by Jeff Wheeler
The fight had gone on for several minutes without either contestant falling back, but both were dripping in sweat. Often contests could be decided in just a few blows, the skill of one party far exceeding the other, but these two were more evenly matched. While Damanhur was younger, his master had clearly taught him well.
The match could still go either way.
“I won’t object if you yield,” he said tauntingly, trying to throw off Kunmia’s concentration.
She didn’t reply, choosing instead to send a whirling kick toward his head. He ducked, seized her tunic front, and shoved her away. Kunmia flipped in midair and landed on her feet, eliciting a gasp of wonder from the bystanders.
Bingmei bit her lip, feeling the smell of the two fighters wash over her. The anticipation in the room was growing as the two masters grew more exhausted.
Damanhur managed to punch twice in the middle, which made Bingmei wince in pain for her master, but Kunmia replied with an elbow against his nose, which smeared blood down his mouth as he wiped it.
He dropped into a sudden crouch, trying to trip her over his outstretched leg, but she locked her leg with his, levering it against him. Her angle was better, and soon he toppled down onto his back, his head hitting against the stone with a loud smack. Bingmei saw his eyes roll back in his head, but she smelled a spurt of rotten fruit—deception—and knew he was only pretending to be unconscious. Kunmia backed away, breathing hard, staring at him.
Bingmei nearly cried out in warning at the trick. But Kunmia was no fool. She jumped away just as his legs pivoted around, nearly stroking the backs of her knees. When she landed, she kicked the edge of his knee then dropped to a low stance and smashed her knuckles against his brow.
Bingmei felt a jolt of pain go through Kunmia, followed by the scent of worry that she’d broken her hand.
But Bao Damanhur lay motionless on the stone tiles, blood streaming from his nostrils. He was unconscious. Bingmei could smell nothing coming from him. Her master’s final blow had concussed him.
Kunmia Suun rose, chest heaving, and then faced King Budai and gave him a salute. Budai chortled, clapping his hands in delight.
The thrill of victory was enough to distract Marenqo’s attention from the food. He shouted with glee as Zhuyi and Mieshi gripped each other’s arms, flush with their master’s victory. Bingmei could nearly taste the sour smell of defeat from their rivals, but her own happiness was spilling over. She clapped and then covered her mouth, nearly sobbing with relief. Quion was shaking his head at her, his grin infectious, and she gave him a quick hug. Looking over his shoulder, she saw Rowen, the exiled prince, staring at Damanhur on the floor. She smelled his disappointment, his dread, and his want of financial means pressing on him. He’d hoped for an easy victory.
He caught her looking at him, and offered a weak congratulatory smile and a nod. But she sensed his growing resentment. It would probably be best to stay out of his way during their mission.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Season of the Dragon of Night
They stayed three days in Wangfujing to recover from their arduous summer journey as well as the contest between Kunmia and Damanhur. The sword master’s pride had been humbled, and he had shorn his hair as a sign of subservience to another master’s skill. Kunmia had told him it wasn’t necessary, but his honor demanded it. Bingmei could smell his resentment and determination to do better, but he was in awe of Kunmia’s skill. That emotion was real.
Budai had insisted they leave for Fusang immediately, to try to claim it before winter, but Kunmia had refused. Her long experience had proven that winter came unexpectedly, and she insisted it would be wiser to depart as soon as the snows began to fade. Nature could be a bitter enemy as much as it could be a friend.
Bingmei spent time with Quion during their stay and showed him more of the town. The ensign’s payment in coins from King Budai for the mission gave them ample opportunities to enjoy the town’s delicacies. Quion’s grief at losing his father was still pungent and raw, and she felt he needed a friend. Marenqo was also kind to him, when he wasn’t eating his fill at the local hot pots, and the boy’s shyness and reserve began to diminish. It was a much needed rest before the journey back to the quonsuun. Bingmei even indulged herself by buying a little scorpion pendant she’d always fancied.
On the morning of their departure, Bingmei sought out Kunmia to inform her that the rest of the ensign was prepared for the voyage and waiting at the gate. She found the master with her gear already strapped to her back, staff in hand, walking through the terraced garden with King Budai. Not even the fragrance of the peonies could mask the sharp smell of his greed today. Although she approached them openly, from the path ahead of them, their focus on each other was such that neither noticed at first.
“Are you certain you don’t want to leave the Phoenix Blade here, Kunmia?” the king asked. His craving for her to sell it to him was enormous, but he hid it behind a facade of concern.
“I’ve decided to take it back to the quonsuun,” Kunmia replied. She gripped her rune-carved staff in one hand. Her other hand was still bandaged from the contest.
Relief flooded Bingmei as she approached them. She didn’t want Budai to have the sword.
King Budai frowned and nodded. “It’s your choice, of course. But wouldn’t it be safer here? I would waive the storage fee if you decided to allow me to keep it for you.” The ruler glanced up and saw Bingmei. “Ah, good morning, young ice rose.” They paused when they reached her.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, bowing in respect.
“It is almost time for you to go,” Budai said, looking back at Kunmia. “Unless I can persuade you to linger another day or two? There will be an acrobatic display soon on the stage in the center of town. Surely your younger disciples would hate to miss that?”
Kunmia shook her head. “Each day we delay brings the season of the Dragon of Night closer.”
“What caravan will you be accompanying? There are several heading to the mountains.”
“I’ve agreed to protect Jiu Gang’s caravan,” Kunmia said.
Budai pursed his lips and nodded vigorously. “A wise choice. His grain will feed plenty over the winter. I loathe the dark months. The bitter cold. The unyielding ice. I wish the Dragon of Dawn ruled always.” He pretended his palms were weighing scales and lifted one up and lowered the other down. “But there must be a balance. A time to seed. A time to grow. I still wish I could persuade you to start your mission at once. But I know you are too wise to be tempted by money, Kunmia Suun.”
And for that, Bingmei was grateful. Although she loved this town, she was ready to be away from his palace and its sweaty smell. And she wished for the Phoenix Blade to be safely away from him.
“What about the fisherman who found the stone? What will he do during the season?” Kunmia asked him.
“Oh, I’ll not let him off the hook!” Budai said with a grin. “He will sup and dine, and Guanjia will continue to rack up a mighty debt for him to repay. He believes what he wants to believe, that my steward’s loyalty has a price. He’s unwise.”
“That is not very generous,” Kunmia said with a disapproving tone.
“Can I help it if men are weak willed and easily corrupted? I will pay the boon I promised to pay him should his discovery prove to be Fusang. But he will owe me more than that. This is how commerce works, Kunmia. Does Jiu Gang resent having to pay you for protection from the Qiangdao? Of course! But if he did not pay you, he would likely be attacked and robbed. By paying you, he prevents that outcome. He may resent it, but it’s necessary. No single law governs these coastal towns. It is all ungovernable. And so we must make do with the world we have and not the one we want.”
“There could be a unifying law,” Kunmia said pointedly.
Budai grunted. Bingmei cocked her head, curious to know more. The king continued his walk, and Bingmei fell in behind them, staying silent in the hopes her presence would be forgotten.
; “You speak of King Shulian of Sajinau,” he said in a neutral tone. Bingmei caught the odor of jealousy and contempt. It smelled like onions.
“Is he not still seeking to unify the kingdoms?” Kunmia asked.
“Oh yes, he is. King Shulian is an honorable man, for certain.” His words belied the strong smell coming from him. “But would it not benefit him and his son, the crown prince, the most? I am a king now. Why would I be content to be merely a governor?”
“I don’t seek to persuade you,” Kunmia said. “Only to advise.”
“I know, Kunmia. And I respect you, truly. Your loyalty to my father, and now to me, is a source of great honor. If I were the last king to bow the knee to King Shulian, I would. Eventually. But I don’t anticipate the other rulers will agree. King Fuchou is a hateful man. He’d never agree to be subservient to anyone. King Qianxu is . . . well . . . modest. I think he’ll lose his kingdom before any such unity happens. He’s too weak. King Mingzhi may agree to such an arrangement, but will he? I wonder. Yes, it is for the common good, but what king will want to be the first to capitulate? And what about the kingdoms across the sea on the western rim? Does anyone in Dawanju or Sihui feel allegiance to distant Sajinau? I think not. The Qiangdao are a menace to everyone. They war among themselves as often as they attack us. If they were ever to band together, they’d be a formidable threat. But they don’t join one another for the same reason we don’t.”
“Pride?” Kunmia asked, giving him a pointed look and a questioning smile.
King Budai’s face compacted, as if he were giving the matter great thought. “That’s not exactly the word I would use. It’s more like . . . ambition. Look at this palace, Kunmia,” he said, gesturing with his palm. “I didn’t make it. Neither did my father. It was built by who knows who? If they could not keep their palaces . . . if they could not keep from destroying themselves . . . why should we hope to do any better? Perhaps it was banding together as one that caused their downfall? We’ll never know.”
They walked in silence after that, and Budai’s words struck Bingmei deeply. He was right, in a way. Whatever civilization had built the palaces, the Death Wall beyond the kingdoms, the stone wharves with their stone boats, there was no record left behind of what had caused their demise. Different kings had conjured different explanations. Angry gods. Disgruntled dragons. Or the killing fog. There was no way of knowing the truth. What had caused them to perish? No one had survived to tell the dark tale, and so there were only rumors, whispered a thousand times until they sounded like truth.
They were approaching the main gate with the heavy doors. The others waited there. Marenqo had a forlorn look on his face, his pack laden with food and gifts he’d purchased. He always enjoyed their stays in town more than the rest. Mieshi was scowling, but Zhuyi looked at peace. Quion stood there as well with his overstuffed pack, the pans still dangling from it. When he saw Bingmei approaching with the others, he gave her a friendly smile. She returned it. She’d taught him to control his expressions when visiting the town. Smiling too much would make a vendor want to cheat him. It was better to look wary, to appear distrustful. But it was safe to be more free with emotion around others in the ensign.
“You’ve decided to take the boy with you?” King Budai asked her. “The boat at the dock will be reclaimed by the man who owned it.”
“He has no family now. As a fisherman’s son, he’ll be useful on the journey ahead.”
“I imagine so. He could stay here, of course—”
“No thank you,” Kunmia said, interrupting him. Bingmei felt a throb of respect for her. Kunmia was giving off a protective smell, the kind that reminded Bingmei of her own mother. A pang of loss struck her heart. Memories of her mother grew more dim with each year. There was no purpose in clinging to them. Only sadness. But Bingmei would always remember her smell, that loving, tender smell that had made her feel safe and loved. The smell of the cinnamon porridge that her mother used to make for her.
But safety was an illusion. There was no safety in their world. Danger was an invisible dragon in the mist. One that couldn’t be seen but was always near. Always hungry for another victim.
That dragon had claimed another life that season. They were returning to the quonsuun without Lieren. Yet they would go on, as they must, without him. Kunmia would choose another to lead the way, or she would do it herself. Even with an injured hand, she was formidable.
“Have Guanjia fetch the sword, please,” Kunmia said, turning to face King Budai.
The powerful smell of his greed flared up again. He looked calm and peaceful, but there was no disguising his true nature. Bingmei felt a throb of warning.
“Of course,” he said. Turning, he snapped his fingers, and Guanjia appeared. The order was given to retrieve it from the treasury.
Quion approached Bingmei. “So we’re going to the quonsuun now?” he said in a low voice.
She nodded, unable to take her eyes off Budai.
“The winter months are the hardest, but I know how to fish in the ice.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s how we stayed alive,” he answered. “Are there any lakes by the quonsuun?”
“Several,” Bingmei answered. “But don’t the fish freeze?”
“They don’t. I’ll take you.”
“Won’t we freeze to death in the cold?” she asked, arching her brows.
“Not if you wear the right things. My father said there is no such thing as bad weather. Only bad clothes.”
“That’s like saying there is no bad food, only bad cooks,” Marenqo said sagely, rubbing his mouth. “Anything can be edible if prepared properly. It’s all in the sauce.”
“Missing Wangfujing already?” Mieshi teased. “We haven’t even left yet.”
“Look. They’re coming,” Zhuyi said.
Their smell struck her just after Zhuyi announced them—Damanhur and Rowen, although she called him by his assumed name. Wuren. When there were crowds, it was harder for her to notice individual scents.
Mieshi smelled like satisfied revenge, a syrupy flavor. She gave Damanhur a condescending look. Although his hair was shorn, he still walked with bravado, his sword at his hip. He gave Mieshi a saucy look that said, You prefer me this way. I know it.
Rowen, who stood next to him, was looking over their group. Despite his regal bearing, he smelled of smoldering ashes, a smoky smell that whispered of thwarted ambition. The exiled prince would stay in Wangfujing until the season changed, accumulating more debt under the craftiness of King Budai and his trusted steward. He was in bondage and didn’t even know it. Bingmei felt a little sorry for him, but someone like him wouldn’t listen to her advice. Nor would he thank her for giving it.
“You are leaving, then?” Damanhur said to Kunmia.
“You are welcome to winter with us at the quonsuun,” Kunmia replied.
Damanhur chuckled. “I think Wangfujing will provide better amusements during the season of the Dragon of Night. But thank you for your invitation. I will miss”—his eyes darted to Mieshi, and he smiled—“all of you very much. You are protecting a caravan heading out today?”
“Jiu Gang’s,” Kunmia replied.
Damanhur nodded. “Safe journeys. We will see you again in the spring, when the Dragon of Dawn melts the snow.”
As they saluted each other, the other members of Kunmia’s ensign followed suit, offering their own salutes to their new allies.
But they could not hold Bingmei’s attention for long. She felt the presence of the Phoenix Blade. Its call sang in her blood. Guanjia was carrying the box it had been put in. When he arrived, he held it out to Kunmia. Bingmei felt her hands start to tremble. She hid them behind her back, not wanting the others to sense her covetousness, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the sandalwood box.
Kunmia unlocked the case and opened it. The light gleamed on the design of the phoenix carved into the hilt.
“Now that’s a sight,” Quion wh
ispered in awe.
Bingmei’s mouth went dry with want.
Kunmia nodded in respect and snapped the lid closed, which muted the sensation—only a little.
“Thank you,” Kunmia said, taking the box from the steward’s hands.
King Budai was not the only one who coveted the blade. The acid smell of greed was growing more and more powerful. But not just from Budai. Bingmei looked at Rowen, who wore a completely complacent expression. The smell was strong in him. At that moment, she also smelled a little of it in herself, something that shamed her.
The prince was looking right at her. There were too many people, too many emotions for her to understand what he was feeling. But his look was wary.
As if she were a rival for the sword.
Studying is like rowing upstream: no advancement is the same as dropping back.
—Dawanjir proverb
CHAPTER EIGHT
Winter’s End
During the long winter months, Bingmei trained by lamplight in the interior training room in the quonsuun, protected from the fierce winds and deep snow. At this point, this quonsuun felt as much like home as the one her grandfather had once possessed. She loved the square-shaped building with the sloping roof edged with designs and embellished with tortoises, eagles, and stags that was a part of her daily routine. The ancients had crafted the ironwork. The ancients had hefted the massive timbers into place. Because the quonsuun was in the mountains, it had been built to withstand a heavy load of snow on the roof. As she went about her business, she could not help but think of those who had come before—and what had become of them.
The skeleton of her grandfather’s quonsuun would still be standing, she knew, although she had not gone back there since joining Kunmia. The ancients had built strong buildings. It tortured her to think of her former home in ruins. It would be worse if it were being inhabited by men like the Qiangdao, of course, but she didn’t think that was the case. Even after that terrible winter when she’d survived the murders, the Qiangdao had quickly left once spring came for fear of being discovered. Men like that feared justice and laws. They wouldn’t make a lair of such a place.
