“Yet you used her to shield yourself.”
They draw swords on each other. Enosh drops to the ground and holds the girl’s head in his hands. Her golden curls are red now, red and wet and dark. Her eyes are half-open. She died instantly; he rubs his thumb over her crescent lips, smearing blood over his fingers. He doesn’t cry. He does not deserve tears.
But there are other things he is allowed to do. He pulls the dagger from her throat. It is small and light, almost a knife, but to his reed-like arm it is nearly a sword. Methodically, he wipes the blood off the blade with his shirt until it is grey again.
The mages are still fighting. They do not even notice him. He stalks them until Hertra Ferral’s back is turned against him and then he strikes. The merchant screams and wets himself. Enosh has killed boar that died with more dignity.
Yn Garr bends over the crumpled body and snatches the book from its hands.
“Too much ambition,” he says. “See how he clutches even in death.”
Enosh barely hears him. He is oddly fascinated by the corpse. He wonders if one death is enough for men to fear him. “How goes his story now?” he asks. “He is dead. His daughter is dead. Who shall write the rest of it?”
Yn Garr smiles. “Why, now you will.”
He responds with a hollow laugh, because he is so very tired and it seems to amuse Yn Garr to mess with his head. But he pauses at the doorway on the way out and returns to take the dagger with him. It is slick with blood and slips from his grasp once. He tucks it into his belt. He closes his eyes and walks away.
Fresh Off the Boat
Jorr learned to be invisible the day he arrived in the empire. All brown and sun-tanned, with muscles carved from a lifetime of heavy labour, he cut an unimposing figure in that sea of different races and faces. The officials stamped his papers and let him through without trouble, only slightly scrutinizing the way he rolled his Rs. “Welcome to your new home,” they told him at the end of the airship gates, before unceremoniously urging him to stop holding up the line. He wandered the streets for a good hour before a guard took pity on him and led him back to the appropriate road.
“Down there,” the guard said, jabbing the air twice in case he didn’t understand. “That’s the immigrants’ street. Run along, now.”
Back home, they called him Jorr the Mighty. He once lifted a baby buffalo with one hand and could climb a coconut tree with a blade in his mouth in five heartbeats. Almost everyone in town knew him. He couldn’t walk down the street without getting invited for a drink or two.
Here, he wandered like a ghost. Men bumped into him before launching into a litany of obscenities, as if he was the one who walked into them in the first place. And they had a way of looking past him, like he didn’t exist. It felt unnerving.
His wife Neri met him outside the marketplace, where she must’ve been waiting since his airship had docked. She had gained weight since he saw her last. Six years ago, now. Six years too long. It felt like forever. She was more beautiful than he remembered. He opened his arms to greet her with an embrace and she turned her face so he could kiss her cheek instead. It amused him at first. This was a new place, a new country, and he didn’t know what was allowed or not. He figured she’d be more affectionate later, once they’d gotten to know each other again.
They walked past the dizzying streets, past tall buildings and more people than he ever thought was possible.
“When do we get home?” He tried to reach for her hand.
She slapped it away. “Don’t ask too many questions.” He thought he caught a hint of red on her cheeks and wondered if it was a good thing. Six years was very long, and this was not the same blushing young bride he had carried down the rice fields in her wedding gown. He had the sense that if he tried to do the same thing now, she would bite his head off.
Better to play it safe, he thought. He could always woo her again. He still remembered that she liked his singing. If he could find someone to lend him a guitar, he knew he could sweep her off her feet. He’d done it before.
They reached a group of houses built close together. Clotheslines hung over the streets, masking the scent of urine with fresh laundry soap. A group of men in armour—not the city guard’s—came walking down the street. Blades hung from their belts, swords larger than anything Jorr had ever seen in his life. They walked by his wife, and Jorr braced himself.
Just as he expected, they came straight for him, all but pushing him out of the way. One jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “Watch it!” another screeched. He was shorter than Jorr. If they were back home, he would be face-first into the nearest gutter by now. But his wife would scold him if he caused trouble, and he didn’t want to make her angry.
“Oh, hey,” another man said. He turned and placed a hand on Jorr’s shoulder.
Jorr froze. It was the first time anyone on the street had noticed him and he suddenly decided he quite preferred it when they ignored him. He now felt like a hunk of meat, thrown on a table for appraisal. The man was looking at him up and down, wrinkled face screwed thoughtfully, blue eyes searching. “So you’re finally here,” the man said. “Neri’s your wife, eh?”
“Yes,” Jorr said, unsure of where this was going.
The man sniffed. “She’s a good one. You watch yourself around her.” His words were sharp, but it sounded like a joke. The others laughed, so it had to be a joke.
Jorr stared at them, wondering if they were expecting him to laugh in return. He didn’t see what was so funny.
Up ahead, Neri whistled. “You leave my husband alone, Atrus! Get your own!”
“Just welcoming him to the neighbourhood, that’s all,” the man said, slapping him again. “Big man like this, could be of use in the docks.”
“He’s a builder,” Neri replied. “He studied architecture.”
“Is he, now?” The man didn’t look impressed. He gave Jorr another unwanted pat on the back before letting him walk back to his wife.
“People here aren’t very friendly,” Jorr said as soon as they were out of earshot.
“They are,” Neri countered. “You’re just not used to that kind of friendliness.”
“You just let them paw you up like that?”
“Hey,” she snapped. “That’s not fair.”
He coloured. “I just meant…that it’s rude. That’s all.”
“It’s their way. They don’t mean anything by it.”
“You’re right,” he grumbled. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t look like she believed him. Good job, he thought as they walked through a fence and down some badly laid stone steps. Not even an hour together and he’d already screwed up. Neri always had a short temper, but back home it was easy enough to smooth over. All he had to do was ask her mother or one of her sisters what he’d done, and they’d tell him exactly what he did wrong and how to fix it, and it would all be over before the night was out. Here, all they had was each other.
“Your luggage can go there,” Neri said, pointing to a corner under the porch. Jorr complied. He’d barely finished pushing the box in when he heard the din of voices behind him. He turned around to greet a group of people sitting out in chairs in the square, drinking and feasting on roast pork.
“Welcome, friend, welcome,” a man said, reaching out to grasp his hand heartily. It was a relief to hear his native tongue from another’s lips. “We’ve been waiting all afternoon for you!”
“I got lost,” he said, glancing around at the other faces.
“Jorr, right? You’re all Neri could talk about the past few days.” The man ushered him to a chair and gave him a plate of food. “I’m Hosei. I work in the mill.”
While Jorr ate, Hosei came around and introduced everybody else by name and what they did for work. Every single one were Jinseins, like Jorr and his wife. He turned to find Neri and realized she wasn’t there.
“Can you fight?” Hosei asked.
He glanced back at the man in confusion. “I…didn’t catch what you
were saying.”
Hosei took a swig from his ale before nodding towards the others. “Some of us have been talking about joining this group, you see. Fighters-for-hire. You need a hero, you call them, that sort of thing. You must’ve seen some of them walking around. Their headquarters is just down the street.”
Jorr remembered his encounter from earlier and frowned. “Those men in black leather armour?”
“The same ones. And they’re in dire need of more fighters.”
“I didn’t come out here to fight. I was hoping they’d have a job for me at the government office, or…”
“Right. Neri mentioned you were a builder. Well, back home, I was a scribe for a fish sauce merchant.” He gave a grim smile. “Anyway, this’ll pay more for mill work, and it’s less dangerous than the tannery, as long as you keep your wits about you.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Are you a coward? Neri should’ve told us if you were a coward.”
That did it. Jorr set his plate aside and got up.
Hosei smiled. “Someone hand him a sword.”
“We’re going to do this out in the street?”
“Of course,” Hosei said. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt the party. Gentlemen?” With a whistle, he walked back through the gate. One of his friends shoved a sword into Jorr’s hands.
He had never held a sword like that before. The hilt was the length of two hands, and he quickly figured he was supposed to hold it that way. That was all the time he got. Hosei charged and Jorr barely lifted it in time to block the attack.
The blades struck each other, sending a jolt of vibration down Jorr’s arms. “Not bad!” Hosei laughed. “Not bad for a country bumpkin! Now let’s see how you do if I don’t take it easy on you.” He pulled his sword back, his legs braced against the weight of it.
A commotion down the street startled them.
“Run!” someone called.
Before Jorr could realize what was happening, he was alone and there were city guards walking up to him. “Holding that thing in broad daylight?” a guard called. “Arrest him!”
Jorr dropped the sword, but it was too late.
~~~
Lucky for Jorr, he had been beaten before and knew not to panic the moment he regained consciousness. Instead, he opened his eyes slowly, and tried to assess the situation as best as his hazy mind could allow. He was tied to a chair, his wrists bound with thick rope. He was in a closed, dark room, facing a desk. A big, bearded man sat on the other side with a club.
“About time you woke up,” the man said.
Jorr opened his mouth and winced. His jaw felt like a block of stone. Before he could do anything else about it, someone came up and dumped a bucket of cold water on his head.
That did the trick. He shot up with a start, straining on his bonds. “I haven’t done anything,” Jorr grunted.
The bearded man strode towards him. From the cut of his armour, he looked like an officer of some sort—a captain, probably. He crossed his arms as he regarded Jorr with the expression of someone examining the dead. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.
“We weren’t fighting,” Jorr said. “It was friendly sparring. I didn’t know that wasn’t allowed here.”
The captain struck him with a closed fist. He managed to groan against the explosion of pain, and shut his eyes in an attempt to stifle it. The captain shook his fist. “Man’s got a thick skull,” he exclaimed to the guard behind Jorr. “We’re not talking about the sword, idiot. You know what you’re here for.”
“I don’t—”
The captain lifted the club, which made Jorr wince.
“You do. Don’t play dumb. Where’s your master now?”
“What master?”
“Think he needs to get smacked around some more, boss,” the guard commented. “Jostle his brain a little.”
“It’s been jostled plenty,” the captain said with a frown. He reached out to grab Jorr’s chin and turned his head so he could look into his eyes. Even the slight movement was painful, and Jorr struggled hard not to cry. “Your master. Tamus ark-Salan. He left town a few evenings ago to evade the law. You people have been hiding him. You know he’s not going to be able to protect you anymore?”
“I have no idea who that is!”
The club, this time. It cracked against his hip with a force that quaked his bones. He screamed.
“I swear by Akaterru and whatever gods you have out here,” Jorr managed, after he caught his breath. “I don’t know a damn thing. I just got here!”
The captain glanced at the guard, who shrugged. “So your wife isn’t this Neri alon gar Shoho?”
“She is, but—”
They struck him again.
“Where’s my wife?” he gasped. “She can confirm. My papers—they’re back at that house…”
“We were hoping you could tell us that, too,” the captain said. “She’s a person of interest over this whole thing. We find her, we find her master.”
“She doesn’t know anything. She was just with me. I just arrived from Jin-Sayeng.”
The captain laughed. “See, there, that’s a lie. We know you haven’t. Haven’t you been living with her down in that rathole the past few years?”
“What do you mean? That’s not true. I just arrived.”
“Sure you did.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“See, I don’t like that answer,” the captain said, relaxing his stance. “You have to work with me here. If I write I don’t know down on that report, what do you think my boss is going to say?”
Jorr shook his head, unable to formulate a response. It felt like a tunnel of blood was boring into his skull.
“I’ll tell you what he’ll say,” the captain continued. “He’ll tell me I’m a moron. He’ll question why he gave me this badge, and then next season I’ll probably get demoted. Or at least passed over for promotion. He’ll pick some asshole from the west, some blue-blood’s son who didn’t have to crawl his way up the ranks like I did. And then what do you think my wife will tell me?”
“I really don’t care,” Jorr gasped.
“She’ll say—”
“Captain!” The door swung open and another guard walked in. He gave a quick salute. “We’ve found the others!”
“Maybe we’ll have better luck with those,” the captain said.
“What do you want done with this one?” the other guard asked.
The captain made a dismissive gesture. “Throw him back out the street. We know where to find him. People like that don’t get very far.” He walked out.
The guard sliced off Jorr’s ropes and dragged him to his feet. “Come on,” she said. “Captain’s being nice today. You don’t want to risk that.”
Jorr gratefully lurched after her. The guard led him out of the prison and through the gates, where, true to the captain’s word, she left him right beside a gutter that smelled of dead things. Without the support, Jorr fell to his knees and began vomiting. He lost consciousness for a few moments. Minutes. It felt like someone was playing drums with his skull.
The sound of a carriage rattling past jolted him back to his senses. He slowly got to his feet and made his way down the street, not really knowing where he was going. It was getting darker and he had been in the empire for less than a day. He wanted to find Neri and tell her they had to go home. They had to go home. So what if the crops were failing and money was hard to come by? So what if they could never afford a nice, big house for their future children? They wouldn’t starve, at least. Their family would always be there. They’d be poor, but they wouldn’t be at the mercy of strangers. They’d be home.
“Hey, you. It’s Jorr, isn’t it? You’re Neri’s Jorr. We’ve been looking all over for you.”
He turned at the sound. A woman. “Have you seen her?” he asked.
“Not yet. We heard what happened earlier,” the woman said, glancing at her companions. “It’s Neri’s master. His whole famil
y, really. They’ve been involved in some…illegal things. Importing magic artifacts, I think.”
“I heard it was mage-thralls,” one of the women piped up. “They were selling them for blood-magic.”
“Hush,” the first woman said. “We’re not going to speak of blood magic out in the streets. Look at this poor soul. Let’s go clean you up, dear. Come. You’re safe with us.”
He had nowhere else to go, so he limped after them. They led him to a building which may have been the same one he had left hours ago, but he couldn’t tell in the dark anymore. Down they went, past a narrow set of stairs, and then through a hall that smelled of damp and sewage.
They reached a small house, so cramped they had to walk single file through the corridor. Other women sat around the single table in the kitchen. One of them vacated her seat for him.
“We’re Neri’s roommates,” the woman who found him said as she cleaned up his wounds with hot water. “I’m Ona. And that there is…” She pointed them out one by one, blurting out names that Jorr forgot as soon as they were uttered.
“You all live here?” he managed.
“We all live here,” Ona said with a smile. “Do you want me to show you to your room?”
Numbly, he nodded. Ona took his elbow and guided him around the corner. A door was at the end of a short flight of stairs. It opened at an odd angle, revealing a room barely large enough to fit a single, narrow bed in. His luggage was on the mattress.
“Thank you,” he said, turning to Ona. But she was already gone.
He set the luggage on the floor and crawled onto the bed. If Neri was there, she would’ve had to sleep on the crook of his arm—there wasn’t much room left. Not that he would’ve minded; their bed back home wasn’t that much bigger. He took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The sheets smelled like her. It was odd to recognize a scent he’d gone without for six years, but there it was. He would know it anywhere.
Jorr placed the back of his hand on his forehead and looked around. There were pieces of paper glued on the walls. He recognized letters he’d sent her over the years, sketches he’d done of their hometown. Letters from her family, her sisters. A recipe for stewed pork from her mother. Ornaments she’d gathered, mostly things from back home: a bamboo fan, a flute, a conch shell. Was this how she staunched the loneliness of the last six years? He had the sudden sense time had distorted itself, that somehow it had been slower for her than him. He had just got here, and already it felt like a lifetime.
The Dragonlord's Call Short Story Collection Page 7