Hidden Cities

by Daniel Fox

  “Yes. Of course.” That was what betrayal meant, that you hurt the one you loved. Not him alone, perhaps—him and herself and the dragon too—but him most of all. It was the right thing to do, and she had done it. He might even agree with her if he was sane, if he didn’t have that cold weight of dragon in his head. It was still betrayal. Her hand it was that tattooed him, that bonded him and dragon lifelong; there was sense, perhaps, in letting it be his hand that slew her for it. Sooner him than the dragon.

  He might not forgive himself after, when he remembered that he loved her. There was nothing she could do about that.

  She said, “I couldn’t let you free the dragon, whatever you promised her. I still can’t. But what I can do,” I think I can, “I can find a way to put her back where she was, beneath the strait. I can make her sleep again. That’ll be easier for you, Han. She’ll be quiet in your head. You help me here, help me find what I need, we can work together …”

  We can be together. That used to be enough, but he was mad now. He shook his head, almost frantic. “That’s not, she couldn’t bear it, don’t you even threaten that …”

  And the knife was lifting his hand again, that was how it looked, that the intent was in the blade and not in him.

  Perhaps the intent was in the dragon, and he was just a puppet.

  Perhaps they both were, puppets to the moment. Apparently she was going to stand here and let his knife kill her, whether or not he had any will in the matter. Not going to move, not going to resist or cower or try to run away.

  Not going to call out, even, to whoever they were whose voices she could hear in the hall, whose slow shuffling footsteps rang so loud.

  Figures shadowed the doorway, two old hurt men who couldn’t conceivably stop Han if he really meant to do this. One was bent and leaning on a crutch, while the other stood too carefully erect. She knew severe pain when she saw it, and she was seeing it twice here, two contrasting patterns of pain.

  The straight man said, “You again, is it, lad? Has nobody killed you yet?” Meaning even yet, measuring just how astonishing this was.

  And that man, his voice was all it took, apparently, to stop Han.

  To have him turn away from Tien, suddenly purposeless, hanging like weed in water, mindless drift.

  To have him stare at the man in a blanching terror, as though all the ghosts of his past had risen up at once.

  Tien wanted to go to him, when she saw him so suddenly scared. And was too slow, because the man with the crutch moved first. Haltingly, effortfully, he dragged and swung his twisted body across the floor. Han just stood and watched him come. So did Tien, so did his companion in the doorway.

  Finally close enough to touch, the crippled man reached out with his free arm and seemed to do no more than that, a touch on Han’s elbow, barely so strong as a grip.

  Han gasped, and the knife fell from the fingers of his one good hand as though all the strings of his arm had been cut.

  The bent man balanced awkwardly on unsupported legs for a moment, to flick at the knife with his crutch. Sent it skittering across the floor, almost to the straight man’s feet.

  Who bent over—very straightly, very slowly—to retrieve it, and came up smiling, sure that all the power in the room now was where it ought to be, where it belonged, in his hands and his friend’s.

  Nobody seemed to be saying anything. Nobody felt the need. Tien was negligible for now, she felt that herself. What she had to offer here was slow and long-term and dependent. Dependent on this room, more than anything.

  Han had lost most, here and beforehand. Even before he had been reduced by madness and reduced again by fear and now again by losing the little other thing he had, the little knife. Still, he looked from one old man to the other—and not at Tien at all, because she was negligible, or for whatever other reason he might hold closer to his heart—and didn’t speak, didn’t need to.

  In response apparently to his silence, the palace seemed to grow abruptly darker, abruptly colder, cast into deep shadow, as though a cloud hung directly overhead to obscure the sun.

  If so, it was a cloud with purpose. She couldn’t quite tell if it was actually Han’s purpose, or if he had just called into a void, do what you will—but there came a terrible clatter of falling tiles and breaking masonry, the snapping of ancient beams, a distant scream shrill enough to cut through steel, a groaning sound that welled up beneath their feet and might well be the complaint of the earth itself at too great a weight descending.

  The library had no windows, which was probably just as well. Nobody wanted to look out to see the dragon looking back at them.

  Han looked back at the old men, which might almost be the same thing: not frightened now, not cowed, not possible to bully. No one spoke, no one had any suggestions. It wasn’t quite an impasse, only that not one of them quite knew where this would lead, where they could possibly go from here.

  four

  ing Wen would often go walking in the rain.

  Sometimes he said that he liked to do this because it reminded him of other days, harder, better, when he was young and on campaign, a simple soldier for his emperor.

  Sometimes he said that the rain made a cloak, to isolate him from the intrusions of the world. A palace wall might do that but not well, not well enough. A palace was a world to itself, and full of intrusion. A garden within a palace wall was better; rain in a garden within a palace wall was better yet, worth waiting for. It gave him space and time, quite undisturbed.

  He had other reasons too. One of those—never confessed—was the pleasure he took from stepping indoors again, having his women strip away sodden clothing and rub him dry, fetch him tea and whatever other comforts he might demand, the intimate services due to his rank and power.

  The typhoon and its sodden tail had kept even him indoors. Today’s rain, though, was only a shower. With much to think about, Ping Wen welcomed the chance to step out. Later there would be petitioners seeking an audience, and he must needs sit on his little stool below the empty throne and dispense what he could from almost-empty hands. There would be a council meeting, no doubt, where he could be no better than first among equals. There would most certainly be an argument with the dowager empress, the Widow of the World he liked to call her, who would need reminding—again!—that she had no right to what she tried so very hard to seize. Even her son was not hers to keep. He belonged to the empire, if he could hold it. He had almost lost it already, all but this small island, or she had lost it for him. Now he was abroad and trying his strength, his own strength.

  Ping Wen did not think it would prove to be enough.

  Was betting against it, indeed, but cautiously.

  Helping to tip the scales, indeed, but not in outright rebellion, never that. He had seen justice meted out to rebels; he had been the man who did that, on occasion. He did believe profoundly in the empire, in the sacred right of the emperor to rule. Only not perhaps this emperor, nor his mother through him puppetwise. Ping Wen would do what little he could—what very little, the least he could—to bring about a change. Which meant a change of dynasty, necessarily, as there was no heir to support. Which meant that he must give some aid at least—or at least some opportunity—to Tunghai Wang.

  And then perhaps strike himself, in his own interest, unless Tunghai Wang’s position was manifestly stronger.

  Ping Wen did after all have the Jade Throne within his own compass, even if he sat at its feet. It would be the work of a moment to shift from the stool to the throne above, if he only dared to do it.

  The emperor had gone to make war, and there was no news. There could be no news while the dragon soared above the strait, until one victor or the other contrived to send a boat protected from her temper.

  Ping Wen had been secretly delighted to see the emperor off in such a boat. If no news came back—which seemed all too miraculously likely—then he would make that shift indeed, in his own and the island’s interests. The greater empire could wait, for now.<
br />
  It was much to think about, and he was grateful to be doing that in the air, in the rain, in the privacy of air and rain together.

  · · ·

  HERE was a bridge above a lily pond. He had always loved lily pads in a garden in the rain. He leaned on the curve of the parapet and watched the ripples for a while, how their pure concentric circles were checked by a sudden wall of green, how they were reflected away, how they came together in other and more complex patterns. And were interrupted by a fresh fall of rain, breaking those patterns and making new again.

  Forces of wind and water played on the pond, and were absorbed. Things changed constantly, but only on the surface. Below, fish fed on undisturbed.

  Ping Wen looked at the pond and saw the empire, of course. How could he not? The empire that endured, that absorbed all its petty people and their squabbles, their comings and goings, their dynastic shifts. The emperor and his mother, Tunghai Wang, Ping Wen himself—drops of water falling, sending their ripples out, seeing them bounce back or shatter or die away.

  Voices in history, lost as suddenly as one raindrop’s fall is obscured by another, by ten thousand more, that constant patter that will blur and drown any individual, no matter how weighty …

  That constant patter that will mask the sound of soft and careful footsteps behind a man, footsteps that are blurred already, irregular, pattern-free. Ping Wen never heard his killer coming, barely saw the black silk cord as it dropped down over his head and found his throat and tightened there with a jerk.

  He was perhaps remembering his old campaigns, his soldier-days.

  He reacted, at any rate, like a soldier. Sly and simple, vicious and unthinking and immediate.

  His elbow slammed backward, seeking the solid body that must be somewhere there. At the same time he was ducking and twisting into that choking tug, not to let the assassin set a knee in the small of his back for a good clean draw. Ping Wen had seen men strangled, had ordered it on a battlefield and afterward, men and women too. Had strangled some few himself, at need. He knew how swiftly dangerous that cord could be.

  The pressure on his neck was bad already, squeezing, dizzying. His elbow found nothing; he could feel the man’s straining weight but only through the noose, not physically on his back, not reachable. His fingers clawed at the cord and couldn’t grip it, couldn’t slip inside, it bit so deep into spare flesh. There was a darkness threatening at the corners of his sight, a flickering like glowflies, there and gone and there again.

  Like raindrops falling into a pond, there and gone, swallowed …

  Ping Wen fought for breath, what breath he could; and forced his hands from his throat and groped behind him till he found sodden cloth and flesh, man as rain-wet as he was, from crouching long hours in this ambush. Gripped what he could and plunged forward, over the parapet and down into the water.

  THERE WAS a terrible wrench on his neck, but the assassin was off-balance already, couldn’t take all his weight all unexpectedly. That man was coming with him, down and down.

  Down to the surface of the pond, where the lily pads lay like scales; and through that shattering skin and down again, down deep to scare the fishes.

  Ping Wen had what breath he had, not much. He had what strength was left him, the slow temper of a firepot, the sudden blaze of bamboo.

  He was an old man half strangled, and his enemy was half his age. He saw that, turning in the murk of the water, abruptly face to face with the man who meant to kill him.

  The man who had lost his chance when he lost his grip on his deadly cord, when they hit the lilies. He had a blade in his belt, and was reaching for it even as he kicked for the surface. Ping Wen saw that too, and had no notion of a sword-fight underwater.

  He wrapped his arms around the other man’s legs, and drew him down.

  · · ·

  PING WEN’S feet touched bottom, but the pond was deep. The man above him could see the air, perhaps, but couldn’t reach it. Clawed for it, kicked for it, snatched at it in handfuls, but his hands could do him no good up there above his head and his legs could not kick free of Ping Wen’s grip.

  They were shadows within shadow, fighting a shadow-war. Even flesh felt slow and cool and different, differently solid, here below. Ping Wen watched the man in silhouette above him, black against the dapple of the light; the man must see him less, or not at all.

  Desperate, the man did drag his hands down from where they clutched at air. Did draw his tao and try to slash beneath him, tried to cut Ping Wen away like gripping weed.

  Ping Wen could follow the line of the blade as it came down, could slide aside and still stay underneath the man, give him no chance to wrestle, just hold his ankles and wait.

  Wait for that last bubble of used air to leak from desperate lips, wait for the flailing arms to fail and fall limp, wait for the last shudder of effort to waste itself in water and be lost.

  And then, then, he could almost not remember what he ought to do himself: let go those ankles, push against the silt and rock beneath him, rise.

  Let his own body rise and his enemy’s too.

  Break surface.

  Tear the floating lily pads aside and breathe.

  One gasping, sodden, painful breath, and then another.

  More, more air; more air than all there was, he wanted that. Shuddering, hacking at the hurt of it, he wanted more. All the pain there was, he’d take that too, just to remind himself of what he had that the dead did not. This floating bulk beside him, the dead man was still dead: hanging from the curve of his shoulders, face down in the water as if he would drink and drink, drink all the pond and so not drown in it after all.

  · · ·

  PING WEN was slow to swim to land, leaden and unhurried. Slow to haul himself out of the pond, that too: no strength in him but a dawning wonder, that he had survived.

  It would be the old woman, the dowager empress who had sent her man to kill him. No doubt of that. She had given up on poisons, evidently, and tried a bolder way. And he had survived it, but not by men’s precautions, the wisdom of a long life lived at court.

  Not by a soldier’s strength either, or not wholly so. It was the soldier’s fighting mind, his instinct that had dragged them both over the parapet, yes—but not a soldier’s patience that had simply held the man underwater until he drowned. Soldiers could be patient, sure, but even soldiers need to breathe.

  Old soldiers, old half-strangled soldiers need to breathe sooner than their assassins.

  They do not squat on the bed of a pond and wait for death to take other people and not to touch themselves.

  Inside himself, Ping Wen felt like a man rising out of water, brushing obscuring leaves aside, drawing himself into a new light and seeing differently. Forgotten by death, it seemed he could remember himself. Or understand himself, and the path he trod now.

  Immortals had no need to breathe. The dragon had spent centuries beneath the sea, untroubled. He was no dragon, and no immortal either; but the emperor, the old emperor who had died at last was divine despite that, and could very likely have walked the sea-bed from Santung to Taishu and never needed air along the way. His boy the young emperor could take a blade-thrust to the body and survive it, heal without a scar.

  And was abroad just now, and had left the throne quite empty with Ping Wen’s mind upon it, Ping Wen’s body at its feet. Perhaps the jade had reached out that far already. Perhaps his ambition had reached out to the jade.

  He rose from the pond on unsteady legs, feeling some touch of godhood in him, and a new determination. The old woman would die, when he was ready; her son too, when he was in reach. Ping Wen would rise from the stool and sit the throne. This day had been a sign.

  HALFWAY TO the palace, he met with frantic servants come in search.

  The boat, the emperor’s boat was in the mouth of the bay, riding the late tide into harbor with the dragon overhead.

  THERE was a fleet, a small fleet at the emperor’s tail, but he had to send runners to
establish that. Some facts are so big they eclipse anything else. The first lookouts had seen only the emperor, in the dragon’s shadow.

  WHILE HE learned the truth of it—no, the emperor’s boat was not the sole survivor; no, this was not anything like the whole war-fleet returning; yes, every boat was decked in yellow and yes, the empress knew it and was already on her way to the dockside to greet her son returning, despite the rain—Ping Wen was dried and dressed, and had taken no pleasure in it at all.

  Hurriedly, anxiously, with his hair and beard still damp, he gave certain orders and then went out into the rain again: in pomp this time, nothing he could enjoy or profit from, processing from palace to harbor humiliatingly late, slow, in the old woman’s wake.

  On the way, he realized that he had forgotten entirely to tell anyone about the would-be assassin. Perhaps the empress’s people would have discovered and removed his body by the time Ping Wen could return. Best to wait, and check later. Better to say nothing than to send men on a fool’s errand to a corpse no longer there. Servants would whisper, and laugh behind their hands: the old man took a soaking, and tried to pretend he had a hero’s fight with a killer. Vanished killer. A killer who could come and go unseen, even dead …

  He found the empress and her entourage already on the quay, the emperor’s boat just docking. There was, apparently, no room for him. He must stand in the rain-shadow of a warehouse, because this wretched fishing port had no space for ceremonial; he must watch from a distance while the emperor and his mother greeted each other, while her trivial clerks kowtowed to the imperial triumph before ever they made room enough for him.

  When at last he was allowed close to the returning warlord in his victory, that warlord was more concerned with his woman, who had somehow spirited herself across the water in his shadow. The emperor had brought her back, but in something opposite to disgrace, another kind of triumph, seemingly: only that she was seemingly ill, seasick and needing help even on the short plank down from deck to quay. He insisted on giving her that help himself, which was added disgrace to her because of course it could not be disgrace to him, no commoner could disgrace an emperor.