Jade Man's Skin

by Daniel Fox

  Shen did, if only because Chung had held him back from any wilder leaping. There had been … an exchange of eyes about that, which Chung had possibly won simply by being uncowable, not giving ground.

  Shen moved forward then, to the bows and so down into the surf; and once he was gone—almost immediately, indeed, but not quite—Chung followed.

  AT FIRST it was impossible to see anything, anyone. There was no hope of finding one man in the surge. Nor of hearing any one voice in all that noise. Was warfare always so loud?

  The surf was loud enough, breaking with a roar on that same bar where the boat had beached, then hissing all the way past his feet and higher. Perhaps the men shouted simply to be heard above it. But no one was shouting orders, or indeed anything that needed to be heard. It was just shouting. Or shrieking, as often as not. He might not have guessed that hard men could produce such shrill sounds.

  He ran stumblingly among them, disoriented and bewildered, only because everyone around him was running too. Up from the chill and suck of the water and along the sands, where at least it was easier going; they ran into yet more noise, noise like a wall, yelling and screaming and the clash-and-scrape of steel on steel, the wetter thud of steel on flesh.

  They’d found someone to fight, then, and something to fight toward: a beacon of flame, a blazing brazier on the sand. Chung saw it intermittently, obscured by the shift and tumble of bodies, black shadows, any one of which might be Shen. He was not, he was not going to cry the man’s name, not distract him when he might be just a blade’s edge from death.

  Apparently, he was going to run. Toward the fire, toward the light, just like everyone else: which meant, of course, toward the fighting.

  He supposed that he should draw his tao, and perhaps his knife too. He had no idea who was friend and who was enemy, but if anyone came at him with a blade swinging, then he’d know.

  Besides, they gave him something, two things to hold on to in the dark, in the hurly. It was good to keep both fists clenched as he waded into the chaos ahead, to feel the weight of two blades probing before him. They almost had more purpose than himself. He only wanted to find Shen and watch his back; his blades, he thought, were more lethally inclined. He needed to be careful with them.

  Logically, anyone with their back to him should be a friend, advancing down the beach. That would work, wouldn’t it? If he just didn’t stab anyone in the back …?

  But the melee wasn’t like that at all, there was no hint of advance or retreat: only a twisting mess, a morass of men, bloodied and frenzied and so loud …

  One man came reeling out of the swirl, like a spark thrown up from the brazier, so random; and there was no confusion suddenly, no possibility of mistake. This was no one from the boat, from any boat. From anywhere on Taishu. He was too fat. And too old to be a fighter, and half naked, as though he had been sleeping somewhere on the beach here and had woken at the first screams of assault and was perhaps still not properly awake, still bewildered by what was happening here.

  Except that he had something in his hand, a wicked curved blade on a long handle, which was likely a boatbuilder’s tool of some kind; and it was a steady hand that held that dreadful blade, and a strong arm that brought it sweeping down. Chung even thought he could see stains on the steel, as though it had already bitten deep into others before it reached for him …

  And really he had no choice except to fling himself inside the swing of it, too close to the fat man for the hook of the blade to find him. Too close to back away now, almost eye to eye and the man was screaming like every man else; and Chung was too close to do anything, really, except let his own hands do what they had trained for, his own blades do what they so very much desired …

  AND THEN the fat man was quiet, quiet at last: quiet and still and hacked open at Chung’s feet, and the wet sands drank what they could of what he had spilled out.

  And Chung just stood there, staring down at what he had done, his first time, strange and terrible and not at all what he had come for; and he didn’t even lift his blades in defense as another man ran at him, screaming. Perhaps he couldn’t, perhaps they were too heavy for him now. As though they had drunk more than the sands, drunk and drunk of blood and life and spirit. As though they were over-full now, too much for mortal man. Too much for him.

  SO HE only lifted his head as the man came at him, only stared in mute bewilderment. He did see the darkened steel of a long straight sword, he did understand that it meant to gut him; perhaps he thought he deserved that, it was his turn now, as he stood in the strewn guts of the fat man. It might have seemed a pity, perhaps, to die so ugly in the half-dark and without Shen’s hand to hold, but Shen would find him afterward, perhaps, and take his body home, give his ghost rest …

  A sudden flower erupted from the man’s chest even as he ran, a flower of dark heart, a solid thing that just kept coming even after the man had entirely stopped. Not a flower at all, then, but he still needed time to understand it as a length of bamboo, sharp enough to be a spear at need. A spear thrusting outward meant that it had been thrust in from behind, but Chung couldn’t see at all, he couldn’t see anything until the man at last fell down, was allowed to fall, because Shen let go the spear.

  And of course, yes, it was Shen: who had seen Chung and his danger, and was swift enough to save him. And then swift to curse him out for being there, for being stupid, for putting himself at risk: “Didn’t I tell you to stay on the boat? Why are you here, what did you think you could do, all useless …?”

  I killed a man, but that wasn’t a useful answer.

  Thankfully, this wasn’t the time to debate it. There were other men to kill. And there was other work to do, the fleet hadn’t sailed here just to kill boatbuilders in their fat bewildered fury.

  Someone had kicked the brazier over, or else it had just been tumbled in the melee. Glowing charcoals had fallen beyond the stone and sand it stood on, into a stack of rolled sails. Canvas and bamboo were blazing suddenly, spilling light all down the beach: light enough to work by, until the sun at last came up to see what had been done here.

  Light enough to show that there were not so many left to kill now. The beach was a boatyard, not a barracks; Tunghai Wang had certainly set soldiers here, but they were to watch for thieves and deserters, to keep the men at work and their work on shore till it was needed. Not to fight off raids from the dragon-guarded sea, an unimaginable assault from the coward army they had chased so far.

  They weren’t ready, and they weren’t enough. Mostly they were dead already, and the men they’d guarded slain beside them: boatbuilders and apprentices, doubly doomed for being here and for being what they were. Everyone on the beach would die, because there was no time to sort between them; but anyone with the skills to make or repair a boat, they would die because that was the most loss that Tunghai Wang could feel. He had soldiers and to spare, but he could only build another fleet if he had the men to build it.

  The men he had, these dead men had made a strong start, a new beginning since the ruin of his first invasion. Spaced along the sands was a line of hulls, some whole and some half finished, some old wrecks under repair.

  Now Chung could snatch Shen’s hand and tug him down to the first of those beached hulls, a river sampan standing proud on a new keel, refitted for sea.

  “She’d sail,” he said, “just as she is,” except that all the sails were ablaze behind them and they had no time to rig her anyway. They knew that, they had always known. A rope from her bow to the old man’s boat and a couple of men with oars, they could handle the crossing if the goddess was kind. And why would she be anything other, why save them from the dragon only to drown them now?

  The next was just a hull, but she would float; she too could be towed and rowed.

  The next was not even so finished as that, only a few timbers shaped around a frame. Not worth the taking, but enough to leave burning at their backs, with all the loose timber and the tar and everything too heavy or too a
wkward to carry away. Ropes and stores were coming on the boats, as much as they had time to snatch and stow; the rest was for the fire. Iron was coming if possible, or else it was to be tipped into the sea if it could be moved at all. Steal, disrupt, destroy …

  SMOKE AND flame and screaming: the city would be alert already. Soldiers would be coming soon, in numbers.

  It was hard work, swift work, hauling every seaworthy hull down into the water—not far, blessedly, as high tide coincided with the dawn: Old Yen had known, of course—and flinging ropes from one to another. Running up and down the beach with blazing torches and buckets of pitch, to set fire to whatever they could burn. Dragging crates of nails and fittings to the water’s edge and tipping them into the bobbing hulls for ballast first and use later on Taishu, along with tools and chains, more rope, the boatbuilders’ meager stores of food and tea. Recovered weapons, of course.

  Now Shen really should be glad of Chung’s help, there was so much that needed doing and so little time. At least he’d stopped cursing: no time for temper, only to heave and haul, to make quick judgments and quicker dispositions, take this, burn that. No point breaking up stone forges, they were too easily rebuilt, but the iron plates and fitments, yes, take those; an army always wanted iron. The emperor did, and so must Tunghai Wang. Take from one to feed the other: a double benefit.

  Which was the point and purpose of this raid, entirely. Tunghai Wang wouldn’t see it as a prelude to anything. Weakened as he was, he must still be the huntsman in this chase. The emperor was a stag in flight, not a tiger turned at bay; in Tunghai’s view he would want boats for his fishermen, not his soldiers. He would be seeking to delay and discourage a second invasion, not to launch one of his own.

  So said General Ping Wen, at least, and the emperor at least was persuaded. Mei Feng was not, but the emperor wasn’t listening to her any longer. Chung knew.

  He and Shen flung a bundle of bamboo spars into a sampan that wanted only a mast, that could surely be paddled all across the water by herself if need be. A cry from the beach behind them, an arm thrust upward showed them men pouring over the headland. Armed men, a stream that would be a flood soon enough.

  Time to go. They could have done more, if they’d been left to do it; these soldiers would know they could have saved more, if they’d only gotten here sooner. War was probably like that, Chung thought, small achievements and small frustrations, more often than it was the triumph and devastation of stories, history on the march.

  He and Shen threw their weight against the hull of the sampan, felt it give and check and give again. More men joined them, urgently; at last it was sliding, and there was water around their feet.

  Water to their knees, and the sampan floated free. They piled into it and seized paddles and oars—raw timbers, even, if nothing else came to hand—and drove them into the surf, forced the boat away from shore.

  Didn’t look back to see who had been left behind, dead or wounded or plunging after, whether they could swim or not. It was every man’s last task to save himself; no one could afford to wait.

  Which was why Chung had heaved Shen’s legs aboard before he’d clambered up himself; it was orders, his duty, absolutely.

  THEY CAME UP alongside Old Yen’s boat, like a high, wet, rocking wooden wall. A rope was dropped down and tied off; most of the men scrambled up it, but Chung shook his head and let the sampan drift behind, taken in tow when there were only himself and Shen still aboard. It was all they needed, to fend off other craft and bail her out if a wave swamped her; and, “If you want to yell at me some more,” he said, “at least you can do it in private.”

  “I don’t want to yell at you.” Indeed, Shen was sinking down to squat at Chung’s feet, amid all the gear they’d flung aboard. “I want to know where you got the idea that you could fight beside us, that’s all.”

  “From you, of course. You trained me.”

  “Not with blades. It was horrible to watch, you don’t even hold them right. Kitchen boy. You stick to your cleavers next time, and cook supper for when I come home.”

  “No. I’m not letting you go off without me. You’d best teach me how to use a tao, if I’m so hopeless. You can start when we get home. What’s the matter with you, why are you—Gods, Shen, are you hurt …?”

  “Mmm.” Slowly, carefully, Shen was peeling his sodden shirt away from his shoulder. That dark soak was not all seawater, and not all the blood was other people’s; there was a deep slash from Shen’s shoulder, running down over his ribs.

  Chung let his paddle fall onto the boards beside him. “When did that happen?”

  “When we were fighting, idiot.” He was trying to be amused, condescending, as he so often was. The light was on his face now, and he looked as gray as the sea, under a slick of sweat.

  “But, but then I made you do so much work with me, just to stop you fighting … Why didn’t you say?” Why didn’t I see? was the more honest question, and they both knew it.

  “Because then you would have fussed, of course. As you are.” Because I didn’t let you see. They both knew that, too. There wasn’t much they needed to say between them, though Shen seemed to think this one thing was important, lifting his good arm to touch Chung’s, to say, “Shouldn’t you be rowing, or something? We’re going to hit that big boat if you don’t …”

  Chung glanced up, to see the high stern of Old Yen’s boat about to overshadow them. He stood, legs spread, and fended them off by hand; and scowled down at Shen and said, “Why didn’t you go aboard with the others? People up there could help you. And you’ll be no use to me down here, bleeding everywhere, getting under my feet …”

  Shen lay between his feet, sprawling now that he didn’t have to hold himself up anymore, and grinned up at him. “Truly? I didn’t fancy the climb. I think that sword broke my collar-bone. Besides, there’s more room here. And I can be with you …”

  So did Chung think that collar-bone was broken, now that he took another look at it. But the rest of the gash was no worse than ugly; it would scar, but Shen had scars already, and the salt sea had already stanched the bleeding. And yes, he too would far rather have Shen in his boat and under his eye than out of sight somewhere on the crowded boat above, one among dozens, with no one particular to care for him.

  “Lie still, then,” he grunted, and picked up his paddle again, to give them some distance from the fishing-boat. Shen’s shirt was ruined already, so he could use that for a pad and bandages, as soon as he had hands free to dress the wound. If he sacrificed the sleeves of his own, he could knot those into a sling to support Shen’s arm, not to let the broken bone grate and shift around. How the man had fought and run and hauled so much with a bleeding wound and a broken bone and Chung hadn’t even noticed …

  HE WAS tired and shaken, but guilt was a lash. He did two men’s work as best he could, keeping the sampan handily out of the big boat’s wake while he patched Shen up and saw him settled. They could hope for a swift and untroubled passage back across the strait, but not quite yet; Old Yen was hugging the coast, sailing westward rather than out to sea.

  Ahead and behind, smoke was rising in the clear air, from other raids on other boatyard beaches. The fleet had to reassemble with all its gathered trophy craft; it might not actually be needful—perhaps the goddess could protect a hundred scattered boats, perhaps she could hold the dragon back altogether—but nobody actually knew. It would be a brave man who would sail the strait alone, or anywhere other than in Old Yen’s immediate shadow. A brave man or a foolish one, or both. This fleet was full of brave men, but few of them were foolish in that way. Chung thought that every one of the raiders would find their way to the rendezvous, though it would be a long drag for some.

  The old fisherman had nominated a particular creek as a meeting point, farther west than any of the beaches they were raiding. Nobody worried about Tunghai Wang launching boats out of Santung to attack them; the generalissimo had few enough to start with and had lost a lot today, he wouldn’t
risk those that he had left in the city docks. Even so, this diversion added time and work, opportunities for trouble.

  Chung’s own trouble lay on the sampan’s boards and smiled up at him as he stood in the stern to row. Pain was in Shen’s eyes, the tight contracted pupils; in his face too, another kind of tightness about that mobile mouth and in the way the skin had stretched across his cheekbones.

  His voice was as pale and shadowed as his skin, almost but not quite unrecognizable. “You do that very well. Water rat.”

  “When, when I was a child,” it was harder to speak, seemingly, when he wasn’t the one who was hurting, “when my father worked at the docks, some days he would take me with him. I could row him across the water, he taught me how; and if there was cargo, sometimes I could ferry it from ship to shore. Sometimes it needed both of us, an oar each, but …”

  “But you learned, and you grew, and so you have a skill I didn’t know about.” Shen was mock-scolding as he used his good arm and the boat’s rising side to haul himself up until he could sit and see where they were going and at least pretend to be comfortable, with his back set firmly against Chung’s one leg and his arm curled for bracing about the other.

  “I haven’t touched an oar for years,” or been in a boat at all since he was taken into the palace kitchens; and he was feeling it now, already, a dawning ache in his shoulders although this was easy yet. He was mostly working with the towrope, just to keep the sampan from knocking against the other tows or wallowing too much in Old Yen’s wake, not to let it jar Shen’s broken bone.

  He could be a stable support, too, his runner’s legs set wide and solid, giving a little to the movements of the boat but shifting not at all; and when Shen turned petulant anyway because he was so sore and didn’t want to show it, when he said, “Why are we going this far out of our way, where’s that mad old man taking us?” Chung could be as calm and deceptive and unforthcoming, as supportive as the sea itself beneath them.