“So the dragons were just a ruse! You are a rebel saboteur!”
“I don’t care one way or the other for the rebels—or the court. My cause is older than any of them.”
“What do you mean?”
The Qinese looked sharply at the boy.
“What’s it to you? You don’t know me, I don’t know you, and I’m certain it’s the last time we will see each other. You better make ready to meet your ancestors.”
The man grinned again. It seemed to Bran that his eyes glinted gold for a moment, but it had to be a trick of the light, a reflection of an evertorch. He bowed mockingly and sneaked away, clutching the piece of rocket in his hands.
Bran remained where he was, still unable to move. One long terrible minute passed then another. Emrys struggled against the Binding Words. Groggy and dazed, the beast tried to shrug the enchantment off its wings, lift its head and open its jaws. It managed to nudge Bran’s shoulder with its snout and sniffed around, sensing danger.
The dragon rider dared not think he would die there and then, but, unwittingly, his thoughts went back to the red walls of his home, his favourite beach on the shore of Cantre’r Gwaelod, his mother’s dark eyes. For a brief moment he evoked the tattooed, sad-eyed face of Eithne and recalled the day of the Graddio ceremony… Then, he remembered. Llambed’s Seal! Of course, he only had to…
A low, loud rumble went through the ship spreading from the centre to the edges. A long second later a tremendous explosion burst through the hull from deep in the cargo hold with a deafening blast, showering the main deck with rubble and shrapnel. The blast did not simply make a hole in the ship—it broke it apart. The middle section, with the bridge, vaporised in an instant. The stern and the bow rose to the sky and the two parts started sinking within moments.
The eruption swept Bran several feet into the air and he was struck dumb. When he came to, the foredeck he and Emrys were on was already sinking into the water at a sharp angle. With a deafening creak, shatter and hiss, the massive boiler came loose from its bolts and smashed into the dark ocean. The released elementals turned the water into white steaming foam. The men in the water screamed in terrible agony. Others still held on to various bits and pieces on the bow as it sank fast into the deep.
By a stroke of luck, the force of the explosion broke Bran free from the Binding. He managed to grab onto some hatch handle firmly attached to the deck. His dragon was shrieking in panic, beating wings and jumping chaotically in place. It still could not fly away. Sliding towards the water, Emrys scratched the deck boards in desperation as the foaming and hissing surface of the boiling sea got ever nearer. Bran, his consciousness slowly slipping away from him, tried to dispel Dylan’s enchantment on the dragon. It wasn’t easy. With his True Sight he could see the individual strands forming the magical net. In the surrounding chaos, Bran had to focus on the one crucial strand and either dissolve it or snap it in two.
“Hounds of Annwn, I’m not a wizard!” he cursed in despair, as the dragon continued to flail about. Bran could feel its fear and confusion through the Farlink and it did not make things any easier for him. At last he found it, a single thread glowing bright gold, Dylan’s signature colour. He reached towards it with his free hand and made a pulling gesture as if he tugged on an invisible rope.
“Chwalu!” he cried at the top of his lungs.
The Binding Spell unravelled in an instant. Suddenly released, Emrys leapt forwards with a single beat of wings into the starry darkness and disappeared out of Bran’s sight.
With an effort, the boy turned his head and looked to the western sky—he could faintly see the first dragons of the Second Dragoons speeding back towards the sinking ship. They were flying fast, but it was too late. Below, the waters fumed and boiled as the ship slipped inexorably into the scalding deep. Bran felt his grip on the hatch handle slip.
With the last glimpse of awareness, he invoked the Seal of Llambed. At first nothing happened and the boy gave in to despair. So this was how it would all end, his short uneventful life. At least he had managed to see a little of the world before he died…
He then felt a burning sensation on his right shoulder and saw a pillar of blinding bright light envelop him. The raging sea, the sinking ship, the dragon regiment, all disappeared in the radiance. The last thing he saw was a silhouette of a great white eagle, swooping towards him from the sky.
CHAPTER IX
Hendrik Curzius sweated profusely.
A servant brought him another silk handkerchief and took away the previous one, damp and smelly. The wizard put the cold wet cloth to his bald forehead. And it’s only May, he thought. What an accursed place.
The Nansei Islands lay far to the south of Yamato. Even in the deepest winter it never got really cold around there. In spring the weather became fickle, alternating between gusts of cold northerly winds, bringing showers of freezing rain, penetrating to the bone, and waves of heat coming from beyond the southern horizon, foreshadowing the unbearable tropical summer—like today.
“I wish there was somewhere else we could meet,” said Curzius, quaffing cold spring water from a clay cup.
“You know very well it’s impossible, Overwizard-dono. We can never be seen together. Only this island is truly free of the Taikun’s spies.”
The man speaking these words was broad-shouldered, balding, had a long oval face and close-set eyes. He wore the flowing silk robe of a Yamato aristocrat. His name was Nariakira Shimazu.
The small cosy villa they were in belonged to this man, as did the garden around it, filled with the fresh scent of azaleas exploding everywhere in bursts of maddening pink. In fact, the entire island and the surrounding archipelago was Nariakira’s property. This was one of the most powerful men in the country, a daimyo—lord of a province. Curzius recalled what little he had learned about the complex feudal power structure of the Yamato from a small booklet given to him before he had left Bataave to take over the post of the Overwizard of the trading factory at Dejima. Below the daimyo were their many retainers, forming the samurai warrior class. Above them—the Tokugawa Taikuns, a dynasty of generals ruling from the eastern capital of Edo. And watching over all of this, at least nominally, was the half-divine Mikado, an emperor-like figure whose true name could never be spoken without first ritually purifying one’s lips.
But the Mikado had no real power over Yamato, and even the Taikun had no power over the Nansei Islands. This was the Shimazu clan’s sole domain, by right of conquest and cunning. Never officially recognised as part of the greater Yamato archipelago, the islands were suspended in a kind of diplomatic limbo. They had their own laws, own customs, even own language. The government’s edicts did not reach the islands and the foreigners could come and go as they pleased—as long as they knew how to reach them, of course, and for the last two hundred years this had limited the number of visitors to just the Bataavians.
He waved a paper fan, desperately trying to cool himself enough to think clearly. What he had come to discuss with Lord Nariakira required his utmost concentration. Curzius may have been a newcomer to Yamato, but he was an experienced diplomat and had been thoroughly briefed by his predecessor. He could only hope it was enough to deal with the deceptively gentle-faced man before him.
“Three hundred years ago, when the Westerners first arrived in Yamato, we were all awestruck and terrified of your power and wealth,” he started. They were conversing in his own language which the daimyo knew fluently. “It was the same with Qin and Bharata, and Sri Vajaya, and everywhere else in the Orient. There were just so many people in the world, so many riches, so many warriors! We could only hope to gain some profit by subterfuge and cunning, never by force. Yamato itself had more men than Rome’s entire Imperium, Qin, ten times of that, and in those days of sword and musket, sheer numbers mattered most. Now the Bharata jungles are overrun with mercenary armies led by Dracalish generals. The Qin is thrown to its knees by the West, and everyone is lo
oking for the next conquest. There are not many left here in the East.”
Lord Nariakira nodded. Curzius guessed the daimyo must have been well aware of the recent events in Qin—the Cursed Weed trade, the Emperor’s futile edicts, the countless rebellions and the war so badly lost by the imperial army. If mighty Qin fell so quickly, what hope was there for Yamato?
“When you first arrived, you were but children and we were like your ancient ancestors,” the daimyo said, pausing often. “Your priests like beggar monks at the Mikado’s court, your merchants like village peddlers trying to hawk their wares on the festival market. Now the children have far outgrown the parents. The teachers have fallen asleep, their dōjō overgrown with moss, while the world outside turns faster and faster. How many people live in your greatest cities now?”
“More than a million in Ker Ys, twice as many in Lundenburgh,” answered Curzius.
And only two hundred thousand in Noviomagus, he thought, but you don’t need to know that.
“Pah!” The daimyo clapped his knee in an expression of helplessness. “That’s already more than Edo, and I bet it won’t stop at that. How is it that you can spawn so fast?”
“It is not that we bear more children than you; our medicine and science help us keep more people alive. You may have your shrine healers, but we have conquered the pox and cholera, and those kill thousands more than battle injuries. Our crops are more plentiful, our storage and transportation systems more efficient, so we keep famine at bay. There are also many other improvements that allow us to combat death and disease. You know it as well as I do—we finally caught up with the East.”
Nariakira nodded again.
“Yes, the world outside seems to spin much faster than in Yamato. It’s as if every year passing on the Sacred Islands is merely a day in the lands of the West. The Divine Mikado in his everlasting palace and the illustrious Taikun behind the impregnable walls of his castle are barely aware of what’s happening just outside their shores.”
“The winds of history blow fast and strong, Shimazu-dono.”
“I know what you’re after, Curzius-sama. Don’t think that your reports to the Taikun are the only source of my knowledge of the West.”
The Overwizards of Dejima were responsible for providing news of events overseas to the court in Edo. They had abused this monopoly to produce reports that were increasingly further from the truth, as Bataave was losing its significance as a major Western power. The Taikun had no knowledge of the revolutions rolling through the continent, or of how close the Kyrnosian Imperator and his invincible legions had come to vanquishing the tiny merchant republic sixty years before. How the small nation had been split even further by wars and rebellions and economic crises, how they were slowly losing their hold on all colonies, until only the precious trade monopoly of Dejima remained as the main source of income. All this was omitted from the annual report on “Western matters”.
“You are as frightened of other Westerners as the Taikun himself, aren’t you?” Nariakira continued. “That is why you came to me so eagerly, because, unlike the old Tokugawa, I understand your plight and can assist you—if you assist me. What is that funny saying in your country? You scratch my back…”
“…I’ll scratch yours,” Curzius said, nodding.
“I hope there can be a mutual understanding between the two of us. I have great respect for the men of your talent.”
Curzius sensed a hanging “but…”. Respect did not mean leniency.
“I know of the little network of friends and allies to your cause that your predecessor has been building around the Southern provinces,” Nariakira pressed.
“It is well known that your web of spies is second only to that of the Taikun himself,” Curzius said, having no choice but to admit the truth.
“There was barely need for spying; you Westerners are too clumsy. I also know why you asked to see me today, but be warned—a daimyo’s price is far greater than that of some grey-haired scholar or masterless samurai.”
“Of course, I am prepared to make many concessions.”
“Ah, concessions. Is a warship an acceptable concession?”
The Overwizard’s eyes narrowed.
“What kind of a warship?”
“A mistfire engine,” said the daimyo, and started counting on his fingers. “Hull clad in iron plate, armed with repeating cannons, lightning throwers and rockets, and with a small dirigible for long-range observation.”
“I’m surprised you know of these things,” Curzius said, raising his eyebrows.
The mistfire ironclads had been around for some time, but the armaments the daimyo mentioned belonged to the latest trends in the fashion of war. He himself had only seen a few such ships so far.
“You shouldn’t be. Has not the previous Overwizard told you what kind of a man I am? What kind of people live in Satsuma province?”
“He has, but I did not believe it. I now see he has even underestimated you.”
The daimyo dismissed the pleasantries with a wave.
“Never mind the flattery. Can you give me such a ship?”
“Would you be able to keep it a secret from the eyes of Edo?”
“The eyes of Edo cannot see over the mountains. It would be safe and hidden until the time would come to use it.”
“And when would that be?”
“Perhaps never…” Nariakira shrugged. “Butsu-sama knows war is the last thing on my mind. But it’s always shrewd to be prepared.”
“If we were certain the Taikun would never learn about the ship and where it came from, and if you could afford it, then yes, I believe we could provide you with one.”
“Don’t worry about the gold. I cannot spend it fast enough. How long would it take?”
“It would leave our shipyards in less than a year. Before next summer it could reach Kagoshima, or wherever you would wish it to sail.”
“Excellent.”
“Then you would join us?”
“No,” Nariakira said unexpectedly.
Curzius was taken aback.
“No, but I would let you join me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Do you think you’re the only one conspiring and conniving?” The daimyo laughed heartily. “The Shimazu have been plotting for centuries. It’s in our blood. Our influence is vast, our allies powerful. Your little network of scholars and rōnin would make a fine and valuable addition to it, but that is all it would ever be—a single cell in the sprawling network.”
“I… I see.”
The little man wiped more sweat from his forehead. The tropical sun did not suit his pale skin.
“Good. I had hoped you would. Yes, if you promised me a warship, I would consider letting you join my conspiracy. My resources would be yours, and vice versa. Of course, the ship would only be the beginning, you understand—a token of friendship.”
“There must be no war in Yamato,” Curzius warned, wondering what exactly he was getting himself into. He was only beginning to perceive the undercurrents of ancient vendettas and grudges these people must have been holding for centuries. Of course, the Shimazu hated the Tokugawas with a burning passion, he remembered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here after all.
“We can provide you with defensive weapons only.”
“I have no need for anything more,” the daimyo replied, smiling sweetly and falsely. “It is just a precaution, you understand. Also I need to satisfy my urge to study your magical sciences and technologies, and a modern ironclad is the finest example of both, wouldn’t you agree?”
“That is true,” the wizard replied with a nod.
“A year is a long time. I will need another token of friendship before that.”
What else would this old fox ask for now? Curzius thought with a shudder. A squadron of dragons? Those he could not grant him. Bataave had no more dragon riders.
“Send me the plans for a smaller vessel. A mistfire sh
ip good enough for me, and a few men. Just a little something to pass the time before the real prize arrives.”
The Overwizard sighed with relief. Just that? That was easily arranged.
“I will have the plans sent as soon as I get back to Dejima.”
“We can do better than that. Sign this document and they will be delivered to my men on the morrow.”
The daimyo pushed a sheet of paper towards the Overwizard. Curzius picked it up and neared it to his face. It was a letter to the quartermaster of Dejima—written in his own handwriting, sealed with his own seal. He looked up. Lord Nariakira smiled gently, but his eyes mocked the Bataavian. Curzius swallowed.
“Why not forge my signature as well?”
“That would be dishonest of me. I’m not trying to cheat you, I only wish to hurry things up. We are still allies.”
“I hope we can become more than that, Shimazu-dono. I hope we can become friends.”
“Signing this letter would greatly improve the chances of that happening,” the daimyo said with a grin.
The Overwizard reached for the pen. Despite the heat his hand was shivering as he wrote his name on the paper.
The rain poured incessantly with the noise of gravel beating on a tin plate, with the force of a great waterfall, with the coldness of a mountain stream. A million cascades gushed from the blue clay roof tiles and gutters of the narrow wooden townhouses. The packed dirt roads turned to treacherous swamp paths. All the late blooming trees had lost their flowers, their petals washed off by the rain like make-up that had gone out of fashion.
A shallow brook, which in good weather trickled quietly along the town’s southern limits, now swelled to a roaring river. An old heron stood on the edge of the thundering waters, unmoved, enjoying a feast of eels and sweetfish, battered dumb on the cobbles by the swift current. The rolling billows licked the brink of the causeway dangerously, the last of the late farmers hurrying across it with their belongings.
Nagomi stared at the raging waters, trembling. A straw cloak and a wind-tattered umbrella did a poor job of protecting her sodden clothes from the elements. Water dripped from the strands of her long, luscious amber hair sneaking out from under the indigo-striped hood of the raincoat.
The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1) Page 12
