Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy

by Shawn Speakman

  With barely enough coin to pay for another night’s rent and the tea he was drinking, he certainly did not have the funds to travel to O’oa Tsetse. If he stayed much longer, he’d be washing dishes in the teahouse kitchen—which would be murder on his moye ti.

  “I can pay you,” she said, dropping a coin purse on the table. The fire djinn purred inside his moye ti. “More can be gathered at my village.”

  Farid heard the lie in her words. No matter what was in that purse, it was not worth dancing with a warlock.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely. Qin could solve her own problems.

  He bit off the vicious lie.

  “There are countless cutthroats and mercenaries in this city who will throw their lives away against your warlock for less than this,” he said.

  “The people of this country are superstitious. Afraid of the Yoo-in,” she said. A dark look crossed her face.

  “And I shouldn’t be afraid?”

  “You are moye,” she said, trailing a callused finger along the length of Farid’s metal arm. A foreigner with a moye ti, Farid often caught scrutinizing stares from locals. His country was rich with the djinn that powered moye ti, but moye itself was an Islander magic, and outsiders wielding it were mistrusted.

  “If coin will not persuade you, perhaps this will.” She reached into a deep pocket and pulled out a scroll of old leather, which she unfurled. A map. “I can lead you to O’oa Tsetse through the mountains.” On old roads not yet blocked by the rebels, and forgotten by the bandits that prowl the highways. She did not explain this, but Farid understood. His only outward response was a squint, but inwardly, the possibility of reaching the northern city in time to save his friend was winning the war against his suspicion. “My village is just a day’s detour,” Tóu Mǎ said when she saw that he had taken the bait.

  Farid thought to memorize the map, so he could take those roads without her help; but looking at it made him suddenly sick. He stood, his head swimming. The screech of his chair sliding out from under the table was the loudest thing the tearoom had heard all night. “I don’t know where you heard about me,” he stammered, “or how you know I need to cross those mountains, but I’m not for hire. Not under your circumstances. I’m sorry.”

  Farid left the tearoom and did not look back—though, damn it, he wanted to. The image of the glowing tip of Tóu Mǎ’s cigarette reflected in her red-rimmed eyes followed him up the creaking stairs to his rented room.

  Farid woke with a growl in his throat. His heart beat in mad concert with the drum of rain on the teahouse’s tiled roof. The night terror fled to wherever dreams go upon waking, but the anxiety held on with an iron grip. The djinn’s orange glow lit the room. Farid released it from the moye ti each evening, to rest in the room’s brazier. Except the light wasn’t coming from the brazier. It came from the end of his bed, where the djinn sat curled in Tóu Mǎ’s lap. She was ghostly, and left no impression on his quilt, as if weightless.

  Tóu Mǎ said nothing. Seconds passed, or hours. Farid blinked. The blink lasted a year. He waited to feel her hand drift against his stubble-bearded cheek. When he opened his eyes, Tóu Mǎ was gone.

  Farid’s eyes drifted to the door of his small room. The deadbolt was locked, as it had been since he arrived after leaving the tearoom. There was no window. “It was you,” he said aloud, swatting semi-playfully at the djinn. “You led her to me.”

  The djinn had the habit of upending Farid’s life. It pattered to the end of the bed, where his clothes lay in a clump, and began to root. It pulled free Farid’s purse and dropped it in his lap. His empty purse.

  “You want me to go with her,” Farid said, throwing his hands in the air. “Fight a damn warlock?”

  The djinn purred.

  “And cross the mountains. To O’oa Tsetse before the full moon.” The bloody djinn was right. It was always right. “Fine. Go, and tell her we leave tomorrow. Two hours past dawn.”

  With a flourish of flame, the djinn disappeared into the ethereal world with Farid’s message for Tóu Mǎ.

  Farid sighed and pulled off his keffiyeh, which he wore around his neck like a scarf, up over his mouth and nose. Its rough linen, as many-coloured as Tseng Aa’s countless prayer flags, was coated in oshii resin, filtering out the stink of the city. Qin said the resin could neutralize much more than that, if necessary. This lower story of Tseng Aa had a particular smell, even after a fresh storm, and Farid was glad for the oshii. He dropped his bag to the damp wooden walkway, avoiding the temptation to glance through the slats at the seven city stories below. He checked that his pistol was clear of his overcoat, then leaned casually against the teahouse that had been his home for several weeks. A few moments passed in silence.

  The ghostly silhouette of an enormous horse-headed figure appeared in the mist, straight from a nightmare. His fingers itched to draw his pistol, but the djinn in his moye ti was calm, so he resisted the urge. Damned trick of the mists, Farid consoled himself silently. As the silhouette drew nearer, the djinn’s instincts proved true: it was Tóu Mǎ, his employer for the foreseeable future. She slowed when she saw him waiting. “I thought to wait for you,” she said. It was an hour earlier than they had arranged to meet.

  “I know,” Farid said.

  Her backpack—narrow, with its frame poking up over her head—and her naturally long face gave her a horse-like appearance. She was taller than most Islander men, and broad through the shoulders. Strong. She carried a paper bag stamped with the logogram of a nearby apothecary.

  “There is little sense in waiting,” she said.

  “Now, now,” Farid said, extending a hand. “Not before your quarter of the bargain.”

  Tóu Mǎ shrugged off her pack. She stowed away the paper bag, retrieved a purse. “Half now,” she said, tossing it to him. It was lighter than he liked, but a quick glimpse proved it was all there. Farid was surprised to see actual coins—real gold and silver—rather than the banking certificates introduced by the Sinking Moon Island’s banks. Old family money, maybe. He bit one of the gold coins, assumed it was real, and shrugged. Good enough. The fire djinn purred contentedly. Business settled, they departed towards the nearest gondola station.

  Low clouds clung to the steep walls of Tseng Aa like a blanket of fine silk. Far below, the great river Si churned. Built in a ravine, Tseng Aa city was tight and claustrophobic, its residents and businesses piled one atop another. Mottled buildings poked through the mist, climbing in tiered ranks towards the mechanical sounds of the city’s highest gondolas. The gondola ride to the uppermost level of the city, which spilled from the lip of the ravine into the surrounding foothills, passed in silence. Tseng Aa sank into the mist below, yet to waken.

  They disembarked on the city’s north edge and hired a donkey. Tóu Mǎ led them north, towards purple-bruised clouds, and her mountainous homeland. Farid followed with the donkey.

  A mercenary his entire adult life, Farid was used to hard travel—but that did little to prepare him for Tóu Mǎ’s relentless pace. He couldn’t complain though, not with the growing larger every night. They walked hard until after nightfall.

  They made a spare camp. Huddled beside a fire that was little more than smouldering coals, Farid chewed on dried fish, but Tóu Mǎ dined only on a cigarette; its sweet smoke mingled with the musk of the foothills to pleasant effect. Farid eyed her dubiously, but went to sleep without questioning her meal.

  The next morning, Farid struggled to keep up. Tóu Mǎ made their passage through the rough foothills seem effortless. She stopped several times to check her map and allow him to catch up. At one point, she used two of her fingers to measure a distance. The amount they’d traveled? Or how far they had to go to reach her village? Either way, it covered less than a quarter of the map.

  Farid tried to study the map. Fighting the sudden nausea, he could make out familiar aspects—mountains, roads, coastlines—but within seconds of looking away his memory began to smudge and blur, as though he was remembering a m
ap that had been left out in the rain. He quit in frustration.

  “Why are you travelling to O’oa Tsetse?” Tóu Mǎ asked when she caught him looking one evening after they had settled for the night. A storm was passing through, so they took shelter in a small cave. “The highways are dangerous, and there is unrest on the Islands.” She would not talk about herself, but had endless questions for Farid.

  “Qin is . . . fighting there,” Farid replied.

  “Fighting? The rebels have no foothold so far north. I thought they are focused on Tseng Aa and the southern islands.” This simplistic summation of the situation made Farid wonder if Tóu Mǎ was paying too much attention to recent gossip papers and propaganda.

  “Perhaps,” Farid said. “Qin is fighting a colder war.”

  Most recent news out of O’oa Tsetse involved the great Inventor’s Festival—a celebration of the Sinking Moon Island’s mechanical and scientific ingenuity. Qin was there, and Farid suspected the agents of the White Queen had found her. If she failed, or died, the whole nation was threatened. Farid could not even begin to consider what would follow. War between the nations would be devastating.

  Tóu Mǎ nodded as if she understood. “Every day is a war, every moment a battle.”

  Who is this grim woman? Farid wondered, without responding. Released from his arm, the fire djinn nuzzled into the hottest parts of the small fire. After spending a silent hour meticulously cleaning his pistol, he curled up on the cold ground and fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed of a horse-headed woman wrapped in chains, pain and anger wetting her eyes.

  Lurching awake, Farid gasped for breath as the first moments of a panic attack grabbed him. He slowed his breathing, stamped down his demons. Tóu Mǎ was still awake, her long face shrouded in shadows and questions. She was staring at the map.

  Farid woke to cool sunshine splashing across his face. Tóu Mǎ was already awake and impatient to get started.

  The mountains revealed another side of their beauty in the storm’s wake. As foothills traded for true mountain trails, Farid admired the rolling sea of red leaves turning to gold, washed clean by wind and rain. He preferred the conveniences of cities—the energy and personality borne of so many people packed into vibrant confines—but had to admit that the lands surrounding Tseng Aa were beautiful. There was a silence that was somehow alive; the rustle of autumn leaves, the sigh of the season’s last warm wind, the nestling of small animals into their homes.

  Midway through the morning, they diverged from the main path onto a trail much smaller and more overgrown. Little more than a deer trail. They followed it for a brief time, then emerged from the tumbledown forest at the edge of a windswept cliff. A fog-shrouded valley lay below, slumbering. Somehow, in this modern world, civilization’s fingers had yet to mar its primal beauty. “The valley of Hsiung,” Tóu Mǎ said. “My home. She’s down there. Wu-jiu.”

  The warlock, Farid thought with a shiver.

  Not even a curl of smoke suggested a camp or homestead. Farid could play coy no longer. After so much hard travel, his humour was short, his desire for beer and a warm bed long. “There’s no village.”

  Tóu Mǎ said nothing. Taking up the donkey’s lead-line, she set out along the trail descending into the valley. “This way,” she called.

  “There’s no village!”

  Farid watched Tóu Mǎ go, unsettled. She was several yards away when a huge figure burst forth from the foliage beside her.

  “Kō-dan!” Farid screamed. Tóu Mǎ sensed the danger before the ragged word left his mouth. She sidestepped, and the kō-dan missed her entirely as its enormous paw raked the air where she’d been standing. The monstrous bear, its fur matted with dirt and rotten moss, charged at her, and she danced away again, sending it careening into a copse of trees just off the trail. It returned to its feet with a speed that belied its size and reared up on its hind legs. It towered over Tóu Mǎ, diminutive in its shadow despite her height and strength. It was larger by far than any bear Farid had ever seen. A cloud of toxic gas burst forth from two gill-like vents on its neck, catching Tóu Mǎ full in the face. She raised an arm defensively, and the gas deflected around her, as though she held forth an invisible shield.

  Farid wrapped his keffiyeh over his mouth. According to Qin, the oshii resin would filter out most gaseous toxins. He hoped she was right. Ready for a fight, the fire djinn hissed and spit steam from within his moye ti. Farid charged at the kō-dan, which was preoccupied with trying to decapitate Tóu Mǎ, who now stood between them. She lithely dodged its blows. The effortlessness of her defence took Farid’s breath away. A kō-dan was a fearsome predator, but the Islander faced it as though the beast were nothing more than an angry child slapping at her. All the while, she was backing towards a large boulder.

  Tripping on a stray rock Farid tumbled towards Tóu Mǎ. His moye ti burned with the djinn’s fire, so he grabbed at her with his flesh hand. At his touch, icy numbness shot up his arm to his shoulder. Tóu Mǎ shrieked, a banshee cry that startled birds from their perches. Farid lost his grip and fell to his knees, clutching his hand. The iciness stopped immediately. For a frozen moment, Tóu Mǎ stared aghast at him.

  The kō-dan bellowed and again vented its poisonous gas. It stung Farid’s skin and his eyes immediately teared up, but Qin’s oshii seemed to do the trick. Expecting easy prey, the kō-dan was surprised by Farid’s vicious counterattack. Farid’s first punch, with all the fiery power of the djinn behind it, caught the great bear off guard, crushing several of its ribs. Tóu Mǎ leaped up to the top of the boulder and sat cross-legged. She looked quizzical and amused, as though she were watching a pit fight between two mismatched opponents.

  Farid would give her a show she wouldn’t forget.

  The kō-dan leaped forward, swiping at Farid with enough force to kill him in a single blow. He deflected the first blow with his moye ti, but it stretched the device’s power almost to breaking. Sensing Farid’s distress, the kō-dan swiped again. The djinn provided a burst of superhuman speed and strength; Farid seized the kō-dan’s forearm with his moye ti, crushing the bone inside, then twisted sideways, letting the kō-dan’s momentum carry it forward. Landing on its broken arm, the beast collapsed with a cry, skidding towards the cliff edge. Farid jumped atop its back, landing a fiery punch before being thrown off. The kō-dan stood, furious but disoriented.

  Farid drew his pistol, then commanded the djinn to transfer its power from the moye ti to the small lead bullet in the pistol’s chamber. The firing of the gun resounded brilliantly, its echo giving it greater life. The bullet smashed into the kō-dan’s skull in a conflagration of flesh, bone, and djinn magic. The great bear flailed, then lost its footing. It tumbled off the cliff in a flurry of fur, loose rocks, and dirt.

  “Stupid,” Farid growled, catching his breath. He was never much of an outdoorsman or tracker, but even so, as he scanned the nearby area and saw obvious signs of the feral bear. Scat on the trail, broken branches, even a massive paw print. He was an idiot for missing it the first time around.

  The kō-dan lay tangled among sharp rocks on a shelf jutting from the cliff face. It was still twitching as death caught up with it. He had won. The matted fur and skin around the bullet hole crackled with the djinn’s liquid fire.

  “Too bad you can’t eat it,” Tóu Mǎ said with a shrug. She still sat atop the rock, arms resting on her folded legs, but the expression on her face had changed. For the first time since Farid had met her, he saw curiosity there. It was a hungry sort of look, the same he might give one of Qin’s particularly dangerous or curious moye inventions.

  He narrowed his eyes in a rebuff, said, “I know. Poisonous. Can’t eat it, even if it’s cooked by djinn fire.” He would have prattled on, because her stare was making him uncomfortable, but she cut him off.

  “That was impressive, moye. Perhaps there is more to you than a first glance suggests.”

  That annoyed Farid. “You hired me, remember? I’m exactly as advertised.”

&
nbsp; The djinn erupted from the dead kō-dan. It was a curiously clean moment, the gore incinerated and the flesh cauterized by the djinn’s immense heat. It scaled the cliff face in three bounding leaps, and settled back into to Farid’s moye ti.

  “Are you hurt?” Tóu Mǎ asked.

  “No,” Farid said. In reality his back was still seized up, but that was nothing that would stop him from getting to Qin.

  “There are hours until dark. We should go,” Tóu Mǎ said. They left the carcass of the kō-dan behind, broken and beaten. But it was not the memory of that fight that troubled Farid most; he could still feel Tóu Mǎ’s icy skin on his fingertips.

  They stood on a knoll surrounded by swamp. Fog so thick it could be scooped into cupped hands climbed the knoll like a dying soldier, dragging itself upwards inch by inch only to tumble backwards just before it reached the crown. Cramped trees suffocated what little light managed to penetrate their boughs.

  Tóu Mǎ sat on a log, lighting a cigarette. “We’re here,” she said.

  “You call this home?” Farid replied. “Lucky.”

  Tóu Mǎ looked at him with a flat expression that reminded Farid of an old priest he’d once known. The desperate woman who had hired him in Tseng Aa was gone. What had started as standoffishness during their night in the cave had become calculated curiosity and a strange sort of hope since the fight with the kō-dan.

  “Sorry,” he ventured. “It doesn’t look like much. Here to save a village of ghosts, am I? Or trees?”

  Tóu Mǎ challenged him further down that road with a glare. “Sit, Farid,” she said, patting the place next to her. After Farid grudgingly obliged, she rose and began their familiar routine for preparing camp.