Jade Man's Skin

by Daniel Fox

  In Old Yen’s bastard boat, to sail against the will of the goddess? The dragon might bring storms, but tide and current were in her hands, under her control. He half thought that the boat itself would work against him. That was fancy, of course. But whether it was the boat or the water or the goddess herself rearing up like some sea-made monstrosity—now that he had heard her voice, all salt and weeds and the grindings of rock in water, he could not see her body except the same way, made of the water at its darkest—something he was sure would stop them if he steered anywhere except toward the Forge.

  The pirate snarled, which was answer enough to say that he agreed. Then, “Well, say we go. Say we deliver her message, what then? Do you think I will bring your boy back to you?”

  Old Yen was still astonished that Tien wasn’t looking to come herself, to be taken back to her boy. She shook her head, though. “Han will do as he chooses.”

  “Really? I think the two of you are on different sides, girl. I think he will do as the dragon chooses.”

  Old Yen thought so too. If the girl believed him, she did not seem broken by the news. Oddly tough she seemed as she drew herself up, as she almost faced him down, that stone-hard pirate three or four times her age and nastier than she could ever hope to be.

  As she said, “He will come to me when he is ready, whether you bring him or not. And when he does, I will be ready for him. Whether the dragon comes with him or not.”

  It was magnificent, and it should perhaps have been the end of things, defeat for the pirate, capitulation. Something had happened here, more than the brutality of loss: something had turned inside her, turned or changed, transmuted. Perhaps it was the courage of community, being here in a house of women, under the eye of the goddess; perhaps she thought she was untouchable, with the strength to make her own choices.

  Perhaps she was right.

  HE WAITED for the pirate’s word, and heard another voice instead.

  Not the goddess again, no. The voice might carry her authority, but in a simple human sound: that nun who had met them at the temple door, who was not apparently a common nun at all but high priestess of this place.

  Who had that dreadful child in her arms, mutilated and silent and full of dark promise, that voice just a stolen throat away.

  She said, “You will be sailing, then? Where the goddess wills it?”

  The pirate only glowered at her; it was Old Yen who had to say, “I think we will, mistress, yes.” If the goddess’s will could overcome the dragon’s. Which had to be an article of faith with him, or he would never have the courage to put to sea.

  She smiled and nodded, as though it were an accepted fact. “I think you should take this boy with you. He and his mother … only harm each other, the longer they keep together. She cannot forget what she did to him, she cannot live with it, and neither can he. In another place, there is no reason why he should not thrive; here he never will.”

  Old Yen looked immediately, without thought, to the girl Tien. She was a doctor, was she not? Or at least she had a doctor’s knowledge, albeit much of it in books, as yet unlearned. And the child was clearly unwell, so where else, where better should he go?

  But she was backing away, shaking her head, raising her hands in refusal. Besides, it was himself to whom the nun was offering the child.

  If Old Yen took it away from here, perhaps the goddess would not use it again. Thus far, she had only used children in her temples.

  If it could be taught or induced to speak, perhaps she would not use it; she had only used mutes. Thus far.

  Old Yen did not want the child at all, in any way. If it had been a normal healthy boy, he would not have wanted it. A eunuch, cut by its own mother? No, and twice no. A mouthpiece for the goddess, for such an appalling voice? No, never …

  And yet this seemed as inevitable as the other, that he and the pirate would sail again for the Forge; and no, Old Yen really, really did not want to go to sea.

  THERE WAS a knocking then, thunderous on the door, and voices calling. The priestess rolled her eyes.

  “It’s not even latched,” she said, as though this were some simple domestic house. “Those will be soldiers. They need to make a noise now, every time they come, to show how delicate and respectful they are of us.”

  And she thrust the child casually into Old Yen’s arms, as though this were some simple domestic arrangement, and went striding to the high wood of the door.

  SOLDIERS IT was, a full squad of them, striding in behind an officer.

  “Well,” said the priestess, “have you come to offer to the goddess, or to pray? She will be grateful either way, and take your gifts and words at equal value.”

  Was that as barbed as it sounded? Old Yen wasn’t quite sure. But he was quite glad not to be the man who had to face this woman down.

  Who was looking past the priestess now, scanning the temple courtyard and its open galleries around.

  Who found Old Yen—a graybeard with an infant in his arms, an overgrown infant, silent and staring: probably an idiot, then—and ignored him entirely, looked straight past him.

  And found Li Ton, necessarily, the only other man in the building and looking so piratical; and said, loudly and distinctly, making believe that he addressed the priestess when so clearly he did not, “Sister, I am here on commission from Tunghai Wang himself, seeking the eunuch Chu Lin.”

  That was not, perhaps, the summons he expected or would have sought; some words carry a weight beyond their simple meaning.

  Still, he was too proud to deny his status, or his former name, when he himself had sent it to the generalissimo.

  “You have found him,” he said, mildly enough, “though I am more often known as Li Ton these days. That would be Captain Li Ton. Or General Chu Lin, perhaps, if you must. Thank Tunghai Wang for me, for his swift response to my message. What says he?”

  “He says,” the officer replied, gesturing his men forward, “that the eunuch Chu Lin is to be stripped and manacled, and taken to await his justice. Which will be swift to come, I think, but slow to linger. He is extremely angry.”

  LI TON gave up his weapons, and then his clothes. It was Old Yen’s first sight of his body, with its block tattoos and its cruel maiming: his first sight of imperial justice and its residues on anyone. He wanted to turn his head away, and would not.

  Which meant that he was still staring, deliberately at Li Ton’s face rather than the appalling body beneath, when the pirate looked to find him.

  And shaped words that Old Yen could read across distance, used as he was to reading Mei Feng’s lips in a storm: “Be sure you tell the dragon,” Li Ton mouthed mockingly, “she is not welcome in these waters.”

  WHICH MEANT go on your own, clearly. Or with the boy Pao, no more company than that. Pao was good to sail the boat, but Old Yen would certainly not take him onto the Forge, to face the dragon.

  The dragon might come to them, of course, in open water. If she was still in a sinking vein. And he had nothing to set against her, except …

  He gazed down at the child, weighing heavy in his arms; and saw solemn black eyes looking back at him, and a mouth that was closed and still, no way to tell if the goddess had any hold on it at all.

  seven

  Again …?”

  The man on the scaffold was a bloody ruin.

  To a swift or inexperienced eye, at least, he would seem so. Tunghai Wang was far from inexperienced, and just now in no hurry at all. Besides, the voice was clear, although it was pulled with pain. Not ruined yet, then. Good.

  “Treachery,” Tunghai Wang said, “has its price. If you have never learned anything else, you should have learned that. Before now, before this.”

  “I was never a traitor.”

  “You allowed the emperor to lose face; that is a treacherous act.”

  “He sent me to do the impossible, at which I failed. Unsurprisingly. That is not—oh, why are we arguing about this? It’s an old story often told,” and even this brief tellin
g was costing him almost more than he had to give; fresh sweat was breaking through the bloody mask. His eyes were dreadful, glaring horrors, shrunken pupils shot red all around. “How did I betray you, Tunghai? Old comrade?”

  “You sent the signal to launch the fleet. Didn’t you?”

  “Of course. As we had arranged, and as Ping Wen instructed … Oh, what, do you think I was responsible for the dragon?”

  “I think you knew about the dragon, Chu Lin, yes. I think you sought to make your peace with the imperium. I don’t know whether they captured you or whether you meant all along to sell yourself to them; you will tell us that, perhaps. But you gave yourself over, and then you gave us over to the dragon. You lit the beacon on the Forge, summoned our fleet, and saw it destroyed.”

  “Why …” The hanging man started, but stalled suddenly: losing his words or his breath or himself, somewhere in the landscape of his pain.

  “Why would you do that, when you owe the empire a long revenge? I don’t know, Chu Lin. Perhaps you thought you could take the boy and make a pup of him, rule the Jade Throne yourself from his shadow. Perhaps you thought you could take the throne in your own name, once you were inside the palace. Ping Wen has thought the same things, perhaps; he stayed loyal to the emperor in hopes of influence, but could not finally find a way around his mother. So he sent to me, and we came to an agreement. Now he is trapped on that island, and—well. Perhaps he has new ideas. Perhaps he thinks of that dragon as his protection. Did you and he collude, I wonder? Destroy my fleet, to then destroy the boy and divide the empire between you …?”

  He tried again, twisting on his ropes within the bamboo framework. “Why would I come back?”

  “To build your powers on the mainland, of course. One safe on Taishu, holding the throne; one actively recruiting men, winning allies, stealing the empire from me piece by piece.”

  “Then why would I come here, why would I send to you? When all the empire stands open at your back?”

  “Because you are a fool, perhaps? You thought I could be manipulated twice? Half my army is lost, but only half. No doubt you would see the remainder as a place to begin.”

  “No, Tunghai. If I wanted to betray you, I would see the Hidden City as a place to begin. You would have neither capital nor throne, and your army would dwindle between the two. But I did not, I did not come here to betray you. Nor did I anticipate the dragon. I wanted to use her, yes, but against the emperor, not you …”

  “Well. We will see.” A low table at his side held a dish of bamboo splinters; Tunghai Wang’s fingers sifted them slowly. A point pricked the pad of one finger; he tutted and sucked it for a moment, patting lightly at his lips. “Do you know what will be done with these …? Oh yes, of course you do. As you say, again. We are not the first, are we? My men report you have many, many scars beneath those handsome tattoos.

  “Well. We will give you more. And then perhaps you will be more forthcoming in your answers.”

  “You can’t change the truth, Tunghai, by torturing me.”

  “Not change it, no. But perhaps we can, hmm, dig it out of you? I will come back later, to hear whatever you would like to tell me.”

  WHEN HE did come back, there was more blood and a slaughterhouse stink in the air. Happily, he was prepared for that; a wad of perfumed silk in his hand kept his breathing clear and the worst of the maleficent odors from infecting his body.

  The bowl on the table was half empty. The man in the frame had patches of weave in his skin, where those long splinters had been sewn in and out of his flesh.

  His eyes seemed madder now, and his tongue was still.

  Tunghai Wang considered him for a minute, and then went away without asking any questions.

  The door closed behind him. A man rose from his corner and haltingly returned to work.

  ON HIS THIRD visit, Tunghai Wang did at last receive some useful information. A scribe was summoned, to be sure that nothing was lost. He had to sit uncomfortably close, to hear the broken, slurring whisper; his paper when he rose was spattered with blood and sweat and spittle mixed.

  AS TUNGHAI Wang was leaving, already busy in his mind for ways to use what he had learned, his limping man asked if he might continue anyway. There might be nothing more to be had from the man on the scaffold, but his body could teach them much in its responses.

  It would be a shame, he said, to waste such an interesting subject. A man once tortured comes to it differently a second time; his knowing so much already made the work at once easier and harder, and the torturer was very keen to pursue those separate courses. To the end, if he only had consent …

  Tunghai Wang had meant to give his prisoner a swifter end, thinking him useless now, whether or not he had ever been a traitor.

  If he had something more to yield up, though, even if it was another kind of knowledge …

  He gave his inquisitor the nod, and went his way.

  Between the Wind and the Water

  one

  When the dragon came back to the Forge, Han knew.

  She did not, in any sense, try to give him warning. Nevertheless, he knew.

  She came at night, flying above the low dense clouds that presaged storm, and he knew.

  She coasted in, as silent as a creature can be whose natural elements are air and water, and he knew.

  As it happened, he was asleep at the time, and still he knew.

  EVEN IN his dreams, he shared a fraction of her mind, as she did his. He felt her coming, and woke; and ran swiftly up to the peak, and kindled a fire in the ruin of the forge.

  Not for a beacon, to guide her in. She knew his whereabouts exactly, just as he knew hers. She could have found him in a fog, in her own fog from deep below. He could have found her in the ocean, except that she would have found him first.

  It was a warm night already, sticky with pending violence. But fire is comfort and always has been, that’s written on the bone; and he thought also that he’d like a little light, something to see her by, that was not the glow of her own green eyes.

  SHE BROKE the clouds, shadow on shadow, and his head lifted. Her descent was slow and inexorable; he waited, as still in himself as she was the definition of movement, the flow of water, nothing in her that was still.

  He saw her eyes from a distance, as others had seen them as they plunged. Tonight he was the one who waited and she was the one who came, but that gaze was just as deadly.

  If her mouth was open for him, he couldn’t see it yet.

  He shifted marginally in her mind, just to remind her that he was there.

  She landed, massively light on her feet, crushingly heavy on the earth. Her head swung toward him, and the fierce salt stench of her was as dizzying as that appalling eye as it blazed, but she made no attempt to swallow.

  For a while, indeed, she did nothing, and neither did he.

  Then, they talked. In his head, in hers: did it matter which? If there was a difference?

  Either way, whichever way, it hurt. Her words cut at him like bitter cold blades, searing where they slashed; her thoughts were rocks and whirlpools, crushing and tearing and engulfing. It was hard to understand, moment by moment, how he could ever hope to survive this.

  She herself was easy to understand: bitingly, viciously clear, in that tiny aspect of her being that brushed against his. The rest of her was utterly beyond his reach.

  SHE SAID:

  Little thing. I find I cannot leave you.

  Did he hear it, did he feel it like thunder in his bones, did she write it behind his eyes or burn it directly—characters of icy flame!—deep into his mind? He couldn’t tell. The words were there, and they carried her temper with them: a harsh indignant rage that could never be outmatched by the tickle of curiosity that came with it, how something as mean as him could ever be even the slightest nuisance to something as magnificent as her.

  He said—or thought, or envisioned, offered up—the only honest answer he could make. There was nowhere to hide in here, in hi
s head or in hers; nowhere to hide the truth. Deception was beyond him, somewhere else.

  Great one. I hope you never do. When you fly, you carry me to wonder.

  Flattery was beyond him too. He made no effort to cloak his dread of her, the horror that she was. It was only that the wonder, the majesty broke through; his fear could not stand for a moment, against his awe.

  She said, You are like a stone, small and muddy and sharp beneath my skin. I cannot shake you.

  She was like a flame in his head, if steel could burn, if mountains could diminish. He wished that she would leave him, he wished that he could let her go; he had tried, once, and yet they were still linked. He would like to live quiet and alone until Tien came back to find him, if she did. He would like not to live with this chilly connection. It was his obligation, he knew—and how would Tien ever come to the Forge if the dragon watched the strait unguarded, if he was not able to keep her safe?—and yet, and yet …

  He was weak, and afraid, and in awe. He could hide nothing. What he had, she saw.

  He said, I think it is these chains I wear, that he had broken but could not shed: cold iron around his throat and wrists, links dangling. Memories of the big smith, Suo Lung, who had lived in a slow sorrow and died abruptly, whose hammer had set these chains on him, whose scribing tool had marked them for the dragon. He could not shed those memories either, but he could turn away from them, or try to. If they could be cut away from me, I think you could fly free.

  Hold still, little thing. I will cut them.

  Claws she had, iron-dark and strong as stone; sharp teeth she had, she showed him.

  No! He would not let her close. He was in her head; he could deflect her. Apparently, he could deter her. He refused it, and she didn’t try.

  I mean, he said, if a smith could cut them from me, with proper tools. We could melt the iron after if we had to, have nothing of them left. What could control you then?

  Melt away all Suo Lung’s scratches, betray him utterly, set the dragon free. Han thought it could be done. He didn’t think it should be; he was sure that he should stay here, live out his life as the dragon’s sole restraint. Fly with her, and turn her from the worst that she could do.