In the Village Where Brightwine Flows

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Dardzada looked to the richly dressed men and women around him. This was as much a drug den as the hovels in the west end that catered to those ensnared by black lotus, except no one here had glazed eyes or wasted expressions. Instead, they looked perfectly and profoundly aware—of themselves, of what was happening to them—and seemed eminently pleased by it. Some spoke softly while eating from small plates, but most in the room were lying on their pillows, eyes wide, staring up at the veil of stars.

  Dardzada and Ezren were soon brought rice wine, then dates stuffed with goat cheese and honeyed pistachios and spiced cakes and a sweet liqueur, all of it cast bloody by the lanterns at the center of their table. Finally their host glided to the table bearing a silver platter, upon which were set two flutes filled with a syrupy silver liquid. White diamond, it was sometimes called, or snowmelt. Most often, though, it was referred to as brightwine. And Dardzada could see why. The stuff glowed as brilliantly as the firmament above.

  “Gentlemen,” the host said, bowing as he set one of the flutes before each of them. “What you have before you is an elixir that is best sipped. You’ll find the bouquet to have strong anise overtones, floral, a bit sharp on the tongue at first, but by the time the last drop is emptied from the glass, you’ll find it mellow as the sunrise.” He flourished to both glasses while taking a half step back. “Take your time. Enjoy your evening.” Then he spun and was off, down the stairs to the place where the food and drink was prepared.

  Dardzada looked to Ezren, who was staring intently at the glass of softly glowing liquid. He was clearly having second thoughts. The two of them had debated on whether to come, had debated on whether to imbibe the liquid. Dardzada had no wish to. Not really. But they had to determine whether it was true, what Li Bai had told him, and that those who ran this particular drug den were responsible for the missing children. This might all be a sham. If it was, and they sprung their trap too soon, they might have lost their chance to find the real perpetrators of this crime. And if it was the real Garden, he had to find the one in charge of this den, for only in that way could they be trailed back to their supplier.

  Apparently coming to some decision, Ezren nodded, then picked up the glass and sipped from it. After a pause in which he stared at the flute with something akin to awe, he downed the rest of the liqueur in one healthy swallow. His throat convulsed as he gently set the glass down. He licked his lips. Even in this dim light Dardzada could see how reddened his eyes had become.

  As Dardzada lifted his own flute and peered into the liquid, Li Bai’s words came back to him. “In the dens of Tsitsian,” he’d said, “leeches are placed carefully so that they draw blood from one’s qi points, places where our very souls can be touched. As the leeches feed, they secrete mucus, which is collected and mixed with a liqueur, often anise. In my country there are rituals where the old give of themselves to the young, a passing of their lives to their children or grandchildren. There are cases of those who give blood willingly for our Queen or, in rarer cases, others of noble blood. Some few dens in the larger cities pay those who offer up their blood, but rarely is it taken against one’s will. It is a grave dishonor to do so, for each time the leeches draw from you, they take something that is never replaced. One grows more frail from each application, an affliction that no amount of time or rest will restore, not completely.”

  Which was why Gazi had looked so frail, so old for his age. They’d placed the leeches on him, drawn his blood. Gods, even the few weeks he’d been gone had been enough for the effects to show. What of the others? Some of them might have had blood taken from them for years.

  “Forbidden in Mirea,” Dardzada had said, “yet here they seem to have no compunction over the practice….”

  “I said it was rare in my country, not unheard of. The Jade Masks have been known to run secret dens like the Garden.”

  Dardzada had heard rumor of the Garden years ago, but he’d never thought it was real. He’d written it off as hucksters pawning off fake serums to the unwitting wealthy of Sharakhai. Now he regretted not looking more deeply into it. He would have done something about it had he known…

  “And now the Masks have made it flourish,” Dardzada had said, for he was sure that they were the ones responsible—they and certain key allies. The Spears, young Hamid had said when he’d asked him who had taken Gazi. Who else steals people in the middle of the day?

  Li Bai had placed his hands over his lap, the picture of an obedient ally. “They’re not people to trifle with, my Lords.”

  Throughout Li Bai’s explanation, Ezren had stood silently by Dardzada’s side, but at these words, he bristled. “The Silver Spears aren’t afraid of making new enemies.”

  No, Dardzada had thought. No, they aren’t.

  “Why children?” Dardzada had asked, keeping Li Bai’s attention where he needed it.

  “I do not know for certain, but the young, when their voices deepen, when their first blood befalls the girls, that is when they are at their most potent. I suspect that is why they take children of that age. Surely a premium is charged for it as well.”

  A premium, Dardzada thought, blinking as he returned to the here and now of the Garden, his cheeks burning in anger.

  Across the table, a strange look had overcome Ezren, as if he felt sublime but was embarrassed over it and was trying to hide it. A premium for children of a certain age. Dardzada lifted his own flute to his lips—he felt sick to his stomach, but told himself again this was necessary—and took a sip of the liqueur.

  The sugary licorice flavor came first, but on its heels was another taste, something akin to sharp citrus or pine. It was like nothing he’d ever tasted. As the initial wave began to fade, something new suffused Dardzada’s form. Unlike alcohol, which he might feel in his hands or feet or nose first, he felt the effects of the brightwine everywhere. It pervaded his entire form. He could see why Ezren had been embarrassed over the feeling. It felt wonderful, not merely as though he were young again but, gods, as though he’d been made anew. The aches and pains of his old body vanished, replaced with a vim and vigor he couldn’t remember ever having experienced before.

  Memories of his younger days came flooding back unbidden, but strangely, they were not the painful ones he returned to most often. These were the rare happy moments: a horse ride along the Haddah in spring with his mother and aunt; his trips to Kundhun and the woman he’d found there and loved for a time before returning home to Sharakhai; his time with the very cat he’d described to Li Bai.

  How he’d loved that cat before Layth had killed it….

  Strangely, none of the regrets surrounding these memories accompanied them. His departure from Kundhun had been made with a heavy heart, and his memories of that scrawny cat had always been followed with regret and depthless anger over Layth’s cruelty.

  Not now, though.

  Dardzada stared at the glass, one small sip missing from it. Gods help him, he regretted it wasn’t still full, that some of his time basking in it was already gone. He’d told himself he would come here, and he would take one sip and be done with it, but as more bright memories came and lit him from within, he found he couldn’t set the flute down, couldn’t prevent himself from lifting it to his lips again and again and again until all of it had slipped gloriously down his throat.

  Mellow as the sunrise, their host had said. Mellow indeed, Dardzada thought, shamed by the very thought.

  Minutes later. Hours later. He found himself staring up at the stars, lying down, though he couldn’t remember having done so. Ezren lay on the pillows opposite him, doing the very same thing, a beatific smile on his young, handsome face.

  It was with that one thought—how very youthful Ezren looked—that brought Dardzada back to himself. He’d wasted so much time already. He had to do what he’d come to do, and he had to do it now.

  Making sure Ezren wasn’t watching, he thrust his right hand into one of the many hidden pockets sewn inside his khalat and pinched the top off of a smal
l wooden jar. After palming the coin-sized object in his hand, he leaned back and began convulsing, his body jerking over and over. The gods knew he’d seen enough fits in his life as an apothecary to put on a reasonably good show, and he rather thought he was pulling it off.

  Indeed, Ezren rushed to his side, his face a mask of concern. “Are you well?” he whispered. Then louder, “Uncle, are you well?”

  Their host rushed in, wringing his hands. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “I don’t know!” Ezren said. “Please, fetch him some water!”

  The old man nodded and rushed down the stairs. The other guests—those conscious enough to notice—were watching now. Dardzada continued to spasm and jerk, his head cracking against the wooden planks of the deck until Ezren had the presence of mind to slip a pillow beneath it.

  When the old man returned, he came with a glass of water. Tai Lin, the woman that had met them out front, accompanied him. She was the one, then. She was the one he wanted.

  When the host passed the glass of water to Ezren, Tai Lin knelt and ran her hand down his back. “Has this happened to him before?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s your uncle, as I recall.”

  “Yes, but…” Though he had no idea he was, in fact, playing the part Dardzada had written for him, Ezren played it perfectly. “Not that I know of….”

  Tai Lin, her face concerned but also businesslike, stood and said, “We’ll fetch someone.”

  That was when Dardzada slowed his body, made as if the fit was passing. “That won’t be—” he started, then licked his lips. “That won’t be necessary.” He tried to make it to his feet, reaching his arm out to the woman for help. She came forward to assist, but before her arms could support his, he stumbled and grabbed the hem of her black dress, rubbing the wooden jar against the cloth so that the ointment within smeared liberally.

  “My apologies,” he said when he’d managed to stand at last. “It…happens from time to time. I’ve never been able to predict when.”

  Tai Lin waved his concerns away. “Don’t worry yourself. All is well. We care only that you’re feeling better, though it might be best if you return home, find your rest.”

  Dardzada nodded and winced while reaching into his khalat as if rubbing away pain from his fit. “Of course you’re right.” In a practiced move, he slipped the lid back onto the jar, then fumbled about as if he had no idea where the exit might be.

  “This way,” said Ezren, picking up exactly as Dardzada hoped he would.

  They left, Tai Lin escorting them, and soon they were out and into the streets of Tsitsian Village, the coming sunrise a tease of gold along the eastern horizon.

  “Do you mind telling me what that bloody fit was all about?”

  “It was nothing,” Dardzada said.

  “Nothing? You were falling over yourself! Was it an act?”

  Instead of answering, Dardzada slowed his gait. He held out his hand as if grasping for support—any support. Ezren took it as Dardzada fell to the dry street. “It’s never come on so strong.” He said weakly. “It must be the brightwine.” With one hand he grasped his chest, as if his heart were failing. With his other he reached into the leather pouch at his belt and retrieved a key. “Behind the front desk in my shop, there’s a brown satchel filled with instruments and a set of vials. Please bring it to me.”

  Ezren accepted the key—a key to a trunk in Dardzada’s basement, not the front door. He just wanted the man away from here, to be free to do what he had to do. Ezren made no move to run, however. It looked as though he were weighing his options. In the end, though, he nodded and ran off.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  As the sun rose, Dardzada stood in an alley, watching the archway through which he and Ezren had passed early the previous night. He’d been waiting a while, hoping the woman, Tai Lin, would emerge and head for the lords who ran the Garden, but she’d either taken another exit entirely or had left soon after Dardzada and Ezren had been escorted away. The night had been winding down, after all, and his fit had been abnormal enough that she would want to speak to them about it. Or so he hoped.

  With care, Dardzada reached into a pocket inside his khalat and pulled out a bundle of cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal a wad of cotton. Within the cloudy tufts, white moths no larger than the nail of his little finger fanned their wings, and when he held the cotton out to the chill morning air, they lifted from the folds, a small handful at first, then a dozen, then scores. They fluttered about in a cloud, as if they feared to be apart from one another, then wandered to the archway, where their pattern became noticeably more hypnotic. The woman had come through the archway, then, and not some other entrance.

  Slowly but surely, the moths billowed up the street, following the path the woman had taken.

  Dusted ivories, they were called, partly for their color, but also for how powdery their wings looked when viewed up close. They had a particular liking for the stalks of the charo plant, especially rotted ones, a thing he’d discovered long ago when tossing the milked remains of the charo plants into a midden behind his shop. Even when mixed into an ointment, which made the subtle smell practically undetectable to the human nose, the ivories followed the scent uncannily well. Dardzada looked to the forms in the shadows behind him. A woman was standing there casually, but at his nod, she stood taller and made short series of hand signals toward an alleyway, then nodded back to Dardzada.

  Dardzada followed after the moths, which were now slowly but surely hounding after Tai Lin. She was the key, he knew. She had been the one to check on him when his fit overtook him, and she would be the one to report it to those in command. Had the night gone as any other, there would be little guarantee that she would head to the drug lords who ran the Garden, but his hints that he had ties to the Kings would surely force her hand; for the same reason Dardzada didn’t want the Spears poking about his business, so would the Garden be concerned over even the smallest amount of added scrutiny from the House of Kings. All he need do was follow her. And then he would grant them justice, even if it wasn’t the Kings’ justice.

  Through the city the dusted ivories wove, taking him slowly but surely north, then east toward the city’s reservoir and plantations and rice terraces. He’d been certain the tale would have its ending somewhere near that place, but he’d had no idea where to look. As it turned out, all his guesses had been off. The ivories led him to a nondescript warehouse just off the sandy northern harbor, well away from the reservoir and the plantations. When it was clear where the ivories were headed, Dardzada opened the sealed wooden jar and tossed it at the foot of the stone wall. When he was sure all the ivories were flocking to it—preventing them from warning anyone inside the warehouse—he stepped up to one of the open windows and peered carefully inside. Within, he saw Tai Lin speaking with a heavyset Mirean man. A half dozen guardsmen stood around them, watching patiently.

  “Step away from that window,” came a soft voice.

  Dardzada turned and found six Silver Spears standing there, all of them holding their tall, iconic spears at the ready. When Dardzada didn’t immediately comply with the soldier’s demand, their leader, a man with a black beard and a chipped tooth, forced the issue, stepping forward and pressing the tip of his spear into Dardzada’s side.

  Dardzada backed away. “Are we going to see Ezren?”

  He’d become convinced that Ezren was involved, and he’d thought surely the soldier would give something away with the mere question, but give the man credit. Nothing betrayed his surprise beyond a slight twitch along his eyelids. “Come now,” he said, pointing his spear toward the alley that would lead to the warehouse’s back entrance. “Let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

  “What about Layth? Don’t you wish to summon him?”

  Before Dardzada knew what was happening, the Spear reversed the weapon and brought the foot of it crashing across his brow. Blood trickled down from Dardzada’s temple. The blow wasn’t a
s hard as it could have been, but his vision still swam with stars.

  “Now get yourself moving and keep your bloody questions to your ruddy fucking self.”

  His skull flaring with pain, Dardzada moved clumsily to the head of the alley. Further down, Tai Lin and the heavyset Mirean and their bodyguards were stepping out into the chill morning air. Dardzada walked toward them, trying to create a bit of space between him and the tip of the guardsman’s spear behind him. When they were all in the alley—Tai Lin and her men ahead, the Silver Spears behind—Dardzada brought his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

  The Spears behind Dardzada looked about, clearly sensing the danger they were in. Tai Lin and the other Mireans drew their swords. But they all froze when they saw forms appear along the tops of the two buildings bordering the alley. Twenty armed men and women, turbans and veils hiding their identities, stared down. Most held bows with arrows drawn. Others had short spears poised, ready to hurl them downward.

  “Drop your weapons,” Dardzada said.

  The six Spears complied immediately. Tai Lin and her men hesitated, but when the fat one ran for the far end of the alley and three arrows immediately took him in the back, felling him in a heap, they complied as well.

  A pity, Dardzada thought. I would have liked to speak with him.

  A dozen of the newcomers then dropped down to the ground, pulling shamshirs. These were soldiers of the Moonless Host. Some in Sharakhai would call them traitors, rebels fighting to bring down the Kings. Dardzada, however, called them his brothers and sisters, though very few in Sharakhai knew this. They’d been sent by their leader, Macide, the man with the viper tattoos, and told to follow Dardzada, to do whatever it was he wished. It was not something Dardzada did often, associating in the open with the Host, but for this, he’d made an exception.