ALSO BY LAURENCE YEP
Child of the Owl
City of Ice
[forthcoming from Starscape]
City of the Dead
[forthcoming from Starscape]
Dragon of the Lost Sea
Dragonwings
A Newbery Honor Book
Dragon’s Gate
A Newbery Honor Book
The Rainbow People
Ribbons
The Star Fisher
Sweetwater
The Tiger’s Apprentice
Laurence Yep
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CITY OF FIRE
Copyright © 2009 by Laurence Yep
City of Ice excerpt copyright © 2009 by Laurence Yep
Reader’s Guide copyright © 2009 by Tor Books
All rights reserved.
A Starscape Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor -forge .com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Yep, Laurence, 1948–
City of fire / Laurence Yep. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Starscape book.”
Summary: Twelve-year-old Scirye and her companions travel to Houlani, a new Hawaiian island created by magic, where they enlist the help of volcano goddess Pele in an attempt to stop an evil dragon and a mysterious man from altering the universe.
ISBN 978-0-7653-1924-1
[1. Fantasy. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Dragons—Fiction. 4. Hawaii—Fiction 5. Pele (Hawaiian deity)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7. Y44Cj 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2009016737
First Edition: September 2009
Printed in August 2009 in the United States of America
by R. R. Donnelley, Harrisonburg, Virginia
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Ray, who’s setting out on his own great adventure
Guide to Pronunciation
of Kushan Names
Klestetstse (Klays-tayts-tsay): More often shortened to Kles (Klays). Scirye’s lap griffin, a gift from Princess Maimantstse.
Lady Tabiti (Ta-bee-tee): A legendary Sarmatian warrior chief.
Lady Sudarshane (Soo-dar-sha-nay): Scirye’s mother.
Lord Tsirauñe (Tsee-rou-nay): Scirye’s father.
Nishke (Neesh-kay): Scirye’s older sister.
Prince Etre (Ay-tray): Kushan Consul.
Princess Maimantstse (My-man-tsuh-tsay): Cousin of Scirye’s father.
Sakre Menantse (Sa-kray May-nan-tsay): A name for the Kushan Empire, meaning “Blessed of the Moon.”
Sakre Yapoy (Sa-kray Ya-poi): Another name for the Kushan Empire, meaning “the Blessed Land.”
Scirye (Skeer-yay): Mistress of Kles.
San Francisco, November, 1941
Bayang
Her prey was only ten feet away now.
The boy called Leech had a shock of brown hair but the fold at the corner of his eyes suggested some Asian blood. He was small for his twelve years, but that was probably from lack of proper nourishment since he had grown up on the vicious streets and alleys of San Francisco. He was quick but not particularly strong. Nor did he seem aware of his powers yet. But she knew better than to be deceived. Beneath the childish exterior beat the heart of a cold-blooded killer who had to be stopped before his special abilities could turn him into a monster.
His chubby friend, Koko, presented only a slight difficulty. Oh, Koko looked harmless enough with his pear-shaped body and plump cheeks, but he carried a faint whiff of magic—though not enough to threaten Bayang.
It should have been easy to kill Leech, but he had acquired a bodyguard, Primo Chin. Primo was not particularly tall but built as solid as a boulder, and everything about the man suggested that he could be lethal with his fists and feet. Whether walking or standing still like now, the man was always balanced on the balls of his feet, keeping his center of gravity about his hips, ready to spring into action at any moment. And his eyes were always scanning his surroundings alertly. More importantly, he reeked of wizardry.
Her discreet inquiries about Primo Chin had met with blank walls—no family, no history—as if he had suddenly popped out of thin air into a San Francisco street. All she knew was the obvious: that Primo had plenty of money but never spent it unless it was on her prey.
Bayang concluded that unknown persons had sent Primo to protect Leech. After she was done here, she would have to ferret out their identities and deal with them, too. But that could wait. First things first.
Despite the urgency, Bayang had bided her time. Patience was the reason why she had survived this long and why she had been successful in all of her tasks, even murder.
When Primo began educating the boy in both fighting skills as well as regular school subjects, she had worried a bit. She knew Primo was actually preparing her prey for his true powers by developing his body’s agility and balance and his mind’s focus and knowledge.
If Primo had begun the actual lessons, Bayang would have had no choice but to attack immediately. Even if it meant her death, her prey could not be allowed to survive.
However, as long as Primo’s instruction remained at a basic stage, Bayang had waited, hoping that an opportunity would present itself. When she learned they had bought tickets for the incoming show at the Hearn Museum, she knew that her moment had come. She would make her move within the galleries where the crowd would mask her approach and the man would be distracted by the displays.
She purchased a ticket, too, joining the line on the appointed morning. The museum’s massive, windowless, cream-colored walls dwarfed the people eager to see the new exhibit, the Treasures of the Silk Road, that was going to open today. Two-story-length banners hung down the front and the sides with pictures of gold and jewels, and in smaller letters at the bottom proclaimed: “Kushan: The Empire of the Moon.”
San Francisco was a city that valued spectacle and style in everything from its architecture to its criminals and even its politicians. And what could be more spectacular or stylish than to see priceless antiques that no one else in America had seen?
The spectators were in a holiday mood because the autumn sun had burned through the morning fog, and sparkled through the water rising from the fountain. Water sprites, looking graceful even in their baggy civil-service uniforms, molded the fountain spray into ever-changing shapes that seemed to dance across the surface of the reflecting pool. A naiad was tidying up some dead leaves at the base of her tree, its branches pruned over many years forming knobs. Seagulls had floated in on the winds from the sea and were drifting lazily in the cool, crisp air.
The fine morning seemed like a good omen for her task. As Bayang felt the sun against her face, she reflected idly that it was not bad for a human city.
She had not asked to be an assassin and even now part of her hated killing. Time and again, she had asked to be transferred to other duties, but her superiors had refused. They told her that this assignment fit her talents the best and, besides, she had developed an unusual tolerance of humans. Most of her people would have been uncomfortable meeting a single hairless ape, let alone rubbing shoulders with them. More importantly, what she did was for the good of their people.
However, after so many centuries plying her trade, the explanations had worn thin and she was weary of her missions. She forced those thoughts aside, telling herself she n
eeded to focus on the task at hand. Her eyes swept the scene again.
On one side of the broad museum steps, a newsreel crew was setting up a large, cumbersome movie camera to record the momentous occasion.
Food sellers had wheeled their carts next to the line of waiting spectators. Already, enticing smells were rising from the pots and grills as frog-shaped imps heated the food. Bamboo trays of dim sum were already steaming and kebabs were sizzling on the grill so that the air was filled with delectable smells.
A vendor in fool’s motley was helping his pumpkinlike imp blow up balloons. A mountebank in rented wizard’s robes and cap had set up some boxes and was trying to interest a group of young men in a game of “Find the Pixie Beneath the Walnut Shells.”
In fact, before the spectators reached the sanctuary of the museum, they were going to have to run a gauntlet of peddlers, entertainers, swindlers, and beggars—very similar, Bayang thought, to the group running City Hall across the plaza, except that the politicians had brass name plates to separate themselves from the rabble by the museum.
She glanced down when she felt a slight tugging. A three-inch imp with purple leathery skin straddled her purse as it attempted to pry open the clasp.
The imp grinned up at her sheepishly and touched his forehead. “Morning, ma’am.”
Bayang took pride in her disguises. Any apprentice witch could change her physical appearance, but it took skill to transform what lay beneath the skin. Bayang had become a good enough actor to go on the stage if she wished.
She had assumed the character of an office worker in her sixties, with a back slightly hunched from slaving over a desk most of her life, eyes squinting because she couldn’t afford eyeglasses on her meager salary. She appeared to the whole world as a mousy woman who thought herself extremely daring for playing hooky from her job this morning. In short, someone whom most people would ignore.
Suddenly her face wrinkled into a puzzled but kindly expression that was in contrast to her low, menacing words to the imp trying to open her purse. “Go away or I’ll feed you to the pigeons. Ones with dull beaks so it will take a long time.”
“No need to get nasty,” the imp complained as it dropped out of sight among the forest of legs.
When Bayang raised her head, she saw Primo studying her. He couldn’t have heard her warning to the imp so, still keeping in character, she spoke loudly and excitedly to her neighbor in line, a middle-aged man, about how good the nearby salamander was at juggling flaming balls, and when the salamander swallowed the balls one after another, she applauded as if she had never seen anything so marvelous in her dull, gray life. When his master held out his belled hat, she dropped a quarter into it as if she considered that a queenly award.
From the corner of her eyes, she saw that Primo was surveying another part of the crowd now, apparently having decided she was harmless.
As the great bronze doors suddenly swung open and the ripple of excitement passed through the humans, she knew that it was almost time to finish her task and once again protect her people.
Scirye
“Oh, please don’t touch my griffin, Madame,” Scirye begged in her slightly accented English. “The last person who did that lost a finger.”
The lady’s gloved hand paused uncertainly in midair. “But he’s so adorable.”
Scirye widened her eyes in what she hoped was an expression of worried innocence.
“Oh, that’s just to lure you close,” she said. “And before you know it, snip!” She used the fingers of her free hand like a pair of scissors. “Kles’s gobbling down your finger just like it was a worm. And there’s blood gushing all over. He’s been banned from … five countries.” The girl had been about to say ten, but even she thought that might be too much to be credible.
Scirye hid a secret smile as the lady snatched back her hand. “Oh, dear. I had no idea he was so vicious.” She regarded the eight-inch griffin with alarm, too frightened to wonder what such a dangerous creature was doing on the gauntleted arm of a twelve-year-old girl.
Scirye could sympathize with the lady’s urge to admire her friend. Kles projected power not only in body but in mind, as well. From the neck down, he was a lion with a muscular chest and a lithe body that was lightning sheathed in tawny fur. From the neck up, he was an eagle whose intelligent eyes seemed to pierce right through you. Even his wings, which were folded at present, gave a graceful taper to his back. The fact that all this strength and wisdom was miniaturized into the size of a cuddly doll with fluffy fur and downy feathers—well, he was just too cute not to hug.
Scirye was enjoying the game she had just invented and was wondering how many other people she could trick, but then Kles had to go and spoil her fun. Though in theory a griffin owed absolute obedience to his mistress or master, sometimes, as he had apologetically informed Scirye on another occasion, even a griffin must answer to a higher authority—namely Scirye’s mother, Lady Sudarshane.
So, instead of growling menacingly, he gave a low chirrup that vibrated from deep within his throat—which Scirye regarded as far superior to a cat’s purr because it suggested a soft cushion by a warm fire. “Oh, I don’t mind…,” Kles said to the lady in a deep, silky voice, “as long as it’s you, my darling.”
The lady hesitated, glancing back and forth between Scirye and Kles as if wondering whom to believe. So while Scirye scowled at his betrayal, Kles fluffed up his fur encouragingly. Such a cuddly creature was impossible to resist. The lady stretched out her hand timidly, ready to pull it back if Kles began to open his small but powerful beak. When Kles chirruped invitingly again, the lady could not resist stroking the fine down of his throat and then the fur of his haunches.
“Oh, what a dear creature,” the lady gushed. “But I thought griffins were much bigger,” she said. “Is he a baby?”
Despite her duties as the Kushan liaison for the exhibit’s opening, Lady Sudarshane had been keeping an eye on Scirye. She glided over now, tall and regal as a queen, determined to prevent whatever havoc her daughter might be trying to create.
Lady Sudarshane had frequently sighed to her offspring that Scirye had too much imagination and too little self-control. She took hold of Scirye’s free arm in a warm but firm warning grip.
“Griffins come in all sizes, Mrs. Rudenko,” Lady Sudarshane explained in her warm, polished manner. “Klestetstse is full-grown.” (Ever the diplomat, she addressed everyone by their formal name but Kles’s had presented a problem since it meant “shabby” and was rather demeaning as a word. He had solved her dilemma by informing her that since he had grown into such a magnificent specimen of griffinhood, it amused him to keep his odd name—like nicknaming a huge, hulking giant Tiny.)
“His body might have grown up but not his mind.” Scirye sniffed spitefully.
Kles’s claws were only the size of sewing needles but just as sharp. So when he pinched her through the gauntlet, she felt like wincing, but fought to keep her face blank, refusing to give him that satisfaction.
Lady Sudarshane ignored her daughter’s comment and went on explaining smoothly, “The largest griffins were capable of carrying an armored warrior, and we still ride them for sport. Aerial polo can be quite invigorating. But Klestetstse is a lap griffin, specially bred for hunting, much as a falcon is.”
“Only we do it better,” Kles said, polishing his claws against his chest.
Kles, Scirye thought, has all the pride of a full-size griffin squeezed into the body of a parrot.
Mrs. Rudenko clasped her hands together enthusiastically. “My granddaughter would love a lap griffin of her own. I simply must have one. Money is no object.”
Lady Sudarshane put on her most woeful look. “Alas, lap griffins are only for the royal family, who consider them as part of the royal retinue rather than pets. Klestetstse was given to my daughter, Scirye, as a special favor from the Princess Maimantstse.”
“That sounds like quite an honor,” Mrs. Rudenko said, examining Scirye for the first time.
“You must be quite… special.”
Scirye’s ancestors had come from an area where many cultures and people had mingled. As a result, Scirye’s skin was a pleasingly light tan but her red hair and green eyes and dusting of freckles suggested that she should be dancing Irish jigs. “And… and…”— Mrs. Rudenko hunted for a polite bit of praise—”you look so quaint in your costume.”
Scirye’s outfit was a sore spot and the girl scowled. Before the storm could break, Lady Sudarshane took Mrs. Rudenko’s arm. “If you would like to learn more about griffins, Mrs. Rudenko, let me show you the displays in Room C.”
As her mother guided Kles’s admirer away, Kles snapped his beak at Scirye’s fingertip. “Don’t slander about the noblest race ever created.”
Scirye retaliated with a tap of her finger on his head. “Ow, that hurt, Kles.”
They glared at each other a moment, but neither could hold a grudge for long against the other. “Truce?” She grinned.
“Truce,” he agreed, and before his mistress could create more mischief, Kles suggested looking around. “I’ve never seen so many treasures displayed even in the royal palace,” Kles murmured. “They were always kept hidden in the vaults.”
Wherever they looked, there was the sparkle of gold, carnelian, garnets, turquoise, and lapis lazuli. Individually, the gems in the other rooms had huge price tags, but the stones in this last and largest gallery were beyond price, for they had belonged to the earliest Kushan rulers. Soft light fell through the opaque panes of the skylight overhead, and from lamps with special lenses to highlight the objects beneath them.
At one end of the chamber, the mayor and the Kushan Consul, Prince Etre, were chatting behind a podium, waiting for the radio crew to do a last sound check of the microphones before the live national broadcast.
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