“You squeezed it too hard and it snapped, that’s all.”
Stupid boy. The training mugs were quite expensive, having been imbued with four elemental runes at the bottom to make the exercise easier. The shards of the cup she picked up weren’t even warm.
“You lie!” the boy shouted.
Satō looked at him sternly. Even Shōin turned serious.
“You shouldn’t say that to the sensei,” the merchant’s son said.
“Or what?” Keinosuke stood up, clutching his bleeding hand. “I know your lies and secrets, sensei, and you can’t do anything about it!”
Here we go.
“Be quiet, boy.”
“I won’t! You can’t make me! I’m a samurai and you’re just a girl!”
“You’re not a samurai yet. You’re just a spoiled brat.”
“I could cut your head off for this!”
I’d like to see you try.
“Shōin, the lesson is over,” she said, standing up, “please leave us.”
The boy swiftly picked up his belongings and made for the door. He turned around before leaving.
“Same time next week, sensei?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Satō said, not looking in his direction, as she was concentrating on Keinosuke’s arrogant burning eyes.
Shōin stepped outside and slid the door behind him.
“You have something to say, apart from insults, Keinosuke?” she asked when they were alone.
“I lost a coat two nights ago. I would like to have it back, sensei.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“It was black and white with the crest of my clan. I lost it near the Sōfukuji Temple. I thought you might have seen it, it wasn’t far from the Itō house.”
“Little boys should not wander around the town at night.”
“Daughters of disfavoured samurai should not become acquainted with criminals.”
How does he even know so much about politics? What has his father been telling him?
“Mind your words, boy. I don’t know anything about your coat or any criminals hiding in the night. What is it exactly that you want from me?”
Keinosuke smiled mischievously.
“I would like to read about dragons. If you were bring me a book I could forget all about the coat, or how I came to lose it.”
This was too much for Satō to bear. She would not let herself be blackmailed by anyone, especially this boy. She drew her sword and invoked the Power of flame. This wasn’t her affiliated element, but she felt ice or water would not be dramatic enough to make a lasting impression. She wrote a Bataavian fire rune in the air. A barrier of flames rose around the boy, who had lost all his smugness.
“I am the heir of the Takashima Dōjō, I wield the power of Rangaku, I command the elements!” she cried in her best theatrical voice—she adored the theatre and often sneaked herself into the performances. “I will not be threatened by little boys!”
Keinosuke turned pale and instinctively reached for the dagger at his belt. Satō flicked her sword, and a tongue of flame licked the tip of the dagger’s hilt. Keinosuke yowled as his hand got burned.
“You’re heir of nothing! You’re a girl! You’ll never be allowed to inherit anything!”
Satō’s eyes narrowed. The wall of flame tightened around the boy, singeing his hair.
“You mad girl, that hurts!”
“It will hurt more if you don’t apologise.”
“What? I’ll never… Ow!”
“Apologise to your teacher!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” cried the boy, tears in his eyes.
Satō’s forehead trickled with sweat. This show of power was exhausting her.
“If you ever talk about this to anyone, these fires will devour your flesh. Even your old man can’t save you from the Curse of the Flames.”
There was no such spell, but she hoped the boy would never dared to check. She dispersed the fiery circles with a wave of her hand.
“Do not ever come here again, boy. Your lessons are over.”
Keinosuke picked up his books, his burned hand still trembling, tears of rage and fear trickling down his cheeks. As he reached the door he turned his head and seethed.
“You’ll regret this, Takashima Satō. One day I will gain power far greater than you or your father.”
When he had left, the girl sat down on the floor, breathing heavily. She reached for the remaining cup of ice-cold water and drank it in one gulp. She recalled all the inauspicious prophecies, omens and forebodings of the past months, and her father’s strange words. She was naïve to think she could handle this situation. With one word whispered to a willing ear, Keinosuke could easily bring doom upon the Takashima household, already in a precarious situation. Oh, why did the Gaikokujin have to wander outside in the dark! How thoughtless of that Ine to leave the door of her house unlocked!
Shūhan already had enough trouble on his shoulders. They were running out of money and the Taikun’s officials were coming to the end of their patience with his increasing connection to the Bataavians. There was already a faint rumour circulating about the conspiracy her father was a member of, not enough to act upon, but enough to grow suspicious. He was already in the court’s great disfavour—Satō dared not think what would have been the next step taken against the family if the rumour had grown any further.
She could almost see the thick dark clouds envelop her and her home.
The door to Satō’s room slid open noiselessly. Shūhan’s bare feet stepped quietly onto the straw mat. He looked at his daughter in the light of a small paper lantern. Satō had rolled off her futon onto the floor, arms and legs spread apart, her blanket kicked off in the corner.
Shūhan picked the blanket up and covered the girl. She stirred, but did not wake. He started to softly sing a lullaby.
“Nen, nen kororiyo, okororiyo…”
He couldn’t remember the rest of the words, so he put his hand on her head and gently ran his fingers through the girl’s short hair. It could be as beautiful as your mother’s, he thought, if only you’d let it grow…
The old wizard slid the door close and headed back to his room. He cast a guilty glance at a pot of cold chazuke—rice with tea broth and pickled plums. Satō worked hard to prepare his meals and he kept forgetting to eat them, too busy with his experiments and research.
A family shrine stood in the corner of the room. Shūhan opened the little black lacquer doors and lit a couple of incenses. The light of the lantern flickered playfully on the brass and golden ornaments, but the tiny figurine of the Butsu god seemed stern, serious. He began praying to the Spirits of his ancestors, silently, careful not to wake anyone.
By night the house seemed even more empty. Only his daughter and a few old servants remained in the great residence. The Takashimas had once been a rich and powerful family. Shūhan’s father had been a master of defences of the Kiyō harbour, dismissed after the Phaeton incident—getting into trouble with the government was becoming a family tradition… Now Satō was the last of the line—an heir to everything and nothing in particular; an empty house and a school without students.
“It’s a good thing you gave me no sons, dear.” He smiled bitterly as he prayed before the Spirit tablet representing his wife. “What kind of legacy would I give to a son?”
He was aware that several neighbouring families still hoped their sons would inherit the prestigious school through marriage to the master’s daughter, but that was different. Without the tainted Takashima name, the school could start again. Ever since Satō had turned twelve and was of engagement age, various relatives, friends and matchmakers had started to appear at the house with talk of marriage, suitors and courtship, but she would hear none of it. His daughter was satisfied with her life as it was. She was getting used to walking around the streets of Kiyō in male clothes, with her head held high, hair combed straight and simple. She had often told him she co
uld not bear the thought of having to follow some fool of a husband, with small steps enforced by her kimono tied just that little bit too tight as noble ladies did. Shūhan was willing to indulge her for a few more years. She would have to conform to what was expected of a Yamato woman eventually, but he was too soft-hearted to command her. Without his wife, he had no idea how to raise a daughter properly.
He would not yet consider adoption either, another common and obvious solution to the problem of inheritance.
“What is wrong with my son, Takashima-sama?” a proud parent would enquire when another supplicant for the legacy was refused. “Is he not the best of your pupils? You’re not getting any younger. It would be a shame if the school was to perish when you’re no longer with us.”
“If he defeats my daughter, he will be worthy,” had been Shūhan’s only response, and it was enough. None of his students matched Satō’s skill, raw talent, power and dedication.
“She has a rare gift, our girl,” the old wizard said, still kneeling before the family altar.
The Yamato people often lacked the innate talent needed to perform western magic with
ease, but Satō showed a remarkable natural aptitude.
“She will be far greater than me one day.” If she’s ever given a chance, he thought. “I did everything a mortal could to protect her,” he told the Spirit of his wife, “now it’s up to you. Please, keep an eye on our daughter.”
Shūhan bowed then closed the altar. One last time, he made sure all the traps and magic barriers he had set up throughout the house were in good order then went to sleep.
Satō entered the lecture hall and slipped past the small crowd of Rangaku scholars. In her usual black-vermillion Rangakusha attire, with the Matsubara sword stuck proudly in the sash, she could easily pass as one of them. They were all too focused on Grand Master Tanaka Hisashige’s speech to pay attention to her, anyway. Only one man cast her a curious glance. A Taikun spy, she thought, here to note who comes to the lecture.
Master Tanaka was a renowned expert on mistfire and enhanced hydraulics. He had come to Kiyō all the way from Saga to give the lecture, and Satō was happy her father had managed to obtain an entrance permit. The scientist read from a Bataavian book on engines and presented his famous masterpiece, the Myriad Year Clock.
The mechanism was a miraculous feat of engineering and magic, combining western technology and thaumaturgy with eastern geomancy and astrology. The mistfire-powered dials showed not only the precise time and date, days of the week, months and years, phases of the moon, times of sunrise and sunset, signs of the zodiac—both the yearly of the Qin and monthly of the Western Magi—but also the predicted elemental alignments for the day, geomantic measurements and a brief divination chart for the start of each week. Master Tanaka claimed he was planning on having the prophecies match in accuracy those produced by the shrine Scryers themselves.
“It is made of one thousand mechanical parts, bound by two hundred Words of Power. Eight elementals are trapped inside, and the mistfire engine inside is of my own design. It’s taken me three years to reach its current form, and I am now working on a second, even more precise, prototype.”
Eight elementals! Shūhan’s precious airguns contained only one Wind Spirit each. This was fantastically impressive machinery and Master Tanaka’s efforts were loudly fêted by the gathered Rangakusha. Satō sneaked forwards to touch the clock. She could feel the trapped elementals buzzing inside a case of brass and teak wood, the power of thaumaturgie binding the iron springs and copper tubes together—Grand Master Tanaka was one of only a few scholars in Yamato powerful enough and sufficiently familiar with this magic to use it. She could hear the tiny engine puffing away quietly in the middle of the clockwork, beyond the panels of glass and copper.
“Ah, you must be Shūhan’s heir,” the old scholar said, having noticed her among the other scholars.
“Yes Sir.”
“Too bad your father couldn’t make it. I really wanted to see him. Ah, but I do have something, will you give it to him from me?”
“Of course!”
The old mechanician reached deep into the wooden chest and took out a small bundle no bigger than a grown man’s hand. He unwrapped it carefully and showed the artefact to Satō.
It was a fingerless glove of thick brown leather, with a couple of gears, cranks and clockworks attached to it, a large dial on the outside and an oblong bulge on the inside. Satō could feel the binding enchantment buzzing throughout the mechanism.
“What… What is it?”
“Something I worked on with your father. This should help combining swordsmanship with Rangaku. I’m not a glover, so it may be a bit unwieldy…”
“But what does it do?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It does all sorts of things. This dial shows the life energy quotient, and into these gears below you compose a spell pattern… Your father will know what to do with it.”
“He will be very grateful.”
“Oh, and look out for this spring,” he added, pointing to the oblong bulge, “it pops out a needle conduit.”
Satō was appalled.
“Blood magic?”
“Your father’s request; I copied the design from an old Vasconian book.”
“I see. Thank you, Tanaka-sama.”
Satō bowed and pulled back into the crowd of scholars, each of whom wanted to have a chance at conversation with the celebrated mechanician.
“Fafnir the Green of Osning Forest was the Broodfather of the Forest races: the Viridians, the Celadons, the Verts and the Emeralds. These are robust practical races, beneficial for civilian labour, known for their reliability and stamina.”
A detailed ink drawing of a large green dorako in flight, hauling a huge load of stone on a platform tied under its belly, filled out a third of the page. The dragon’s wings moved slowly, and a man sitting on the stones waved to the reader merrily. Underneath, the black runes on a yellowed parchment spelled mysterious words with no apparent meaning. Even though Shūhan, unlike his daughter, had a cursory knowledge of Seaxe, the particular jargon in which the Dracology, Student’s Handbook had been written was hermetic and complicated.
Some fifteen years ago, Shūhan had bought a copy of an incomplete Seaxe wordbook from a Bataavian merchant for a hefty sum. The dictionary, written by someone called Medhurst, had lain unused on the upper shelf of the library until another smuggler had brought the enigmatic Dracology Handbook. It had taken the old wizard a while to recognise the language of the book and remember where he had hidden Medhurst’s piece. The dictionary itself was difficult to work with; its author seemed not to be aware the Yamato wrote in a vertical fashion, used only one of the three writing systems and was completely unfamiliar with the consonant markers or long vowels. Still, without the dictionary, the Handbook would have remained just an undecipherable set of runed pages bound in thick leather.
Always a regular person, Shūhan devoted every third day’s afternoon to his attempts at decoding the book. He knew Satō was also sometimes sneaking into the library to take a peek at the pages, but he didn’t mind as long as she put it back safely every time. It did spoil the surprise a little, as he planned the book as a gift for the girl’s eighteenth birthday next year, but he wanted to provide her with as complete a translation as he could manage.
It was the day of Grand Master Tanaka’s visit to Kiyō, and the wizard was all alone in the residence, apart from servants and guards. All his students and friends, including his daughter, had gone to see the great engineer’s famous Myriad Year Clock. Days like this were when the house arrest felt most inconvenient. Shūhan really wanted to see the wondrous machine for himself. On the other hand, he had an entire afternoon to work on the translation in peace and quiet.
He was stuck on a long, many-vowelled word that he could not find anywhere in the dictionary, when he heard a cracking and shattering noise coming from downstairs, as if somebody had broken through one of the thin pap
er walls. At first he thought one of his old servants was being particularly clumsy, but the sound repeated, accompanied by brief, but bloodcurdling, shrieks of pain. Shūhan stood up, alert, and reached for his sword. The house was under attack.
Too soon. She’s not ready yet.
The enemy, whoever it was, managed to scale the staircase in two great leaps. With a third leap, the assailant appeared in the doorway, sliding the delicate panel away with a force that made it break out from the grooves and fall to the floor with a loud crack.
“The barbarian,” seethed the man in the crimson robe, “where is he?”
She almost skipped along the way, like a child at play. The sun was shining brightly, warming her face in spite of the crispy, cold mid-spring air. Just a few white clouds were hanging over the horizon. Black kites and sea hawks screeched resolutely over the harbour as fishermen were returning with the first haul of the afternoon. The day couldn’t get any more perfect. Everything would work out, she told herself, she was sure of it.
She stopped by the Fukusaya bakery to buy a piece of moist castella cake then she remembered she was supposed to get some rubbing alcohol for the laboratory. She headed for the Itō house—the family of physicians held ample supplies of the medicinal preparation.
Satō turned in front of the Sōfukuji Temple onto a narrower lane leading up the hill to the Itō residence. The entrance door was wide open, but there was nobody in the vestibule. This was unusual. Satō immediately remembered her worries. Warily she went inside the house. A servant was lying in the entryway, his skull cracked on the wooden floor, bleeding. Satō knelt by his side.
“Save… Ine-sama…” the old man moaned.
Satō ran up to the first floor. All the thin sliding panel walls were shattered, all the rooms exposed. There was debris everywhere. Ine was lying against the wall, bruised but conscious.
Satō helped her to sit up. The woman looked at the girl with blurry eyes.
“What’s happened here?”
“There was a man here—a strange man. He was looking for the boy—the Gaikokujin.”
The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1) Page 22