Rise of the Dragon

by C K Gold

  “Honored chief,” he said, voice low, “without the support of my elders, I would not have succeeded in taking Boar’s head. Without them, I certainly would not have been returned here alive. For my sake, please do not be angry with them. I undertook to complete a bothersome task alone so that it would not trouble them. Theirs are the skills that enrich our family under your guidance; I am only a humble weapon.”

  Red Hand laughed. “Listen to him! I believe that’s the most I’ve heard you speak at once, ever.” His fingers dug painfully into Fang’s shoulder, straining the stitches hidden beneath robes and bandages. Red Hand faced his throne and the rest of his godsons. “What do you think, Big Wei? Did that double the number of words he’s said?”

  A sickly smile spread over Big Wei’s face. “Tripled, maybe,” he said. “What do you think, Ranu?”

  “Tripled, surely,” Ranu said. His smirk had turned into a sneer that told Fang all too clearly what Ranu thought of his words.

  Did you want me to rub your nose in it? Fang managed a slight smile and bowed his head.

  “Then that must be a great effort for Fang, eh? Well, I’m sure you all agree that great deeds merit great rewards,” Red Hand said. “We’ve learned that a shipment is coming south from Ten Gates.”

  The men murmured; no ships had come out of Ten Gates in years. The last news of the place was that it had been besieged by the provincial governor for nearly a year, and the walls showed no signs of falling. For a ship to leave meant either successful negotiations, or that the mad monks who controlled the place had finally been defeated.

  “Ten Gates is now in fact once more part of our fine empire. The northern barbarians aided the governor in breaking the city’s resistance. A proclamation will be read tomorrow and an official imperial feast day declared — the ten year rebellion has ended.” Red Hand couldn’t have sounded more proud if he’d conquered the city himself.

  Fang exhaled slowly. What does this mean for us? This was news Birch needed to hear, too. His thoughts fluttered through all the ways he could smuggle this knowledge to Birch early before stumbling over one cold, hard fact: the Rootless Society wasn’t in any place to take advantage of a half-day’s warning about something happening weeks away from Deepwater.

  “Of course, it’ll be months before we even know what conditions are like in the city. Chaos, certainly. How much of the old power structures remain? We all know that the tin-pots there hated any competition, and with them gone, there’re a lot of opportunities for the powerful and ambitious.” Red Hand released Fang’s shoulder and returned to his throne.

  It was all Fang could do not to sigh in relief. He felt Jun’s eye on him and didn’t let his stone face slip.

  “More, there’s word that Ten Gates has assembled a rich tribute to the provincial governor, including an object of power — something that has never before left Ten Gates. Something no outsider has ever beheld. Anyone who holds it will have unprecedented power. The governor wishes to be elevated in the imperial court and an object like this would be a godsend for a man of his ambitions.” The old man grinned with the mad eyes of a fox. “Fang, I give you the honor of leading this job — retrieve that artifact and any imperial reports on Ten Gates. Do this, and you’ll be rewarded like no brother has ever been before. Anything you request will be yours.”

  Fang met Red Hand’s eyes. The old man’s grin slowly faded as the moment stretched into outright defiance. His hand crept toward the knife at his waist, but Fang knelt and crossed his right arm over his breast in an old and formal salute from warrior to warlord. Red Hand was a man of his word. Fang’s heart hammered. Anything I want. Mad delusions swam through his body, filling him with a singing tension so high he felt like a string about to snap.

  “I pledge on my life that I’ll bring you this treasure, chief,” Fang said, words spilling out like blood. The image of heads rolling filled his mind.

  Red Hand laughed, breaking the silent tension that had risen during their staring match. Fang felt certain that he’d just been sentenced to death. Yet that promise tempted him. Anything. Red Hand might have just given him the answer to his problems on the same silver tray as Boar’s pickled head.

  Jun stomped his foot and roared, “To our youngest brother! Fang!” The others picked up the chant, even the juniors. Fang rose to his feet with the dizzying beat of his own name being chanted like a battle cry.

  Red Hand let the ruckus go on for a few seconds before raising his hands for silence again. “The shipment should be here within roughly two weeks. With luck, on the day of the new festival celebrating Ten Gates’ fall. Recover quickly, Fang, and lay your plans. Whatever assistance you need will be yours. For now, however,” the old man grinned, “we should celebrate victory and the confusion of our enemies. The Moon Knives are in civil war — there’s no brotherhood so close as won’t draw knives on each other for a throne, hmm?” A knowing gleam entered his dark eyes. Big Wei shifted his weight and stared past Fang. “Tonight, we feast! Drink to your hearts’ content! Toast Brother Fang! Toast victory!”

  The old man stood and the elder brothers hung at his elbows, following him from the audience chamber to the hall below. Fang, grappling with all the new possibilities, lingered until Ranu snatched his sleeve and unsubtly forced him along. The unwelcome proximity served to snap Fang out of his reverie. Ranu probably wouldn’t try to stab him to death with so many witnesses, but it didn’t hurt to be alert.

  “No younger brother of mine gets left behind,” Ranu said, smarm so thick it could have been spooned up.

  Fang forced a jovial smile. “I’m blessed to have such elder brothers,” he answered.

  Chapter 3

  Red Hand’s banquet swiftly devolved into a drunken bash. Potent wine poured freely enough that it formed a sticky layer on the floor within minutes of everyone settling in for the feast. Fang ate lightly, watching his elder brothers even as they watched him. The evening air felt pregnant with the possibility of violence and intrigue, but the knives remained sheathed. Perhaps his elder brothers were simply waiting for him to fail.

  Or maybe they’d known Red Hand’s orders for days and had already begun some plot to sabotage Fang’s mission. He endured the banquet with sour suspicions filling his thoughts, dismayed that he couldn’t even enjoy the party being thrown in his honor. He needed to talk to Birch, but their last parting had been almost unspeakably awkward. He’d left before he’d even fully realized what he’d done.

  And his meeting for tonight was set with Orchid. He was already late by the time he managed to slip free from the festivities at the compound. Beautiful girls had been brought in to serve them all, and very likely to serve them all, too. The two assigned to him were just his type — tall, slim, and fair-skinned, with black hair. They’d smelled sweet like flowers, though, and that wasn’t the scent that lingered in his memories.

  He excused himself with the need to piss and made his escape through the gates. The junior brothers’ silence was easily bought by bringing them some of the fine food they were missing out on. They wouldn’t keep their mouths shut if Red Hand asked, but anything else was fair game.

  Fang felt a little freer out on the streets where he could breathe without needing to watch himself for every minute change in his bearing or expression. The paranoia of the past week had dug its claws deeply into him and he needed to pry himself free before he went mad. Intrigue had become just another fighting style, but as he got closer to his goal, he felt closer to failure rather than confident in victory.

  The old man called this an honor. Fang scowled. Now he had to plan a heist on a ship. He was no sailor; the closest he’d ever come was loading and unloading cargo as a boy. He’d evaded the roving press-gangs and slavers who kidnapped boys and drunks and made them crew ships. On the seacoasts he’d heard that those press-gangers forced men into the navy. The practice sounded foolish to Fang. Who wanted unwilling rebellious soldier-slave? No wonder the empire had lost so much of its sovereignty. All the barbarians
were willing to fight, but the empire resorted to the lowest tricks to shore up its strength.

  But Fang wasn’t a willing soldier for the gang; he was a soldier of necessity. He’d chosen to work for Red Hand only because he had to in order to reach his goal.

  The streets were busy even at night. The smoke of thousands of hearth fires blotted out the stars. Fang couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them, but he was always preoccupied with watching crowds to watch the skies.

  Orchid would be thrilled with all his news. Plus, he wanted to ask her if the Society had emptied the Moon Knives’ treasury yet. Impoverishing them would do even more damage than killing Boar. There wouldn’t be faction loyalty to whoever had the other treasury key if there was in fact no treasury. One by one, the old captains would lose control and the Knives would dissolve.

  How many would join the Demons? How many new gangs would start? Red Hand might decide to offer amnesty to any who swore to him, but Fang struggled to imagine any man swearing himself to the boss who’d had his own assassinated.

  Abalone’s was brightly lit. Drunks left, gamblers entered, and it was past a few of these that Fang had to push in order to get in. The interior smelled like honeyed wine, sweat, and sex, and very little like the tea establishment it was supposed to be. Beautiful women and gorgeous men dressed in finery entertained the patrons, poured drinks, flattered and consoled, sang and played, and more — this was the place where successful Docksiders came to be seen spending money, in an imitation of the even more rarefied games of the wealthy precincts.

  The night hostess lit up all smiles when she saw him. Her thick makeup was just beginning to run from the stifling heat inside the tea house, and she mopped her brow with a kerchief that had once been red but was fading to pink from her white foundation. Her blackened teeth created an eerie impression when he closed in, but as always, he greeted her gravely and politely. Some new fashion must have taken hold in the city.

  “Orchid will be so excited to see you,” the hostess gushed. “She’s been waiting, she’s on tonight.” She led him to the third floor, where the heat grew even more intense. Here were the private rooms for less public entertainment. Everyone knew that Abalone’s was a place for assignations, too — discreet affairs, safe from city guards and prying eyes.

  The hostess knelt outside one of the rooms and slid the door open for Fang to pass. It made him uncomfortable to receive that kind of hospitality, but it was expected and due to a man of his stature. He nodded and shut the door behind him.

  Orchid wasn’t here yet, but the room had her touch and scent already. No doubt the hostess was letting her know that her patron had arrived. More welcome was the breeze that came in through the open window. Soon he’d have to regretfully close it for privacy, but at least he wouldn’t sweat to death waiting.

  Fang removed his thick outer robe and folded it before leaving it in the far corner of the room by the sliding doors. With it went most of the smells of smoke and liquor, leaving him slightly refreshed. He reclined in the cushions by the low table and eyed the dulcimer set up opposite from his position in the spot of honor.

  Orchid was at best a passable musician, though she had an indescribably sweet voice. The music was simply a way to mask the sound of Fang passing information, something he only ever did orally. He was never fond of notes; they were too much like proof.

  Usually Orchid gave him extra service, too, but for once he didn’t find himself looking forward to their fun. She was a generous lover and knew how to make any man feel like a king, but Fang knew he felt far less for her than she for him. Worse, he knew that she knew the difference in their feelings, too. Now that she’d had a chance to glimpse the truth — it was too much to expect either of them to go on with a physical relationship. He wasn’t that callous.

  “Patron,” Orchid greeted him as she slid the door open, her posture an echo of the hostess’. She placed a cheaply lacquered tray in the room first, then entered and swiftly and silently closed the door behind her. The tray was arranged with a small kettle and sweets.

  The most important thing, wine, was already waiting in the cabinet by the window. Without missing a beat, Fang rose and closed the window.

  “You’re more beautiful than usual,” he said, and felt like it was the first true thing he’d said all week.

  Orchid delicately arranged the tea service between them. “You’re too kind,” she said.

  “That’s a first.” He picked up the tiny teacup and rolled it in his hand. Someone had shaped the little thing and lovingly but amateurishly painted its entire exterior in blue roses. There was a small chip in the lip, smaller than a baby’s fingernail. Orchid never gave him chipped cups. She was probably hurt.

  There wasn’t much he could do about that.

  He watched her go through the motions, beginning with ablutions and rinsing the leaves. He’d once studied traditional tea service, back when that was an art which might’ve made a difference in his future. But that kind of life had turned out not to be in his stars. He’d forgotten enough that watching Orchid was more of a simple pleasure than an exercise in art criticism. She had lovely small hands, soft and smooth. The kind of hands a man would want his wife to have because they meant she wasn’t forced to devote her life to physical toil.

  Birch’s hands were large and callused, with knuckles almost as red as Fang’s, and ridges and scars from countless fights.

  “Do you remember when we first met?” she asked.

  Fang raised his eyebrows. “Here?”

  She glanced up at him through her long lashes.

  “Ah…” He had to look away. “If not for you, we might not have ever found him. We wouldn’t have found him in time, anyway. He owes you his life more than me or father.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  Fang looked down at his hands, at the split cuticles and broken nails. He didn’t have anything like comfort or beauty to offer.

  “He doesn’t owe me everything that might make me happy, though,” she said. “Every good thing in his life doesn’t have to come to me for first pick.”

  “We both owe you,” Fang said. There wasn’t anything truer than that. Orchid had been the one to keep them all together.

  All of the orphans who’d founded what became the Rootless Society owed everything to her — because she’d saved them from despair. And because she’d given them a path toward vengeance and justice.

  More than a decade ago, the temples and shrines of Ten Gates had risen up against the provincial governor and declared themselves independent of his rule. They’d killed or expelled every minister and officer in the city, from those appointed by the governor all the way to those who’d appointed themselves — and that included guilds and gangs, legitimate and illegitimate alike. The clerics declared themselves still loyal to the emperor, but stated that until all the corrupt elements in his service had been expelled, they could not trust the authenticity of those who claimed to be working on behalf of the emperor. Until the emperor himself came, they said, they would not recognize any lesser authority.

  The emperor, if he ever received their invitation, declined to attend. Ten Gates was a city of little importance located on a river with plenty of other ports. But the rebellion of clergy resonated deeply with the peasants, especially a rebellion against greedy authorities and violent criminal gangs.

  Priests and priestesses, monks and nuns across the Empire of Ten Thousand Cities found themselves forced to reswear loyalty oaths. Many were simply slain, while others were stripped of the certificates that granted them authority.

  Fang’s parents were among those were killed outright. And not at the hands of the city government, but at the hands of a gang led by a frightened old man who had lost control. In one day, the expected course of Fang’s life was radically changed, like a river turned back to its source.

  It started with the well. Birch’s job that morning was to draw the water. It was different from usual, sour instead of sweet, but it looked a
s clear as ever. They didn’t know and couldn’t have known that someone had ordered it fouled. The shrine hosted orphans, those who’d lost family to the struggles against the north, or to the ever-present famine. Within a day, almost all of them were sickened by the bad water and laid low. Fang’s parents treated them, his father berating himself for not stopping everyone from the foul water in time. Fang had blocked the well with his mother’s help, but even those who didn’t drink wound up sickened by caring for those who had.

  After the sun set, the murderers came. Fang’s parents first tried to negotiate, but the gangsters didn’t care how loyal they were to the emperor, or how much they respected the governor’s authority, or how timely all their protection payments had been. The simple fact was that the priests of Ten Gates had built an army from orphans and peasants, one strong enough to break the power of soldiers and gangs, and the Four Winds weren’t about to let the same mistake be repeated on their doorstep.

  Fang’s home was just one of the many temples targeted that day. Any who had taken on the mission of caring for the sick, the poor, the homeless, the orphaned, quickly found themselves chased out, burned out, or worse. For Fang’s family, it was the worst.

  Red Hand’s crew didn’t discriminate between children and adults. All were equal before the knife. Fang tried to fight, but it had been useless. He'd had none of the skills, none of the fighting prowess he now possessed. While he screamed for the others to flee, he’d been laid low and left for dead.

  Later, Birch and Orchid had come back for him. They’d managed between them to carry him to a hiding place with the other survivors. When he awoke, his world had been remade. All he wanted was vengeance.