The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

“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 ship 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.

  She was rarely so far from the comforts of her home city of Kiyō, so exposed to the raw elements. The swollen river carried tonnes of yellow mud, debris and flotsam, gathered along its way from the hills, but there was something else in the water, something Nagomi knew only she could see. Streaks of blackness, threads of un-light flashed among the waves. She knew at once what it was — somewhere upstream the river had disturbed a cemetery shrine, and released the troubled Spirits into the world. She shivered, only partly from the cold.

  “I thought as much,” her mother, Lady Itō, said, observing the chaos before them. She straightened her silk yukata robe, once dazzlingly colourful and light as a feather, now grey and heavy with water and dirt. “We cannot cross today.”

  “It’s still safe!” said Satō, a ponytail of black hair bobbing up and down with her every agitated move. Nagomi’s best friend cut her hair and wore her clothes like a samurai, down to the long katana sword in a red lacquer scabbard dangling from her silk sash.

  “Look, if we hurry…”

  “It’s too risky,” Lady Itō said, shaking her head.

  “Can’t we just go back to the inn, Mother?” Nagomi asked quietly. “Drink some hot cha…”

  “I don’t like their cha,” muttered Satō, “it’s bland and dead. They boil it too hot, and serve it too cold. If we go back now, we’ll have to wait for days until this calms down.”

  Lady Itō looked at the river doubtfully.

  “All right, but be very careful. Let the porter through first.”

  She waved at the servant, who entered the causeway
with trembling legs, the heavy bundle of their belongings bending his back. They followed him across. A small group of men and women in simple linen clothes, tattered and mud-stained, waited on the other side — the causeway was already only wide enough for single file.

  “Almost there,” said Satō.

  They now waded through shallow mud as the swollen waters started breaching the crest of the causeway. The other side was now closer than the one from which they had started.

  Nagomi said nothing. She clutched her cloak tight. It was neither the water she feared nor the cold, but the dark Spirits in the water, now floating around her legs. It was like wading through sewage. The souls of the dead whispered and buzzed with an incessant droning hum and, worst of all, they seemed to be gathering around her, sensing a holy presence. She was almost certain she could hear her name repeated in their humming.

  “Nagomi,” they whispered. “Nagominagominagomi…”

  A horseman appeared on the road ahead, a governmental courier speeding on a white stallion, crying for them to make way. The peasants on the shore dispersed before the horse, and the three travellers managed to wade to the side, but their porter lost his balance and stumbled into the water. The courier did not stop, bound by duty to deliver his urgent message, splashing the yellow muck all around. The commoners rushed to the servant’s aid. With Satō’s help, they managed to pull him out of the raging current, but the man was already unconscious, his head cracked, bleeding.

  Without thinking, Nagomi dropped to her knees beside the porter, straight into the brown-yellow sludge. The black Spirits still swirled about her, repeating their monotonous mantra:

  “Minagominagominagomi…”

  “Nagomi, dear,” Lady Itō tried to admonish her in exasperation, “it’s just a hired servant, not worth your attention…”

  The girl didn’t listen. She examined the porter’s wound. It was not as severe as she had feared. She threw back the hood of her cloak and the people around gasped at the sight of her copper-coloured hair. Some pulled back, crooking their fingers against bad luck.

  The girl ignored them. She was used to this reaction whenever she showed herself outside her hometown, and understood the cause. Nobody in all of Yamato had hair of the same colour. Some — a few close friends and family — regarded it as a blessing from the Gods. Most, however, treated it as a curse, an abomination. Luckily it did not affect her healing powers.

  She drew a tasselled paper wand from her sash and started waving it vigorously, chanting a prayer. She could feel the holy energy filling her body with warmth. It was the warmth of a fireplace in winter, of the summer sun, of a mother’s arms. She forgot all about the other-worldly coldness of the dark Spirits in the water below. At last, when she was almost at the point of bursting, she released it into the unconscious man’s body. It blazed with a blue light for a moment and the wound started sealing up almost immediately. The man stirred and moaned. She staggered as blood rushed from her head. It was an exhausting exercise.

  The villagers eyed her suspiciously, as if she was a demon in disguise.

  “Take him somewhere warm. He should be back up in a few days,” she said, trying not to let their hostility get to her. The response was silence and accusing glares, as if the villagers were telling her “you healed him, you take care of him.”

  “Are you deaf?” Satō glowered at them, putting her hand on the hilt of her sword. This made them move. A couple of men carried the injured porter across the sinking causeway, and the remaining peasants followed, throwing fearful glances over their shoulders.

  “You did well,” Satō said, helping Nagomi up with a smile, “and see, we’ve crossed to the other side.”

  She turned to Lady Itō with a beaming grin.

  “Yes, but all our luggage is lost in the river,” her mother replied, shaking her head with disappointment.

  “So we’ll travel faster.” Satō said with a shrug. “We’ll be back at Kiyō in no time.”

  The girl hurried onwards. Nagomi stuck her wand back into her sash, sighed, recited a quick prayer of gratitude and followed her friend into the rain.

  It was a busy day, a happy day, the Day of the Ship. A new Bataavian merchantman had arrived at Dejima with news and visitors from the mysterious exotic world beyond Yamato’s shores. The streets of Nishihama-machi, the old merchant district of Kiyō, bustled with handcarts and porters carrying wares from all over Chinzei — the southernmost island of the Yamato archipelago, of which Kiyō was by far the largest and richest port — to storehouses and shops. Pottery from Arima in the east, knives and blades from Matsubara in the north, silver from the mines of Ginya, malted rice from nearby Kojiya, dyed cloth from Bungo on the north-eastern coast; anything the Bataavian representatives could be persuaded to spend their gold and silver bullion on. To serve the crowds, food and drink stands sprouted along the main streets. Summer fruit and pickles were brought in from the countryside. Fishmongers hawked their morning wares; marinated eel from inland waters, and freshest mackerel and skipjack from the sea. There were boiled sweets and rice crackers for the children. There was saké and strong shōchū for adults.

  Any other time, Satō would have been the first to venture among the stalls, looking for bargains on Western accessories and magical ingredients; lenses and copper tubes from Bataave, dried herbs and powdered bones from Qin, elemental essences and black iron from Chosen. All these things were always much cheaper and more abundant on the Day of the Ship, but this time she was simply too tired to care. All she wanted was a bath and a hot meal.

  “Do come with me,” she said to the others, “I’m sure Father will love it if you stay for dinner.”

  “That is most kind,” replied Lady Itō politely. “Nagomi, you go with Satō. I will come later.”

  Nagomi agreed eagerly. The Itō house was farther up the hill, beyond the Sōfukuji Temple, and Satō’s family residence was much more luxurious, commanding a beautiful view over the city.

  The Takashima household was a massive compound, built on the very top of Maruyama Hill, dominating the neighbourhood with its thick stone walls. Two spearmen stood by the main gate, vigilant. The younger of the guards lowered his weapon threateningly as the girls approached, but his older companion shook his head.

  “It’s all right — that’s the young tono.”

  Satō stopped by the younger guard. To him she was a samurai boy, son and prospective heir to her father’s school of Rangaku — the study Western magic.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  The man nodded. He couldn’t have been more than five years older her.

  “What do they call you?”

  “Kaiten, Takashima-dono.”

  “You’re supposed to be keeping people in that house, Kaiten, not out of it.”

  “Yes, Takashima-dono,” he replied pursing his lips, uncomfortable and irritated.

  Satō didn’t worry about his discomfort. She enjoyed mocking the guards, playing pranks on them and being generally obnoxious towards the frequently changing spearmen. The soldiers did not belong to her household — they were employed by the city magistrate, who, in turn, took their orders straight from the Taikun’s court in far-away Edo. Her father was under house arrest ever since he had tried to convince the magistrate to put the masters of Western magic, like himself, to work on the city’s defences. The idea proved too radical and deemed a treason: even in Kiyō, a city more open and diverse than any other place in Yamato, nobody trusted the wizards enough to give them access to military secrets.

  “It feels more empty than usual,” remarked Nagomi, entering the residence.

  “Everyone’s either helping their families in the stores or has just wandered off to see the Ship,” explained Satō, “besides, we don’t get that many students these days. It’s been six years since my father lost favour with the Taikun, people are starting to lose faith he will ever regain it.”

  A white-haired figure lurked in the hallway. The old servant cried out in j
oy and disappeared to summon the master of the household. Shūhan hurried down from the library wing. He was a short man, long-faced and small-eyed, clad in a short, black pleated skirt, a kimono of the same vermillion silk as Satō’s garment — the colour signifying he was a scholar of Rangaku — and a black vest bearing the Takashima clan crest, four diamonds in a triangle, embroidered on the shoulders. His head was shaven in front, with a small bun of tied greying hair at the back. He hugged Satō, who flushed with embarrassment, and greeted Nagomi warmly.

  “Do you have it?” he asked. “Show me the blade!”

  Satō drew the sword and presented it proudly. The blade was magnificent; long, slender, perfectly balanced, with distinct temper lines forming a small circle at the tip, the signature of the Matsubara swordsmiths. The hilt and hand guard were decorated with the cherry blossom seal of the Ōmura clan and the tsuba handguard carved with the butterfly insignia of the Heike clan.

  Satō smirked every time she saw the butterfly crest. The Heike clan had been vanquished eight hundred years earlier, and still the Matsubaras, their once-sworn vassals, clung to the ancient allegiance. This unwillingness to change was exactly what her father had always warned her about. “The elements are always mutating, always transforming, and so must a wizard”, he had taught her. “That’s why the Rangakusha are so feared and hated in Yamato. We are the harbingers of revolution”.

  “Splendid, splendid!” exclaimed Shūhan, admiring the weapon in the sunlight. “Shigehide-sama has truly outdone himself this time. I dare say it’s even finer than my own. It was worth the trip, eh? You know, the old fools say a sword is the warrior’s soul — but I can see how this one truly fits you. You must tell me all about your journey… but you are dying for a bath and change of clothes, right? We’ll talk at dinner. I’ve ordered eel from Yorozuya today!”

  The girls bowed and hurried to the bathroom. Nagomi threw her travel uniform into the washing basket, while Satō removed the Rangakusha garments and began to unwind a bandage that flattened her breasts.

  “Phew! Finally,” she groaned, “you’ve no idea how uncomfortable this is.”