Rise of the Dragon

by C K Gold

  In time they received quiet support from the other survivors of the purge, and their network of the disaffected grew. Fang and Birch trained with any master who would accept them as disciples, which rarely lasted for more than a handful of months. Fang’s rage was simply too great to be bound by any discipline. He grew strong even though the masters shook their heads and declared him doomed. His stars had vanished. His was a fate best left unknown.

  Eventually his reputation grew too poor for any master to accept him. Thrown out from his last hope to achieve training, he despaired. He and Orchid and Birch met in the ruins of his parents’ temple.

  He had to leave them. Neither of the other two wanted to say it, but Orchid was the first to accept his declaration. It was she who suggested he join a gang, and she who accepted first that the natural thing to do was to infiltrate the Four Winds. He had seized it from the old bastard who had let his gang go out of control. And it was Red Hand, they’d learned, who had poisoned the well before butchering everyone.

  “I wish,” she said at last, finally pouring steaming water from the iron teapot over the silvery leaves in his cup, “that we had a better way.”

  “So do I,” he said. When she finished the graceful pour, he lifted the cup to his lips and inhaled deeply, the mingled scent and flavor of the steaming tea clearing his palate and mood like a fresh wave of snowmelt from the mountains. “But this is what we’ve got. With good fortune and justice on our side, we’ll succeed.”

  “Your confidence always makes me feel better,” she said.

  Fang wasn’t the sighing kind of man, but he could feel one growing. He had wronged her. Even if he didn’t want more than her friendship, he still owed her honesty. But he struggled to explain even to himself what had happened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It…”

  “Who says I’m hurt?” Her brows were artfully arched, just like her voice, which held that special tone which meant she certainly was hurt but didn’t intend to dignify the idea that he could sting her.

  Knowing all that didn’t make apologizing any easier. “Well, I… if I have managed to offend you, I’d certainly want to make it up to you.”

  “Wise men say that money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy forgiveness.” She folded a faded silk kerchief and laid it in the tea tray.

  “Look, I’ll take you someplace nice,” he said.

  She glanced up. “Anywhere I want?”

  He could feel the full weight of her calculations but, desperate to put all of this behind him, nodded. “Yes.”

  “You promise?”

  This was no man’s land. “Yes, I pro—”

  They both startled at a scratching on the door.

  “This is a private room,” Orchid said.

  Fang lowered his cup to the table without taking a sip and silently readied himself to fight. Interruptions during their meetings were rare. Innocent ones were even rarer.

  The door slid open, revealing a young fop in makeup and lacquer, his robes just a touch too rich for Abalone’s. But on second look, the makeup was inexpertly applied, the lacquered hair was in fact a wig, and the embroidered robes were little better than a patched-up opera costume. They certainly weren’t silk.

  “Announce yourself,” Fang demanded.

  Orchid held out a hand to stop him. “Oh… pardon me for not recognizing you, honored patron,” she said. Fang darted a glance at her, uncertain of whether to trust her judgment.

  The made-up man opened his mouth. “Surely you didn’t call me here to fight?” The voice was Birch’s, but the cadence and accent were all wrong — like all the Dockside had evaporated off of him, leaving only untarnished silver.

  Fang scowled, but his heart thudded. He’d hoped not to see Birch again until the memory of the kiss faded, so that maybe he wouldn’t have to offer an explanation. He didn’t have one that made any kind of sense, not even to himself.

  “I see you’ve already poured the tea,” Birch said imperiously. It was like an impostor had taken up residence in his skin. The effect was alien. He waved Orchid away; she obligingly left the host’s seat and took up the wine and decanter by the window. As Birch settled himself, so did Fang, once more relaxing into the cushions spread over the guest of honor’s spot. It was an odd scene, having a lovely hostess pouring wine for them, with a gangster in the honored guest’s station, and a poorly made-up fop at the host’s station.

  Odd, but not too odd. If anyone sees us, it'll look like we’re working out a deal. Fang touched the lip of his teacup, which radiated heat. He waited until Birch raised his own to his lips and drank. A guest interested in doing profitable business would certainly honor his host.

  Orchid poured wine for Birch, then Fang, and then seated herself by Birch’s elbow as though she were taking up pouring duties for him. Fang raised a brow, but she kept her eyes cast down demurely.

  The effect was compromised by rhythmic bangs, grunts, and cries emerging from the room next door. Fang couldn’t help but smirk. He smoothed the front of his under-robe and thought about how long it’d been since he’d embraced a woman. More than a week. It was a little too much to bear.

  “This won’t do,” Birch snapped. “It sounds like a whorehouse in here. Play us something decent.”

  Orchid was more than able to carry a passable tune that mostly covered up the noise of their neighbors’ fun. Birch shifted his weight from time to time as they drank their tea, and Fang wondered if he was uncomfortable. Birch had never seemed especially prudish. Maybe it was part of the act he was putting on.

  “Where’d that getup come from?” Fang asked quietly.

  Birch fluttered his long lashes and gave him an almost coquettish glance from eyes outlined in kohl. “Some of our brothers have started their own troupe,” he said.

  Fang found his mouth was suddenly dry and he finished his tea in a gulp even though it burned all the way down. He quickly downed the wine to soothe his scalded gullet. “Really,” he croaked.

  “I did the makeup myself,” Birch admitted, smiling. His lips looked almost garnet in the lamplight, like a sweet plum.

  This was doing nothing for Fang’s decision not to kiss his friend a second time. “I, uh,” he said as he picked up the empty wine cup, then put it down and looked helplessly at Birch’s still-full cup. He couldn’t pour for himself without pouring for his host first; it was an unheard-of level of discourtesy. Birch smoothly poured just as Orchid’s tune stumbled, as though she was thinking of abandoning her instrument to return to pouring girl duties.

  Birch’s amateurishly embroidered sleeves slid back to reveal strong, sun-kissed arms. Fang looked away and muttered his thanks.

  “How did father receive you?” Birch asked with a hint of mockery that soured father.

  “Proudly. Enough that I now have a new assignment, or…” Fang trailed off and drew a finger across his throat, grateful for the opening to a new subject. Something that was actually objectively important. “The tin-pot city government has fallen, and the provincial army is sailing a ship our way full of spoils. Supposedly there’s a blessed relic aboard. Father wants it, and he wants whatever reports are on that ship, too. I’ve got a little time to plan and supposedly an open remit for whatever I need.”

  “A relic,” Birch mused. He didn’t seem surprised by the news of Ten Gates’ fall at all. Fang wondered at that. “What would he want with some dead monk’s dried-up toe?”

  “Obviously it’s something better than that,” Fang said. “Magical or something.”

  “If they’d had any magic better than a fart, they wouldn’t have fallen,” Birch scoffed. Magic belonged to the imperial court and to the weird world of spirits — it wasn’t something ordinary people meddled with, not even priests.

  “Be that as it may, I have my orders,” Fang said, and emptied his wine cup. Warmth spread in his belly, but it didn’t ease the fear knotting in his gut. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “We’ve got some unfinished business, don’t
we?”

  “You should be more careful.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you. Who made sure nobody shanked you after you made a run for the Knives’ front door?” Despite his words, Birch’s voice remained low and conversational.

  Fang’s hands turned to fists. “You shouldn’t have intervened. If anyone recognized you—”

  Birch waved him off. “Not going to happen. I’m a master of disguise.” He grinned and leaned across the table. “Nobody’s more cunning than me, except maybe… you? I really think you owe me an explanation. I had to talk Orchid down from murdering me.”

  A harsh note made them both jump. They looked at her guiltily and then leaned back, Birch looking as surprised as Fang felt over how close they’d gotten. She glared murder at them both and continued playing a touch more forcefully than before.

  “I don’t think we’ll need any more drinks,” Birch said. She stared. “Or, uh, music.”

  Orchid slapped a palm on the strings, striking one more discordant note before leaving.

  “Was that necessary?” Fang hissed.

  “Was treating me like your wife necessary?” Birch replied, voice low and strained. “I didn’t hear from you for months, and then you act like you’ve been touched in the head and swear to take out Boar. I heard you promised it on your life. Now you’re going to try your hand at piracy, too? Do you have a death wish, or are you just trying to piss everyone off again? Most hated man in Dockside contest?”

  “It’s not like that,” Fang said. He unknotted his fists and pressed his palms against the tabletop to absorb some of its steady coolness.

  “Then enlighten me as to what it is like. You’re taking too many risks.”

  “So are you. Three times you’ve met up with me now in barely more than a handful of days!”

  Birch looked away guiltily.

  “More than three?” Fang had to snap his teeth together to keep his voice from rising. “For her sake, you have to step back. If the Society finds out you’re meeting with me, you’ll be in some real hot water—”

  “Or is it more that meeting with one of us gutter-dwellers endangers your status?” Birch snapped.

  Fang rocked back. Shock clouded his vision for a second and made his blood freeze. He barely heard even his own heartbeat.

  A hot hand gripped his wrist, dragging him back into the present. Birch had come around the table and was looking at him closely, their breaths mingling.

  This is the danger zone, Fang thought numbly. A sudden cutting pain in his hand made him relax his fist. He’d broken the wine cup.

  “I’ll pay for it,” he said automatically. Blood dripped on the thigh of his pants and stained the plain fabric. So much for nice clothes.

  “Let me get the splinters out,” Birch said. He reached into the breast pocket of his robe, formed by the exterior flap and the waist sash. He pulled out a small case that turned out to have a number of fine tools. They looked more like a thief’s tools than a doctor’s.

  Fang stared at the top of Birch’s bent head as he worked. Birch had silken hair, blue-black like a cormorant’s feathers. Fang’s had a coarse texture; he’d never gotten the kind of compliments Birch had when they were children. Unable to stop himself, Fang reached up and tested a lock that peeked from beneath Birch’s wig, spreading it between thumb and forefinger.

  Birch either didn’t notice or ignored him. Emboldened, Fang lightly stroked the loose hair behind his ear, tucking it away so it didn’t obviously detract from the realism of the wig. The shell-like curve of Birch’s ear had turned a coral red.

  He looked up. “Do you have anything we can use as a bandage?” In the amber lamplight, Fang couldn’t tell if that was color high on Birch’s cheeks, or if it was just the makeup. His hand curled around Birch’s nape and he leaned in, seeking those slightly parted lips.

  Another scratch at the door made them jump apart like startled cats.

  “What is with these infernal interruptions?” Birch snarled, firmly back in character as a low-rent aristocrat.

  Fang pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and clumsily tied it around his palm. Blood soaked through almost immediately. He’d crushed the hell out of that cup.

  Orchid appeared in the doorway, looking slightly gray around the edges. Fang leaned forward, fearful overtures toward Birch forgotten.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, taking to his feet.

  “One of your brothers is here looking for you,” she said.

  Birch snorted and Fang spat a brief curse. “They were half dead of drink when I left,” he muttered. “Fine. I’m on my way down. I don’t know what they could possibly need to drag me out for at this point, but anything for the brotherhood.” A snarl settled across his face as he belted on his outer robe.

  He pointed at Birch. “Our business isn’t done yet. Don’t think I won’t notice any more flamboyant bullshit from your end.”

  Birch stared back blankly for a second, which was all Fang needed to make a swift exit.

  Lately it seems that all I do is run away.

  A few of the junior brothers awaited him downstairs with a summons. Ordinarily this wasn’t the sort of interruption that bothered him – or the always-steady Orchid – but tonight, of all the nights they’d been interrupted, was simply too suspicious. These men’s faces were well-known; each served a different brother. It was unusual to see them together.

  Perhaps that was the real message.

  After Fang arrived at the appointed River Roses eatery, Ranu caught him and seated him in the midst of the tables. No escape.

  “You didn’t think we were done honoring you yet, did you brother?” Ranu asked.

  The main streetside stall had been cordoned off with bright paper ropes and lamps. Benches and tables crowded the narrow space. Fang winced at the constant jostling behind him as brothers and servers came and went. Even their table of honor had very little breathing room in the tight confines.

  Ranu’s breath was nowhere near as wine-redolent as his clothes. Fang pretended not to notice and feigned a smile.

  “I’m grateful,” he said, the lie astringent like an unripe persimmon on his tongue.

  “Eat, drink, and fuck all you like,” Big Wei said, “because when you get on that ship, it’s not like anyone expects you to come back.” He cackled, a high-pitched shriek that made even Ranu flinch.

  Jun set his cup down heavily. “Clear off,” he bellowed. At first Fang thought he was telling Big Wei off, but instead, the crowd of brothers quieted down and the constant bumping and jabbing at Fang’s back stopped. Of course, Big Wei didn’t seem clear either on whether Jun was ordering him to shut up as well.

  Big Wei turned pale, with blotchy red rising up his neck to mottle his face. “Don’t order me around,” he said, slapping his palm against the table for emphasis. Fang caught his cup before it could spill, but Big Wei’s and Ranu’s spilled over the wood, dripping mostly on Ranu.

  Fang smiled brightly, sensing that a fight was imminent and almost welcoming it. “Is this how my elder brothers party when our father isn’t around?”

  “Elder brothers,” Big Wei repeated, mockingly.

  “This is a good shot for some more glory,” Jun said, ignoring Big Wei’s bitter muttering. “But you gamble with your life staked on a minor prize. He’s not going to name you successor based on a heist. If you’d just bide your time, you could have everything you want fall into your lap.” He was strangely intent despite the drunken glaze to his eye.

  Fang realized he’d ended up as the only other one sober besides Ranu, which placed him in strange company. He nodded his head to Jun and raised his cup. The wine was finer than what Abalone’s served, so it was likely something brought by one of his elder brothers. He hoped it wasn’t poisoned.

  “To good advice that I can’t take,” Fang said, and swallowed it down.

  “If you can’t rely on your followers, I can give you a short list of names that might help,” Ranu said. His eyes glittered in the
red light cast by the paper lanterns. “Of course, they’ll cost, but quality is worth the coin.”

  Fang started to reply, but Big Wei gripped his shoulder, almost in the same bruises Red Hand had left. He squeezed until Fang felt the tearing indicating that the half-healed wound was splitting open.

  “Yeah, little brother, hire some mercenaries. If they fail, maybe the boss won’t make you fall on your sword — he might settle for having a eunuch bodyguard. Less than a man, but fiendishly strong, and that’s all that matters for you, isn’t it? Certainly isn’t brains.” Big Wei gave that grating laugh again.

  Fang grabbed at Big Wei's wrist to pull free. With a flourish, Big Wei bared a knife, pointing it at the soft underside of Fang’s jaw. “Get your hands off me,” Big Wei hissed. A taut hush pulled the brothers’ eyes on the scene at the head table.

  “No offense meant,” Fang said, smiling. He released Big Wei, showing both his empty hands.

  The knife wavered, kissing skin before Big Wei withdrew it and laughed. A little of the tension bled out. Ranu and Jun watched, their eyes weighing heavily on Fang. If he didn’t respond, he’d lose face not just with them, but with the entire gang.

  He laughed along with Big Wei as the latter sheathed his knife. Then, without missing a beat, he rammed his fist into the soft gap just below Big Wei’s breastbone, forcing out an almost automatic gush of wine and food that spewed across the table and onto Ranu’s fine robes.

  Fang grabbed Big Wei’s collar and stood, dragging the shorter man to his feet. “Looks like our brother isn’t feeling well,” he said. “I’ll make sure he gets back safely. We won’t trouble you further. Thank you for kindly honoring me not just once, but twice tonight.”

  Big Wei coughed and gasped for breath, reeking in the stew of his own mess. Fang half-dragged him along, taking him out of the bounds of the banquet. They scuffled for a few seconds just outside the ropes, but a couple sharp jabs just under the ribs took most of the fight out of the drunken gangster.

  Footsteps rushed up behind them; Fang turned to see Goat.

  “He’s had a bit too much to drink,” Fang said flatly.