Thirteen Orphans

by Jane Lindskold

  Pearl opened a kitchen cabinet. Two plates. (Two others were drying in the dish rack along with some handleless teacups.) A few saucers and bowls. Two chipped mugs. A stack of plastic cups. Chopsticks, the cheap kind that splintered, were stuck into yet another plastic cup. She turned her attention to the refrigerator.

  “Money,” Riprap said a few moments later to the accompaniment of a clink as he put the top back on the toilet tank. “Credit cards. We still haven’t figured out how they’re paying for what they do buy. That didn’t bother me at first because I thought they were like Foster was when we first saw him, sort of exotic, vanishing and all, wearing robes. Now we know otherwise. They’re living like real people, not like genies. So where’s the money coming from to pay for their food and rent, for their contemporary clothing?”

  Pearl snapped open each of the opaque plastic containers arrayed on the wire rack shelves in the refrigerator. Hiding money in a butter tub was an old trick, but a good one. Few thieves wanted to take the time to check every container in a fridge. She found garlic, ginger, various sauces and seasonings. Cooked rice. A box of eggs with five left. Some leftover stir-fry that had lots of eggplant and garlic in it and smelled lightly of vinegar. The remains of a can of bamboo shoots.

  “Diaries, journals, spell books,” Des said. “Anything we can use to learn more about them.”

  The refrigerator was clean, not only of items of interest, but of mold or must. Wondering whether the Dragon or the Snake was the excellent housekeeper, Pearl moved her attention to a shelf holding dry goods, including several bags of various kinds of rice. These had all been opened, and part poured into canisters for easier use. Moving ten-pound bags every time one wanted to make a cup of rice would be a pain.

  Although the rice bags were heavy, Pearl lifted each of these down. Amid the jasmine rice, her fingers encountered something hard and round. Before she could say anything or check further, there came the sound of the front door opening.

  A new voice, unmistakable nonetheless, spoke.

  “Do you wish to know more about us?” asked Righteous Drum, the Dragon. “Why not ask?”

  Pearl lifted the bag of jasmine rice back onto the shelf, and moved to the kitchen doorway.

  The Dragon stood in the doorway to the apartment, an apparently ordinary Chinese man, round-faced, somewhat squarely built. Clad in neat slacks of a tan verging on yellow and a button-down sports shirt the color of sunflowers, Righteous Drum looked much less exotic than the figure who had stood on Pearl’s front porch that night some weeks ago, but he was no less commanding.

  “During the Double-Dragon Hour,” the Dragon went on, “I usually do tai chi and then meditate. It strengthens me for the rest of the day. Today, I came out of my meditation to discover that my daughter, Honey Dream, had gone away. She had left me a note, promising that she would return shortly. However, Honey Dream has been restless these past few days, a thing she has taken great pains to conceal from me—as if her own father would not notice. I decided I should go after her, and preserve her from whatever foolishness she intended. I was riding in a taxicab, greatly annoying the driver with my erratic directions, when I felt one of my wards very neatly defaced. I suspect that the cabdriver was relieved rather than otherwise when I asked him to take me back here.”

  During this speech, the Dragon finished entering the apartment and closed the door into the hallway behind him. Des, Riprap, and Nissa had come to the doorways of the rooms they had been searching, and stood in a more or less straight line. Pearl was weirdly reminded of one of those game shows where contestants wait by doors number one, two, and three.

  “I should have taken more time disarming that ward,” Des said quite conversationally when the Dragon stopped speaking, “but Nissa was frantic, and I fear I was not thinking too clearly myself. You have a fine sense for evoking personal terrors.”

  “Fear,” the Dragon said, “is something any wise creature feels when approaching a dragon. We are sagacious, but we are also very powerful.”

  There was a threat in those polite words, but Pearl was a Tiger, and she had three good allies, while the Dragon was alone. She knew this, knew he knew it, and suspected that he was talking in the hope that his daughter—and perhaps even Foster—would arrive to help even the odds.

  Keep him talking then, she thought. It should not be too difficult. He seems to love the sound of his own voice. Or is it that to us, here, he can speak his own strange form of Chinese and be understood?

  But if that had been what motivated the Dragon’s lengthy speech, it had not been his only reason. While he spoke, he had moved a few steps closer to Des, who was leaning against the doorframe of the Dragon’s bedroom, the one closest to the outer door.

  Swift as driving rain, with a movement of his right hand, the Dragon threw a piece of yellow paper at Des. It snapped as a kite does in the wind, but unlike a kite it moved with purpose and direction.

  But Des Lee also had not been standing making idle chatter. They all knew something of their enemies and their tactics by now. That pose against the doorframe had concealed what Des had slid onto his left hand, probably as soon as he had heard the outer door begin to open. Long and wickedly curving, the unique martial-arts weapon created by the Exile Rooster rested with lethal effectiveness on the current Rooster’s hand.

  Des took full advantage of the surprise his left-handedness granted him. He slashed out, shivering the piece of yellow paper into strips, with a second slice reducing them to confetti.

  The Dragon was only momentarily put off. He snapped forth another piece of yellow paper, but this time not at Des, nor at Riprap, who was charging at him from the bathroom door. This one filled the air with acrid smoke, setting everyone but the Dragon coughing and sneezing.

  Through the noise, Pearl heard a faint beeping. She wondered if the Dragon had set off a smoke alarm, wondered, too, what would be her best course of action. She had discovered what they had come here for—she was sure of it. Should she get away with the crystals while she could?

  She was one old woman. What could she add to a fight where there were younger people, male and female alike, to take the front lines? She had brought Treaty, but could she really cut into someone? No, better that she win the war by getting the crystals away, and leave her friends to the fight.

  Turning, Pearl Bright moved back into the kitchen, reaching hurriedly to lift down the heavy bag of jasmine rice.

  26

  Honey Dream seemed to have forgotten Brenda’s presence. Crystal in one hand, calligraphy in the other, she rose and glided over to Foster.

  “Cup your hand like so to hold this,” she said, setting the sphere in his hand. He held it as she directed, cupped close to his body, at the level of his solar plexus. “Now we will breathe on the paper as one.”

  She held the strip of green paper between them, positioning it so it dangled over the crystal.

  “Now.”

  Foster bent his head to the paper, while Honey Dream slightly raised her lips to do the same. The motion was that of a strange kiss, especially as two sets of lips puckered to gently blow upon the green paper.

  Brenda wanted to look away, but forced herself to focus. If in the next moment Foster would complete that kiss …

  But he did not. The Snake was the one who rose onto her toes and pressed her lips upon his, the green paper dissolving as she did so, vanishing into a tightly focused shower that glittered as it fell down onto the crystal in Foster’s cupped hand. The moment the first of the glitter touched the crystal, Foster—no, Flying Claw, Brenda must remember that was his name—reeled back half a pace, his head jerking back, his cupped hand clenching.

  He gave a small cry that might have been pain, might simply have been shock, and stood frozen in that stance for what seemed like an eternity, but was only seconds as measured by the robin’s triumphant song. Brenda thought she heard the peeping squeaks of young robins, but then again, the sounds might have come from Foster—from Flying Claw. His lips wer
e pulled back now, slightly parted, his expression mingling ecstasy and pain.

  There was a battle being fought in that lean, muscular form, one that contorted those handsome features into something grotesque, even ugly. Brenda noticed the Snake’s expression had darkened from pleasant anticipation into concern, but other than taking a small step away from Foster, she did nothing.

  At last the struggle ended, the long, strong fingers unclenched. The crystal sphere had vanished, and with it had vanished a certain questioning look that had never completely left Foster’s eyes the entire time Brenda had known him. Without it, he would have looked enough of a stranger, even without the new stance he took, balanced lightly on both feet, even without the calculation that entered his gaze as he took in all his surroundings seemingly without conscious effort.

  Before, even when throwing himself into a game of basketball or running after Lani, there had been something slightly awkward in Foster’s bearing—something easily overlooked, because he was otherwise the embodiment of lithe grace. Now, though, his was the stance of a hunting tiger, poised to leap and rend.

  “Flying Claw,” the Snake breathed, raising one hand so that she could stroke Flying Claw’s arm. “Your memory is returned to you?”

  “It is,” he said. “I thank you for your efforts, Honey Dream. I agree with you as I could not before. Righteous Drum, the Dragon, will not be pleased. You have taken much upon yourself.”

  “Risking my father’s anger,” Honey Dream said, “was fair price for regaining you as you were. Filial piety is a merit that can be abused.”

  “So you have broken filial piety,” Flying Claw said, and his mouth moved in a strange frown, almost a snarl, a little bit of a sneer, “to return me to what I was. What I was, and maybe a bit else.”

  The Snake let her hand drop from his arm, stepping back as if that expression, those words, were a blow. She halted in midretreat and squared her shoulders—to great effect in how her T-shirt stretched over her breasts, Brenda noticed with a certain, sardonic humor.

  “You are grateful,” Honey Dream said, her tone soothing, “I think.”

  “I am,” Flying Claw replied. “What man would not be for being made whole, after having been to himself what a shadow is to the rainbow?”

  “Then you will approve that I have not been the fool you seem to think,” Honey Dream went on, her tone caressing. “I have a plan to divert my father’s wrath from you and from me.”

  Brenda recalled her conversations with Pearl, conversations in which Brenda herself had noted that the Snake was not likely to make a fair trade. The Rat crystal was in Brenda’s possession, as was the spell to release her father’s memory from its hold. She’d better get out of here.

  Brenda started edging for her car, not wanting to run lest she attract attention to herself. For the moment Flying Claw—it was easy now to think of this hard-eyed stranger by that name—and Honey Dream seemed to have forgotten her.

  But she was wrong. Honey Dream had not forgotten her.

  “Don’t go, Brenda Morris,” she said. “I have a little something for you.”

  Brenda didn’t hesitate, but moved to pull one of the protective spells from the array at her wrist. The motion began quickly, but as she looped her thumb beneath the band, she struggled, suddenly slowed. The All Green she had activated earlier now showed her that the black glow of the Rat crystal held something darker as well, a stain the deep red of congealing blood.

  “You accepted an insignificant gift from me along with what I promised,” Honey Dream laughed. “You checked for authenticity. Did you check for more?”

  Brenda hadn’t. She didn’t know how to do so. Des’s spell was not that sophisticated. Indeed, the fact that she was seeing anything other than the black surprised her. Was this that little bit of the Rat working in her favor again?

  Brenda said nothing in reply. The slowness that had seized her limbs robbed her of speech as well. Honey Dream clearly expected this, for her next words were addressed to Flying Claw.

  “There is a oddness about Brenda Morris,” she said. “I want to find out what it is. While I am finding out her secret, I also will take back the Rat crystal and my spell. Thus, when I return to my father, he will have no reason to be angry with me. I will have regained our Tiger and lost nothing—and perhaps brought back the answer to why this Ratling is more than she should be.”

  Flying Claw raised his eyebrows. He looked interested in a cool, calculating fashion. He gave Honey Dream a small smile.

  “Ambitious,” he said. “But then the Snake loves intrigue as the Rat loves cleverness. You two are actually well-matched.”

  Honey Dream was clearly offended. “Matched? She is matched and beaten.”

  Flying Claw had moved over to the duffel as the Snake explained her plan. Now he knelt and unzipped it, removing his sword from within with an ease and confidence that demonstrated that what Foster had forgotten Flying Claw had recalled.

  “Beaten?” He pulled the blade from its sheath, and the dappled sunlight caught against the shining steel. “By your trickery Brenda is indeed beaten, but by her kindness—and her filial piety—she is redeemed. You offered her a trade. I think that I will assure that trade is honored.”

  “What? I thought your memory was restored! You know that we need the Rat’s memory. Why do you falter? Can you not see that she has been nothing but your jailer?”

  Flying Claw did not sheathe the sword. “My memory is restored, dearest Honey Dream. I remember how Brenda treated me, although I think your spell was infused—purely by accident, I am sure—with the desire I not remember aught but blurred images of my days as Foster. I remember your love for me. I appreciate what tremendous risks you have taken in the name of that love. Consider it a sign of my love for you that I will not make you a liar. Brenda will go free, with the Rat’s memory and your spell.”

  “But …”

  Flying Claw turned the shining blade side-to-side. A trick of the light made it seem that the very shadows were cut by that honed steel.

  “You will remove the binding from Brenda?” Flying Claw said. “In the name of honesty? Or shall I be forced to slice it clean away?”

  Honey Dream’s resistance melted all at once. She traced a few figures in the air, then made a throwing motion in Brenda’s direction. The bloody hue vanished from the crystal’s aura. In the same instant, Brenda felt the slowness leave her limbs.

  “Drive safely,” Flying Claw said in English. Then he switched to Chinese. “Thank the others for what kindnesses they showed me. However, from this moment, consider all debts paid between us. I have set not only you free, but set the Rat free as well. That is enough.”

  Brenda didn’t hesitate. She wanted to say something, anything, be witty, intelligent, incisive, all those things Rats were supposed to be, but all she felt was scared.

  When Brenda got into the rental car, the faint scent of Foster still lingered, tearing into her heart, a last trace of someone forever gone.

  Then she backed up the car and pulled out onto the main road. She had to get to Japantown. The others needed to be warned that soon they would face not only a Dragon, but a Snake and a Tiger as well.

  A young, strong Tiger with a great deal to prove.

  Eight small crystal spheres weighed a fair amount, but Pearl was less concerned about their weight than possible damage they might take whacking against each other if she were to drop them into her pockets or stuff them into one of the bags or containers that were available here in the kitchen.

  Pearl was casting around for something to use to carry the crystals when she saw Treaty on the countertop. She couldn’t very well leave her father’s heirloom sword behind. Possibly the long case and some plastic wrap would solve her problem. She hurried over to retrieve the case.

  Sounds from the other room were not encouraging, nor were a variety of strange odors. Pearl took a moment to activate one of the protective spells she had carried with her, choosing Winds over Dragons for obvi
ous reasons.

  Even with her protections in place, Pearl was glad that she would not need to cross the rest of the apartment to make her escape. The kitchen window was as large as any of the others—probably heritage from whatever the building had been before it was converted to apartments—and conveniently near the wooden exterior staircase. She should be able to go out the window and onto the staircase without stretching too far.

  She heard a clash of metal against something solid, and hoped no one had gotten hurt.

  Just give me time to get away, she thought, reaching for the sword case and sliding down the zipper. I’m too old for this.

  “But not,” asked a rough, growling voice within her head, “for climbing out windows and leaping over to rickety wooden staircases? What is wrong with you, woman?”

  The voice was her father’s—and was her own as well. Ever since she had been a small girl, Pearl had critiqued herself in her father’s voice. If the voice seemed to be coming from where Treaty’s blade shone, revealed in the flickering sunlight through the poorly curtained window, then so be it, but Pearl knew it for the voice of her own heart.

  And with that reprimand in her father’s voice, Pearl recognized the touch of the dragon’s breath on her heart, the same fear that had nearly pushed her to retreat there on the stair. Was the Dragon causing it through one of the spells he had cast in the other room or had she triggered some ward when digging through the bag of jasmine rice? That hardly mattered. What did was that now that Pearl recognized the fear as not her own—or rather, as something she would not normally have surrendered to—she could fight it.