dried, cooked in a myriad of ways, meat, fish and cabbage, mixed with the brackish smell of the waters of Pearl River, but Kiyō smelled only of the wood and stone of which it had been built.

  Sometimes, when a servant woman poured cold water onto the pavement before her store, a waft of fresh moistness entered the palanquin. Other times they passed a cherry tree still in bloom, sweetly fragrant. The whole neighbourhood around a tea store, before which the porters paused for a short rest, was infused with the bitter scent of the brew, but these were only brief accidental occurrences, pleasantly accentuating the freshness and spotlessness of the city. There was a bluish tint of sea mist and dew about everything, and the air was humid, although not as unpleasantly as in Goa or Éko. Seen from the roof, Kiyō sprawled vastly in all directions, an area as large as any city Bran had seen so far. On the street level the houses were all small and inexpensively built. They were delicate, thin-walled, more garden gazebos or elaborate sheds than sturdy homes of stone or bales. This was a city built to a human scale, with convenience rather than boastfulness in mind. There were no excessive noises, no vehicles or mounts‌—‌everyone moved about on foot. People passed each other in polite silence, only the street vendors cried out advertising their colourful stands.

  The palanquin stopped abruptly. There was some commotion outside. Bran peeped through the slit carefully. They were on a broader street now, leading uphill. The doors here were wide open, he saw people sitting inside, chatting and drinking. The aroma of alcohol and tobacco lingered faintly in the air. Two men were standing in the middle of the road shouting and pointing at each other, their faces fierce and flushed red. They were both wearing dark, sleeveless vest-like tunics with prominent shoulders, embroidered with circular crests, and the pleated skirts with which Bran was already familiar. They wore tight topknots on top of neatly combed heads. Each had two, long straight swords in plain black scabbards stuck into their sashes. The passers-by stopped, observing the scene from a safe distance.

  In the blink of an eye, one of the men drew his sword and cut across the other’s chest. Blood spurted in a wide crimson stream. The victim staggered back, trying yet to draw his own sword for a second then fell, thrashing briefly in death throes.

  The first warrior grunted, satisfied with the result, put the sword back into the sheath and drunkenly swayed back into the establishment from which he had emerged. The crowd moved on, unperturbed. A pool of blood blossomed on the clean sand. A couple of servants came out of the inn to take the slain man off the road. Bran’s palanquin carriers also lifted the vehicle and passed by the body as if nothing had happened.

  Bran’s fingers let go of the slit in the curtain and he stared into the darkness of the palanquin blankly. This was not just another drunken brawl‌—‌having spent time in harbours all over the world by now, Bran had seen what sailors and soldiers would get up to when they had consumed too much rum. This was a murder‌—‌no, an execution, swift, cold death…

  The vehicle left the shadows of the backstreets and emerged onto a broad avenue lined with trees‌—‌weeping cherries no longer in bloom, but not yet green. The crowds were thicker here. He spotted a few palanquins, but mostly men on foot, wearing the same style clothes as the two drunken brawlers. They were all carrying swords, sometimes with a second shorter sword beside them. Women accompanied them in long flowery robes, bound with wide sashes. Some covered their heads under hoods, walking slowly and majestically behind the men, always silent; others showed off intricate hairstyles and gaudy make-up, and accompanied the men side by side, laughing and flirting. A multitude of children and babies, half-naked or naked, raced all over the thoroughfare undisturbed. Commoners mingled among the crowds wearing straw, mushroom-shaped hats, simple cotton coats and knee-length pantaloons.

  The carriers paused and, encouraging themselves with a shout, heaved the litter higher above their shoulders. They started to climb a large set of stone stairs lined with lanterns and trees. Two great slim pillars of granite, connected with a double crossbeam slab, formed an entrance to this stairway. This was not the way to Dejima, Bran guessed‌—‌he remembered no hill between the infirmary and the sea.

  After a long climb, the palanquin passed through a richly decorated gateway onto a lush garden courtyard surrounded by low wooden buildings, the roofs tiled grey, gables undulating softly like sea waves. The trees here were sprouting fresh green buds. The grass was the colour of rich spring. Bran’s palanquin carriers moved deftly through the crowd of visitors, across a long and narrow pond, down a gravel path flanked by rose bushes, under another smaller gateway and onto another, empty courtyard. The litter stopped in front of a latticed doorway.

  Bran heard the porters dismissed by a familiar voice‌—‌the red-haired girl. When they had gone she unveiled the palanquin and helped him alight. Quickly, not giving him time to stretch his cramped limbs, she gestured him to take the sandals off and led him, barefoot, inside the wooden building. He walked through the labyrinth of narrow corridors, squeaking wooden floors and sliding doors. Finally they reached a small square room. She pointed to the door at the far end of the corridor.

  “Oyuu.”

  He nodded, already more than familiar with the Yamato word for bath. The girl waved her hands around the room. This was where he was supposed to live from now on. He nodded again and she smiled.

  He stepped inside and began to undo his sword belt. When he turned around, she had already gone.

  The room had a window overlooking the gardens and other buildings of the complex. He gathered he was either in some palace or a temple, as the layout and architecture were somewhat similar to the temples he had seen at Fan Yu. Round wooden pillars supported the roofs covered with long tiles of bluish stone, the eaves were ric
hly carved and gilded or painted with floral decorations. Perhaps a local noble desired to see him. At last he would speak to someone of authority.

  He breathed in the fresh air with a still lingering aroma of cherry blossom, so delightful and easy on his lungs after an hour spent in the stuffy interior of the palanquin. A stream trickled across the meadow lined with white-blooming magnolias, and birds chirped in the trees. The sun was some three-quarters down on its way towards the western horizon.

  Bran stretched, yawned and looked around his room. There was a small cupboard under one of the walls, with a clay pot and a cup. One of the walls slid away to reveal a wardrobe with a rolled-up mattress and bed linen. A narrow strip of paper hung on the opposite side, with a sublime painting of a kingfisher perched on a branch, in black ink. This was all the furniture in the room, yet somehow it seemed just right, as if adding anything, another table, another cupboard, another pillow, would break the invisible harmony. Bran realised the lack of furnishings was not a result of austerity, but a deliberate choice. Like the city below, this room was built with nothing but the convenience and inner peace of the guests in mind.

  There was a knock on the door. He opened it and saw a girl he hadn’t seen before, in the same white and vermillion outfit he had seen the red-head wearing.

  “Dōzo.”

  She gestured towards the end of the corridor. He smiled and nodded, but she did not smile back. Her eyes were milky-white.

  CHAPTER XV

  Tokojiro poured himself another cup of shōchū and gulped it down in one go. The warmth spread through his body. The liquor was poor, but cheap and strong, and this was all he needed.

  He picked up a thin brush, held it over a stained piece of paper then put it back onto the table. His mind was empty, unfocused, as it had been every day for the last few weeks. His work on the Seaxe grammar progressed ever more slowly until it halted. He could see no point in struggling with it anymore.

  Nobody in Kiyō needed a Seaxe interpreter. All the books and reports from abroad were written in or already translated into Bataavian. Study of other languages was forbidden. Tokojiro’s work was nothing but an expensive and exhausting hobby. He could not hope to ever sell his book, not as long as Yamato’s only contact with the outside world was through the narrow bridge to Dejima.

  Why had he allowed himself to be convinced by that strange barbarian to study the wretched language instead of Qinese or Bataavian like everyone else? What good was his knowledge now?

  He could curse at the owner of the inn in perfect Seaxe.

  “Damn you man, bring me more ale!” he yelled. “Don’t you understand? Of course you don’t. Nobody does. The nearest people who would understand me live three thousand ri across the Great Sea. Black Raven, where have you gone, eh?”

  He stood up and swayed. The innkeeper approached him cautiously.

  “What do you want?” Tokojiro reached for his sword. “You want to throw me out?”

  “Perhaps guest-sama would like to cool his head,” the innkeeper replied, bowing and pointing to the open door.

  “Cur! Knave! Rascal!”

  Tokojiro spewed more Seaxe obscenities. He wasn’t drunk enough not to see his presence at the inn was no longer welcome‌—‌not least because he had not paid yet for anything he had drunk since morning.

  The interpreter headed outside, but in the doorway bumped into a young bald priest.

  “Ah! A shaved head!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

  He tried to walk around the priest, but the youth stopped him and dragged him gently aside.

  “You must be Tokojiro-sama,” he whispered, “I was told I could find you here.”

  “You’re looking for me?” the interpreter cried out, but the priest’s hand on his mouth silenced him. “Looking for me?” he repeated, quietly. “I don’t recall borrowing anything from the shaved heads. Well, maybe that one time…”

  “Your talents and services are required at the Suwa Shrine. The High Priestess herself requests it.”

  “My services…?”

  It took Tokojiro a while to realise what the priest meant.

  “A Seaxe interpreter is needed urgently, although I suppose we can wait until you bathe yourself.”

  The priest sniffed in disgust.

  “Why are we whispering?”

  “The High Priestess counts on your loyalty and discretion. Remember how we helped you after Black Raven’s disappearance?”

  “You don’t need to remind me.” Tokojiro straightened himself, trying to recover some of his dignity. “I will come at once.”

  “The High Priestess awaits you in her quarters. Make sure you look… presentable.”

  Lady Kazuko’s audience chamber was known as the “Crane Room” and it was easy to see why. Its walls were covered with white paper and adorned with paintings of cranes, in black and red ink, standing amidst a winter garden. A low table made from a heavy slab of dark wood, carved intricately with serpentine coils of Qin dragons, stood in the middle. Lady Kazuko was sitting at one end in an official robe of yellow and emerald, with a chain of gold and jade around her neck and a flower ornament in her greying hair tied in a bun.

  Tokojiro wore the best clothes he could find; a long, tan pleated hakama skirt and brown cloak embroidered with white flower crests on the shoulders. He had his two swords at his side. It was important to him to show that he still had both of them, that he did not yet fall low enough to pawn his weapons for saké. His long narrow face was shaven smoothly for the first time in weeks, and his hair tied neatly.

  This was his moment.

  “The boy is a castaway,” Lady Kazuko explained, after swearing Tokojiro to secrecy at the shrine’s altar, “and speaks no Bataavian or Qin. I believe he speaks the language of your sensei, although I can’t be certain.”

  “Why hasn’t he been reported to the authorities yet?”

  “It is my decision and responsibility to conceal his presence. I hope that is answer enough.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let him in,” the priestess commanded loudly.

  The door to the Crane Room slid open, and in came a boy, black-haired and green-eyed, slightly scared, wearing a dark purple kimono.

  “Good morning, Sir,” the interpreter said as he stood up and bowed. “I am Namikoshi Tokojiro, and I will attempt to translate your words to Yamato, and Lady Kazuko’s to Seaxe. Please excuse any faults in my speech.”

  He looked at the boy expectantly. What if he got it wrong? It had been so long since he had practised the language with a native speaker… The boy let out a sigh of relief and bowed back stiffly.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Sir, my name is Bran ap Dylan.”

  It worked. He could still speak good Seaxe. Black Raven, wherever you are, I hope you’re proud.

  “I am the High Priestess of this shrine, the Suwa,” Lady Kazuko said, and waited for Tokojiro to translate. “First of all, are you well? Do you need anything urgently?”

  “I am fine, Lady,” the boy replied swiftly, “I have been well taken care of.”

  “No doubt you have many questions. I shall try to answer them for you and then ask a few of my own. How does that sound to you?”

  The boy agreed. Lady Kazuko smiled at him invitingly.

  “I… um,” he stumbled falteringly, before continuing. “That first house, with the infirmary‌—‌how did I get there?”

  “I only know what Nagomi told me‌—‌the copper-haired girl. She said you were seen brought down to a beach near Dejima on a beam of light‌—‌take it as you will. She and Satō then transported you to the Itō residence.”

  “Itō?”

  “Nagomi’s family. The nurse, Ine, is her older sister.”

  “Can’t I simply go to Dejima now and find myself a boat home?”

  “It’s not that easy,” Lady Kazuko said, shaking her head, “otherwise we’d have already arranged this. We really do not wish to keep you here against your will. There are no ocean-go
ing ships at Dejima at this time of year, and even if there were… The island is surrounded by a high wall, with only one Gate leading through it. It’s heavily guarded and everyone and everything coming in or out must be checked by the magistrate. Every foreigner on the island is listed and registered with the daimyo’s office. If an unknown Westerner was to appear out of nowhere, on Yamato side of the gate… A wizard, no less…!”

  “I’m not a wizard,” the boy protested, “just a dragon rider.”

  “A… a dragon?” Tokojiro hesitated. “I’m sorry, Sir, do you mean long‌—‌a Qin dragon or ryū‌—‌a Yamato one?”

  “I mean a Western dragon,” replied Bran.

  The interpreter paused, startled. A wizard, dragons? What mess am I getting myself into…?

  Nevertheless, he continued to translate the boy’s words.

  “I was told you can use magic,” the priestess said, surprised. “The lights you summoned last night…”

  “We are all taught a little of it and we can channel the power of our dragons… but a wizard is something completely different‌—‌they use elements to-”

  She raised her hand, smiling.

  “Forgive me, the intricacies of Western magic are beyond my understanding.”

  Tokojiro noticed she brushed over the mention of the dragon as if the boy said he was a cart driver. A dragon. Where is it now…?

  “The boy I’ve seen‌—‌he used magic…” the foreigner said.

  “Oh, there are some wizards in Kiyō!” The High Priestess nodded. “Satō’s father is one, for example. Because of our trade with the Bataavians and Qin we are not as wary of Westerners and their knowledge as the rest of the Empire.”

  He saw a frown pass the boy’s face at the mention of “the Empire”. He has no idea what this place is like. For his sake, I hope he never learns.

  “And yet I am not allowed to leave the walls of this precinct?”

  “It is illegal for any foreigners to be in Yamato without a permit and a state-appointed guardian. It wasn’t so bad a few years ago,” the priestess explained, “but now you’d probably just be killed straightaway. The streets are full of armed men who would cut you on sight. Even castaways are not exempt.”