CHAPTER XIX
The forest air was unpleasantly hot and humid; the wind machine had spluttered and died as soon as they had left Kirishima. With the wizards gone, nobody in her escort knew how to fix it. Atsuko opened the shutters of her palanquin to let the air in, but it did not help much. She yearned for some rain. This year the beginning of the rainy season was remarkably dry.
There will be drought, she thought, and poor harvest again. Her heart went out to peasants, striving against bad weather. Satsuma would survive — her adoptive father was a good administrator and made sure there was always enough surplus rice in the villages. But other provinces might not be so lucky, especially if the drought repeated itself the next year, as it often did.
She hoped there would be no famine, like in the year after her birth. People still told dreadful tales of the time. It hit the Northern provinces worst, but Chinzei had been affected by a flood of refugees. It had taken years for the samurai and merchant families to recover from the crisis.
The princess looked around and noticed something amiss about her escort. She motioned to an officer walking nearby.
“Sergeant, where is Captain Kiyomasa?”
“I’m sorry, hime, but he received urgent orders from Hosokawa-dono.”
Atsu quickly counted the samurai surrounding her palanquin.
“Did he also have to take half of my escort with him?”
The officer avoided her gaze, staring at his sandals uneasily. “Yes, hime. Those were the orders.”
“And is he going to catch up to us eventually?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. But there is nothing to worry about,” the Sergeant raised his head, “we are safe.”
“That’s not what I heard. I heard there are bandits in this part of the mountains.”
“Merely rumours, hime. Besides, the escort is still strong. No bandits would dare attack a troop of samurai!”
“I hope you’re right. And I hope your master has good enough reason for ridding me of half the guard. I will have to report to my father about this, of course.”
“Of course,” the Sergeant stared at his sandals again.
“When do you expect us to leave these stuffy forests behind?”
“Tomorrow we descend onto the plains of Hyūga. The winds there blow from the Eastern Sea, so the weather should be more pleasant. Do you need anything, hime?”
“Bring me some more water, Sergeant.”
“Right away hime.”
The inn and the small village that grew around it were both perched on the edge of a mountain spur reaching east, deep into the valley of Oyodo River. These were the last vestiges of the great cedar forests. One of the windows in Atsuko’s room looked out onto the valley and the vast plain of the Hyūga Province. The Sergeant was right — even here, so many ri from the coast, the breeze speeding up the river carried with it the memory of the sea, the promise of the rolling waves and the crying of the kites.
She tried not to think of the journey ahead of her. In a week or so they would reach Akae Harbour and from there embark on a month-long sail to Edo. A month at sea! Stopping for the nights, of course, and with longer interludes along the way in Naniwa and Chūbu; still — she could hardly imagine a voyage so long.
She touched the obidame. She had resolved to wear it on her sash at times; it was pretty enough, even with the stone missing, and it reminded her of the green-eyed boy she would never see again. She wondered if his quest had succeeded… He would have laughed at my fears. He must have spent months out in the open ocean, suffering storms and typhoons — and maybe even sea monsters... And if he managed to endure all this, what right had she to complain of her little escapade? No, she decided, I will not moan. My father expects me to do my duty and nothing else.
She heard a horse outside, galloping at first then coming to a stop. She looked out the west window at the road before the inn. A messenger from Kumamoto. What did he want? Was it to take away even more of her escort?
The courier did not dismount. A samurai came out to greet him — Atsuko recognised Kawakami Gensai’s thick hair bun. The two men exchanged a few quick words and then Kawakami handed the messenger some small item, a piece of jewellery. Sunlight glinted briefly off its azure surface. The messenger hid it in a lacquer container at his waist, nodded and galloped away.
She had little time to wonder what she had just witnessed. As soon as the courier disappeared into the forest, another commotion drew her attention. Cries rose from the direction of the village. Commoners appeared, running down the road, panicking. The patrons poured from the inn, pointing at something and shouting.
Atsuko tried to see what everyone was so agitated about, but the west window was barred with bamboo poles and she could see nothing beyond the stretch of the road in front of the inn.
There was a knock on the door.
“Hime! We must be on our way,” the servant said.
“What is going on?”
“I don’t know. The locals are saying something about the mountain being… on fire. Kawakami-sama insists on us leaving immediately.”
Eruption? Atsuko shuddered. No volcano had erupted on Chinzei within her lifetime, but she had heard enough terrible stories to fear any mention of the “mountain on fire”.
“I will get myself ready.”
In a few minutes she was guided by the servants to the courtyard where the black-and-gold palanquin awaited her. Before going inside she stopped and looked up towards the peaks of the Kirishima ridge.
Far away, near the top of one of the conical summits, a long, narrow patch of a dark, hazy wood had been set ablaze. This did not look like an eruption, rather, a strangely regular forest fire. Suddenly, as she was looking, another patch of the forest burst into flames in a straight line going sideways across the mountain slope.
“Hime,” the servant girl insisted. Her eyes were full of terror, but in Atsuko’s heart curiosity replaced fear. What was going on over there?
She shaded her eyes and looked towards the peak one last time. She thought she could see a dark dot soaring over the mountains, like an eagle but much, much larger. But then it disappeared in the haze and she was no longer sure whether it was just a trick of the eyes.
With a sigh, she climbed into the palanquin and closed the shutters, sealing herself from the world outside.
THE END
THE RISING TIDE
Book Four of
The Year of the Dragon
James Calbraith
If I see a bridge of flying magpies
Across the frost-white sky
I know the night is almost over.
Chunagon Yakamochi
PROLOGUE
The grounds of the Imperial Palace of the Divine Mikado were as tranquil as the blue, cloudless sky above. Noble men shuffled along gravel paths in silence. Thrushes sang softly in the gingko trees. Water trickled in the canals along the avenues into the ponds where frogs croaked the coming of the evening.
Crown Prince Mutsuhito sat down on the springy grass beside one such pond, looking at the great white wall stretching all around the palace gardens. Beyond lay the bustle of Heian, the Imperial Capital. The streets of the city he had seen only once, when, as a child, he had to run from a fire to the Shimogamo Shrine across the river.
“Trapped in a palace like Butsu-sama himself,” he said quietly. Nobody heard him beyond the silk curtain. Since he was three years old and could express himself formally, the Crown Prince had insisted that his path, wherever he went, was concealed from the outside world. Nobody protested, of course; nobody questioned. The word of the imperial heir was a command of the God.
“How is my Divine Father doing today?” he asked louder.
“His Imperial Majesty is busy writing another letter,” an unnamed servant answered from beyond the curtain. All his servants were nobles themselves, of course, from the finest aristocratic families.
“He is angry, then,” the prince guessed. He imagined his father’s jowls sh
aking with fury. Mikado Kōmei was often angry, and when he was angry, he wrote letters.
“There is... disturbing news from the Taikun’s court.”
“Oh?”
“I am not sure, denka. We did not have an official report yet, so we must rely on rumours.”
“What is it, then?”
“There is a rumour of — unspeakable as it sounds — the barbarians landing in Edo.”
“Invasion?”
The prince stood up abruptly. A frightened frog leapt from under his feet.
“A scouting party, perhaps... I believe if it was indeed an invasion, we would have more news about it by now.”
But how? The Divine Winds were supposed to be impenetrable... have the Bataavians betrayed us?
“Prepare the curtain,” Mutsuhito ordered, “I think I shall visit my Father.”
An acrid, unpleasant smell filled the imperial chambers; the stench of alcohol and women. Mutsuhito covered his nose with a handkerchief and entered his father’s study.
The Mikado ordered the woman away. The Prince recognised her — one of the ladies-in-waiting. The woman picked up her kimono, giggled and disappeared through the back door.
“I thought you were writing letters, Father-sama.”
The Mikado tried to rise with dignity, but swayed back onto the silk cushions. His face was purple.
“I was! I am! Look, here it is. It’s almost ready.”
Mutsuhito reached for the scroll and browsed through. Despite his state, his father’s writing remained calm and dignified. It was a missive reminding the Taikun of his duty to protect the Divine Land and the need of expulsion of any barbarians who dared to stand on it.
“What happened in Edo?” the Prince asked.
“The barbarians have set up a camp south of the city and demand to speak to the Taikun. Why they have not yet been annihilated or how they even got so far inland, I don’t know. They are not telling me everything — but I will find out. I have my own ways.”
The barbarians, Mutsuhito thought, what were they like? They were not all bad — he touched the burned-out circle of skin on his arm where he had been secretly vaccinated against the pox by a red-haired physician. Not even his father knew about it — all Western medicine was forbidden in the palace.
“I like the toys the Westerners make,” he said, “the dolls that move of their own accord, the birds that sing when you turn the key...”
“Mere tricks to gain our confidence!” the Mikado cried. “I will order these toys burned!”
The prince said nothing, not risking his father’s wrath turning against him. There would always be more toys sent from the south.
“I can see you are busy, Father-sama,” he said, glancing towards the back door. “I will leave you to your... duties.”
The Mikado’s lips wobbled. He raised his hand feebly, holding the wooden sceptre, the symbol of his power.
“It’s all my fault,” he said.
“What is?”
“If the land suffers it means the sovereign is to blame. It’s the punishment of the Heavens. The fires, the earthquakes, and now this... I have been frail and I have neglected my duty as the Divine Father.”
“There has never been a more dutiful Mikado than you.”
His father hid his face in his hands and started sobbing. Mutsuhito felt it best to leave him alone.
The Prince studied his reflection in the round bronze mirror. He untied the ribbons holding his long black tresses in place and the hair fell down onto his shoulders.
His fingers smelled of fish, despite frequent washing. It was customary to present the Crown Prince with fresh sea fish on any special occasion, these having been of old an item of luxury in the landlocked capital city. Neither jewels nor gold adorned his room. The Imperial Family lived in traditional austerity and was dependant on gifts from the courtiers and a meagre yearly stipend.
There were some more gifts coming his way, and slightly more opulent. His Coming of Age day was swiftly approaching. Soon his long boyish hair would be cut off and his plain robes replaced with the clothes of an adult.
It seemed to him ominous to have such an important ceremony at such a critical time. There was more news of the barbarians coming from Edo and none of it served to calm Mutsuhito’s father down. The Mikado had ordered prayers for Yamato’s prosperity in the seven shrines and seven temples of the capital and then sat down to write another angry missive to the Taikun.
Mutsuhito wondered if anyone ever read the letters. Probably not. Why would the all-powerful overlord and Commodore of all the Yamato armies care what the Imperial Puppet had to say on matters of state? The Mikado represented a symbolic and spiritual power without any real influence. It was said that all the healing power of the shrine priests depended on the Mikado’s well-being, but Mutsuhito suspected this was just a story made up by the chroniclers in the ancient times to justify the need for the existence of the Imperial Family. His father had only very limited command over the spirits. His biological mother, he remembered, a daughter of a noble family from Chinzei, had become a skilled healer, but only once she had retired to a temple in the mountains.
A tiny bell tinkled, signifying the water had reached the desired temperature. He stepped towards the bath, untied the silk sash and dropped his red robe. Nobody attended his baths, not even the chamber maids. This was a breach of the custom but, again, nobody dared to question his command. They just assumed it was one of his divine whims.
But there was another, much more important reason for his seclusion. One that only his mother and his physician knew about. At first — they told him — it was just a small spot of infarction on his upper thigh, a bit of hard, dead skin. But as the prince had grown, so had the blemish and by now it covered most of his thigh, descending below the knee in places.
It didn’t hurt or itch. In fact, somehow it felt even more natural than his human skin. He sat on the bath’s edge and scratched the thigh absent-mindedly; the soft light green scales shimmered in the candle light.
CHAPTER 1
There was fresh blood on Dylan’s boots.
It came from a puddle he had stepped into, a street earlier. Or maybe from another, a block away. There was no way to know for certain; all the streets of Shanglin were bathed in blood.
He walked over a dead body and stumbled over another lying just beside it. He didn’t look down; not anymore. They were all the same, anyway: stripped naked, mangled, slashed with swords and burned with gunshots. Only the size and gender differed. The conquerors of Shanglin did not discriminate. Old men, children, women… all were piled along the walls and blood-filled gutters. The dead, black window holes of the burnt-out houses stared down at the carnage in silent accusation.
Dylan didn’t bother to count the slain. How many people had lived in Shanglin before the war? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? How many more gathered here fleeing from the besieging Imperial Army? Only a few hundred women survived, spared for the soldiers’ entertainment. Another hundred may have fled into the marshes. That was all.
There’s always war in Qin, he thought. But not like this…
He heard cries. He rushed into the narrow cul-de-sac between a burnt out brick warehouse and a ruined inn. Three Imperial soldiers, flushed with drink, were standing over an old woman, beating and abusing her. The woman was still alive, though barely, and her cries for help weakened with every blow.
Red mist swam before Dylan’s eyes. He raised both hands. “Rhew!” he cried, letting the dragon’s fire flow freely from his fingers, at full force. The nearest of the soldiers stood up in flames and screamed in agony before succumbing to the fire and folding down like burning paper. The other two swayed drunkenly at Dylan. He dodged a clumsy blow, grabbed the attacker’s arm with one hand and pressed the other to his chest.
“Gwrthyrru!”
The repelled soldier flew back, his shoulder torn right out of the socket. He put a hand to his chest and pink foam spewed from his mouth. He made a few steps
and fell on the ground, trashing in dead throes. One man remained, sobered by the deaths of his comrades; he raised the broad Qin sword. Dylan did not waste magic, and simply punched him in the throat with the edge of his palm, smashing his windpipe. The man dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, gasping and choking.
Weakened by the magic outburst and anger, Dylan knelt by the old woman; she was breathing rapidly, her eyes wide open. She noticed him and shuddered. She reached shaking fingers out to him, crooked into the sign against evil.
“Curse you, Westerner! Curse your guns and your dragons!”
She took one last, hoarse gasp, and died.
He climbed the arch of a wide bridge spanning one of the city’s many canals, and passed Qin soldiers guarding the passage. They let him through without a word, or even a bow. Dylan was too numb to take offence, although he did make a mental note of the guards’ behaviour.
Beyond the canal lay the Tianyi Gardens, where the conquering army had made their headquarters. Traces of destruction and fire and blood had been scoured from the gravel and all the dead had been removed from the paths. Rose and camellia bushes had been cut down to make place for tents. Soldiers sat on moss-covered boulders and stone benches around ponds, playing ma jiang for bits of Cursed Weed. Gold and silver coins, looted from the city’s treasure houses, were strewn all over the grass.
No discipline at all, thought Dylan bitterly, this rabble would never have taken the city without our help.
The words of the dying woman echoed in his head.
She blamed me for her fate, not the Qin soldiers torturing her.
The Bohan set his staff up in the main lecture hall of the great Library Pavilion; a long, two-storey building with eaves like sickle blades pointing to the skies. Dylan found him there, studying a large map; several other maps lay scattered around the floor and tables. The upper half of a discarded automaton lay in the corner, its glass eyes and metal hand raised accusingly into the air.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 71