The Dragon Men

by Steven Harper

  Gavin pressed one of the nightingale’s gleaming eyes and whispered, “I love you always,” to it, then flung the bird into the air. It fluttered fluid wings and zipped across the deck to alight on Alice’s shoulder. Gavin had time to hear it repeat in his own faint voice, “I love you always,” and see Alice’s soft smile before he leaped over the edge.

  * * *

  The trip to Kashgar actually took a week. Not long after they passed out of the forests and into the deserts around Samarkand, a sandstorm swept in, forcing the Lady to climb high above it. Unable to see any landmarks on the ground during the day, Gavin lost his bearings and drifted off course, losing most of a day. They lost another day outrunning another airship that Yeh vociferously said was a notorious pirate vessel. It was Gavin’s first brush with pirates since the loss of the Juniper. During the chase, he found himself sweating with terror, and in that moment, he knew that if the Impossible Cube had still been working, he would have used it, regardless of the consequences.

  But in the end, the smaller, lighter Lady escaped, and Alice, who understood what Gavin had been going through, knew better than to say anything, but merely stood next to him at the helm to let him know she was there, and for that he was grateful.

  Yeh spent most of the time in his cabin with Alice’s tireless automatons standing guard outside. Click often joined them, crouching near the door as if waiting for a mechanical mouse to emerge from a hole. Phipps spelled Gavin at the wheel. Alice busied herself spotting and making small repairs to the ship. None of them spoke of what was coming, though Gavin’s nerves grew with every passing mile. He didn’t even fly anymore.

  Just after dawn, when they were passing over yet more hot desert, a brass nightingale, similar to the one Gavin had given Alice but plainer, fluttered out of the bright sky and landed on the helm in front of Gavin. Startled, he looked at it. The bird cocked its head, staring back. Its eyes were flat and black, but its movements were very lifelike, except for the tiny winding key sticking out of its back. The bird opened its beak and a tinny voice spoke what Gavin assumed was Chinese.

  “Alice!” he called. “Go get Yeh!”

  A second nightingale landed beside the first one. It spoke the same message. Then the first one repeated the words, and the second one said it again, a second behind, creating a strange echo. Another nightingale landed, and another and another. Gavin stepped back from the helm with a gasp. More and more nightingales arrived, landing on the guylines and gunwale and the envelope and the generator. The sky was agleam with tiny brass bodies and madly fluttering wings, their metallic voices echoing and chattering. The Lady groaned and lost altitude, tipping under the uneven new weight. Gavin frantically maneuvered to keep her upright.

  Yeh appeared at Gavin’s elbow with Alice’s flock of brass mechanicals in tow and with Alice and Phipps pale behind him. One of the whirligigs dive-bombed a nightingale, which dodged away and returned with three friends. The whirligig squeaked and fled back to Alice’s shoulder.

  Yeh, meanwhile, yelled over the noise. “When they come?”

  “Just now!” Gavin yelled back. “Do something!”

  Yeh shouted something in Chinese. To his surprise, Gavin understood a few words: bring, lady, border, fly.

  When Yeh finished, the birds stopped their chatter, and abrupt silence rushed in to fill the space. Then, as one, they gripped wood and rope in their claws and flew. Wind whistled through thousands of tiny wings all working in concert. The Lady shuddered and seemed to pull back for a moment; then she smoothed out and glided forward. The birds moved in liquid synchronicity, as if guided by a single mind, gently hauling the ship. Gavin’s mouth fell open. He had never seen anything like it, and he longed to pull the birds apart, examine their tiny gears and switches, understand them.

  “I know what you’re thinking again,” Alice said beside him, “because I’m thinking it, too.”

  “Just one,” Gavin said. He was breathing hard, and copper tanged his mouth. “Just one little bird. No one’ll notice.”

  Gavin’s hands were still on the helm. Just to see what would happen, he tried turning it. The Lady shuddered, and the nightingales all shrieked as one. It made a sound like a drill going through glass. The terrible noise ripped through Gavin’s head. He let go the helm and clapped his hands over his ears. The ship smoothed out, and the shrieking stopped.

  “What was that for?” Phipps gasped.

  “Bad to fight with ship,” said Yeh. “Don’t repeat.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  One of the birds circled Gavin three times, then settled on his shoulder and pecked his neck once, hard enough to draw blood. Gavin yelped and slapped at the little machine. The bird shot away, blood on its beak. It vanished into the sky.

  “What did I do to him?” he asked aloud of no one in particular. No one answered.

  Phipps shaded her eyes with one hand. “I assume the birds are taking us to Kashgar.”

  “No. To border guard. I tell them we have Lady Michaels. He check for truth, kill us if we lie.”

  “But we aren’t lying,” Alice said.

  “Hope border guard believes you.”

  Chapter Eight

  The trip to Peking was difficult and stressful. They were forced to walk most of the way or beg for rides on the back of farm carts because Cixi didn’t want to call attention to herself by hiring a carriage or a palanquin, and Su Shun would watch the trains. They also had little money. Cixi risked selling the hairpin in Jehol but got only a fraction of its worth because a woman in maid’s clothing selling a noblewoman’s pin must have stolen it, and she could only approach a stingy black market buyer. Cixi didn’t dare sell any more jewelry for fear the jeweler, already nervous, would call a guard. As a further disguise, Cixi traded the maid’s clothing and Zaichun’s eunuch’s clothing in favor of simple peasant garb.

  Peking was more than a hundred miles from Jehol, and the journey would take at least two weeks on foot, but there was nothing for it. To stretch out their meager supply of cash, they slept on the ground and begged food from other travelers. It had also been years since she had been required to perform even simple tasks like urinating without at least three maids in attendance, let alone walk so many miles without aid. The hunger and the dust and the unrelenting heat sent Cixi straight back to her youth. What made things worse was the constant fear that a troop of soldiers would descend on them and haul them back to Jehol for a long, painful death.

  Zaichun, for his part, became surly as he became hungry and tired, and when at one point he started to complain—and no doubt say something that would have revealed their identity to the farmer on whose cart they were riding—Cixi slapped him hard, as any peasant mother would.

  “Shut your foul mouth,” she snapped. “Do not complain when this honored farmer has given us a free ride.”

  Zaichun stared at her. No one in his life had ever given him a direct order. To him, it was more shocking than the slap, as she intended. It sharply brought his attention back to their position.

  “Yes, Mother,” he said, both sullen and meek, and neither of them spoke of it again.

  They finally arrived in Peking through the peasant’s gate, the ill-kept one that was open for only a few hours a day and for which there was no charge, but which carried with it a long wait on the hot, dusty road. Cixi carried the sack now, unwilling to let it out of her sight. It would require money to take back the throne, lots and lots of money, and she would need every tael.

  They walked down the streets of Peking, among the market stalls and braying donkeys and oozing sewage and press of people. News of the emperor’s death two weeks ago had reached the city, and everywhere Cixi looked, people who could afford it wore white. A constant parade of mourners made a wailing train of ghosts through the city and would continue for a full hundred days after Xianfeng’s death. No musicians performed in the streets, no acrobats or tumblers, no singers or dancers. Theaters bore padlocks. All the men looked strange—their heads and
faces were covered with untidy fuzz because for one hundred days they were not allowed to shave as proper men did. The emperor died; performers and barbers starved.

  A number of buildings lay in ruins from the war, though as Cixi had predicted, people were already rebuilding, and the city echoed with the sounds of hammering and sawing and the thud of stones being set. A nobleman on a horse trotted down one byway, causing everyone to dive out of his way. The horse kicked up manure that spattered Cixi’s cheek. She wiped it away with her dusty sleeve and pulled Zaichun along. He followed like a wax doll, dull with fear and hunger. She felt the same but didn’t dare give in to it.

  After what felt like hours of walking, Cixi and Zaichun finally arrived at a luxurious mansion compound with red peaked roofs and gutters surrounded by a high wall. The front gate was actually a section of wall that had been pulled back to create entrances to the left and right—demons and evil spirits traveled in straight lines, so gates into houses forced a turn to deflect them. A pair of brass lions stood guard.

  “The emperor is dead. There is no work,” said one of them said in a rumbling voice. “The emperor is dead. There is no work.”

  “I have a delivery,” said Cixi, holding up the sack. “It is for Prince Kung.”

  “Deliveries are at the back gate,” said the lion. “There is no work.”

  Peasants did not enter at the front gate. She had forgotten. Cixi took Zaichun’s hand. The mansion grounds were enormous, and it took a long time to walk around to the back. The sun was setting, and the alley was already growing dark. Here there were no lions, but bars forbade entry through the gate into the courtyard beyond. Cixi pulled a cord and heard a bell ring inside. Moments later, a plump woman rushed to the bars. She wore a white tunic that made her look like a snowball.

  “The emperor is dead. There is no work,” she said.

  “I have a delivery for Prince Kung.” Cixi held up the sack again.

  “Of course you do,” the woman said. “Everyone has a delivery for Prince Kung.”

  Cixi set her mouth. This woman had no way of knowing who Cixi was and was only doing as she was instructed. Still, Cixi wanted to order the cow beaten. “Nevertheless, it is true. I must present this to him personally.”

  The woman eyed Cixi’s filthy clothes and Zaichun’s filthy face. “Hm.”

  “Tell him,” Cixi said through clenched teeth, “the Little Orchid is waiting to see Devil Number Six and that she has a gift from the Jade Hand for him.” Here she glanced left and right to ensure the alley was empty and opened the sack so the woman could see the Ebony Chamber. The woman would never have seen the object in her life, but she would recognize the richness and beauty of the box and would know that such a thing must be highly important. She wavered a moment, then produced a key and unlocked the gate.

  “Wait here,” she said when they were in the stone courtyard. “Do not move from this spot.”

  She bustled away.

  “I remember Prince Kung,” said Zaichun. “He is my uncle. I rode his horses.”

  Cixi clutched the bag to her chest, darting uneasy looks in every direction. Prince Kung was Xianfeng’s half brother, though Cixi knew they weren’t close, and his home occupied the largest and most luxurious compound within Peking. The compound covered hundreds of acres that included ponds, bridges, trees, gardens, and elaborate fountains that gave the illusion of country life in the middle of the world’s most magnificent city. The luxury was lost on Cixi. Now that they weren’t moving, she felt exposed and vulnerable, like a piece of meat on a butcher’s chopping block.

  The snowball woman returned. “The prince will see you, Orchid. Though first,” she continued with a small sniff, “you will have to be prepared.”

  Cixi was never so glad for a bath and fresh clothes in her life. There was even a maid to help her, though throughout the process she never took her eyes from the grubby sack and the treasure within. Zaichun was bathed in another room, and although she was sure he would be safe, she insisted the doors between their chambers be left open so she could hear everything. They were even brought small plates of food, which Cixi forced herself to eat with proper decorum and manners. Zaichun gobbled his down. Their borrowed clothes were simple and white, the color of mourning.

  At last they were ushered in to see Prince Kung. He was sitting at an elaborate writing desk, murmuring to a spider, which painted his words on rice paper with blurry speed. He wore a white robe he seemed to have thrown on quickly. To Cixi’s surprise, there were no soldiers or other servants in the room. The servant who showed Cixi and Zaichun in bowed and withdrew. Prince Kung touched the spider. It shut down, and Kung turned to face them. Cixi bowed, still clutching the sack with the Ebony Chamber in it. Zaichun did not bow—he had forgotten himself already. Cixi kicked his leg. He started, then bowed as well.

  Kung was a worried-looking man who was not yet thirty. The pouches under his eyes and his slender build made him look older than he was, and his unshaven head beneath his round cap gave him a disheveled look. Cixi, newly bathed and dressed, felt better-dressed than he, though her clothes barely amounted to more than a white sheet. Kung’s tired eyes widened when he recognized Cixi and Zaichun.

  “What—?” he began, so startled he didn’t even touch formalities.

  “Who is listening?” Cixi interrupted, necessity also forcing rudeness.

  Kung shut his mouth and pursed his lips. Then he reached under his desk and pulled a hidden lever. There was a cranking, grinding noise, followed by a series of small thumps. When they ended, Kung said, “The spy holes have been stopped up. We can talk freely.”

  “Not even the emperor has such power,” Cixi said, impressed.

  “I am not the emperor. Nor do I wish to be.” He gestured at a laden table. “Please, sit. There is food. You will have to feed yourself, I’m afraid. Even food spiders may carry messages. And you are safe here, Orchid.”

  Cixi almost wept with relief at those words. She and Zaichun gratefully sank to the pillows and took up chopsticks. It felt so fine to be clean and sitting down, with food on a table and fresh clothes on her back. In that moment, if Kung had requested it, she would have offered herself to him as a concubine in his household.

  “Please tell me what really happened at the Cool Hall in Jehol,” Kung said as they ate. He clearly wasn’t hungry, but he nibbled a cake and sipped tea to be polite. “I only hear official stories, and my spies are giving me conflicting information.”

  Cixi obeyed, omitting no details. To her surprise, she found herself choking a little as she described the death of the emperor. She hadn’t realized she felt enough attachment to him to grieve. Zaichun stared fixedly into his lap, and a tear dropped onto his knee. Cixi ignored this breach, trying to keep herself under control. But as she told the story, her sorrow dissolved into an anger that hissed like a serpent, and then roared like a dragon. At one point, there was an odd snap, and she realized she had broken an ivory chopstick in two. Embarrassed, she set it aside and stopped eating.

  “You acted with admirable forethought,” Kung said when she finished. “I can think of no concubine who would do what you have done.”

  “Thank you,” she said, surprised at the praise.

  “You may know that I have long felt that the empire’s policy of antagonism and isolationism toward the West has been a bad idea.”

  “One has heard,” she murmured. Kung’s ideas about peaceful contact and exchange of ideas with the West were actually considered scandalous by Xianfeng’s advisers, and they had convinced Xianfeng to push his half brother to the margins, leave him with a largely administrative post in Peking, and all but banish him from the Forbidden City. However, over the years, he had cleverly consolidated his position into one of great power. The emperor ignored Peking itself in favor of the Forbidden City, which meant every time he left for Jehol or the Summer Palace, Peking was basically left in the charge of Prince Kung. He’d had little power within the Imperial Court, but outside it, he was arguably t
he most powerful man in China. He also did not get along with Su Shun, which was why Cixi had come to him in the first place.

  “The continual conflict we have with Britain drains treasure and people on both sides,” Kung said. “Imagine what we could accomplish if we worked together! The British are making extraordinary leaps forward in the fields of medicine and public education, for example, but their people starve in the streets because British farmers are ignorant of agricultural secrets we have hoarded for centuries. Yet we fight and keep our people apart because we look different and act differently. Foolishness!”

  “I met a few bar—Westerners when I was younger,” Cixi said. “They don’t have proper manners, you know. It makes it very difficult to talk to them.”

  “They say the exact same thing about us,” Kung replied. “Do you think we Chinese are so stupid that we can build a wall halfway around the world but we cannot learn to talk to Englishmen? Or that the English are so stupid that they can build ships to fly through the air but cannot learn proper etiquette? No, both sides are narrow-minded, and it costs us dearly.”

  “I do not disagree,” Cixi put in. “I lived on the streets of Peking as a child, and I have lived in the Imperial Court. From these vantage points I have seen how . . . insulated our society has become. The emperor is—was—a symptom of that. We seal ourselves off as we sealed off the emperor, and the only thing that gets in is sickness.”