The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll fly home.” Bran sighed heavily. He knew, no matter what his own decision after the summer, he would not see her ever again — she was moving to the Mon Island in October. This was his last chance to say goodbye — the Derwydd lived in monastic fortresses where none but them could enter.

  “I don’t feel so good. I think I’ve bruised my ankle,” he said instead.

  “As you wish.”

  The other boy shrugged and returned to the Red Dragon with Eithne in tow. She looked back once, briefly.

  Bran limped towards the stables. The dragons were slowly calming down. He patted his mount on the neck soothingly.

  “Let’s get out of here, Emrys,” he said quietly.

  The beast grunted in response.

  The unmistakable whoosh of a landing dragon came from the front yard. Dylan ab Ifor put away The Cambrian and stood up from the black wood armchair to welcome his son. The boy entered the living room straight from the door, staining the carpet with dirt. The white mice Bran’s mother employed as household imps scurried to clean away the mud. Dylan cast him a quick glance.

  He’s really grown.

  “I see you didn’t even bother to come to my Graddio.”

  Dylan scratched the scar running across his cheek with discomfort.

  “I only just got here from Brigstow, son. We had to pick up survivors from the Birkenhead and then our Weatherman came down with jungle fever,” he explained. “I really hoped we’d get here much sooner.”

  Bran shrugged dismissively. Dylan moved to an awkward embrace when his wife entered the room, wiping muddy hands on a linen cloth. The sweet smell of vervain and betony followed her from the garden. Certain herbs had to be picked at night.

  “Oh, back you are!” she exclaimed with a smile. Dylan always wondered why Rhian still spoke with the gentle southern valley lilt, even after all the years of living on the coast. “How was it? Did you get the Seal? Dylan, did he get the Seal?”

  “Do you not see it?” Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Ah, right, I forgot.” Rhian had some magical talent, but she had never pursued the scholarly path, preferring the ways of the Cunning Folk — making potions and casting small mending charms. She had never developed the True Sight necessary to perceive the Academy’s secrets.

  “It’s just above his right shoulder, as bright and beautiful as any I’ve seen.”

  “What did the dean say?” Rhian asked.

  “She… asked me if I wanted to stay for baccalaureate,” said Bran.

  “See, I told you they’d want him back!” She beamed to Dylan. He smiled knowingly.

  So the old Magnusdottir had received my letter.

  “You seem tired… Your face is dirty and your hair is singed. Did something happen?” Rhian continued her investigation.

  “Nothing, I was just playing with Emrys,” Bran replied.

  Dylan knew this was not the case — he could still detect the faint lingering traces of battle magic. He chose not to say anything; there was no point in worrying Rhian. Boys would always be boys, but something else in Bran’s response made him frown.

  “Do you still have that toy drake?” he asked, sharply. “You know I could get you any breed you wanted.”

  Bran scowled.

  “I have Emrys. He’s my friend.”

  “Bran,” Dylan looked his son straight in the eyes, “you can’t get attached to a dragon. They are the most egotistic of creatures. Sooner or later it will betray you, no matter how kind you are to it.”

  “Emrys is more loyal to me than any human.”

  “There’s no such thing as a loyal dragon. I have scars to prove it.”

  “Well, maybe you just don’t know how to handle them! What have you told Magnusdottir?”

  Before Dylan could answer, Rhian intervened.

  “Can’t you stop quarrelling even for a moment? Let him have his pet dab for a while yet, Dylan. The lad’s just graduated. Starting his holidays, he is. He won’t need a new draigg for some time.”

  She went on to put the kettle on the stove and the two men sat down in front of each other, uneasy.

  “You’ve been away for almost a year,” said Bran, interrupting the silence.

  Dylan looked vacantly around. The room, with its white-washed walls, heavy oaken furnishings and a roaring fireplace, seemed at once familiar and unreal. Had it really been just a few months since he had been sitting in the tent in the middle of the savannah, negotiating with the Bataavian commander?

  “I was overseeing the Transvaal agreement,” he said, more to himself than to Bran. “The negotiations were very difficult.”

  The herd of wildebeest the only witness to our quarrels.

  “How did it go then?”

  “Her Majesty finally granted sovereignty to the Bataavian settlers. Our borders in the South are secure and our friendship with the Bataave strengthened.”

  “You sound like a royal pronouncement.”

  Dylan chuckled. “I had to talk like this for a year.”

  “What about the Birkenhead? There was something in the papers, but I didn’t have time to read before the exams.”

  “She was brought upon the reefs by Xhosa illusions, off the Cape. We had to run twelve sorties to bring everyone safe.”

  “Then the war with Xhosa is still on?”

  “More than ever…”

  “It must have kept you busy.”

  “Rest is a rare privilege in a war zone.”

  That was as much as he could say. Most of his work had to be kept secret even from his closest family. In the silence that followed Dylan decided to change the subject.

  “So, have you been thinking of what you will choose for your baccalaureate?”

  “I’m… I’m not sure. I don’t really like that place,” Bran replied with a shrug.

  “I know, son, but believe me, things change later. As an alderman you’re too highly ranked for — “

  “It’s not just that… I want to…” Bran paused. “I don’t want to go back.”

  Dylan glowered.

  “Look, boy, you can’t just decide your future on a whim. What else would you do? Work down the pit, herding fire elementals?”

  “I could join the navy…”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Most of my… friends will be enrolling in October.”

  “Most of your friends didn’t get a choice. By Owain’s Sword, you’re not some farmer’s son!”

  Rhian entered the room with a tea tray. Dylan leaned back, putting a smile on his face. He relaxed the grip of his fingers on the leather armrest.

  “Are you two still arguing?”

  “No, dear. Oh, I just remembered. I brought some tinned fruit from the South. Why don’t I go get them?”

  CHAPTER IV

  Yamato, Summer, 6th year of Kaei era

  From the window of her room on the top floor, overlooking the quiet suburb sprawling along the hillside, Satō first saw the herald bearing the orange standard of the Merchant Republic of Bataave. A retinue of servants and guards followed and then, at the end, an ornate palanquin climbed up the steep hill road, carried by six porters. The guards halted the procession at the gates of the residence.

  “His Excellency, Oppertovenaar of the Dejima domain, Hendrik Curzius, here to see the master of the household, Takashima Shūhan,” the herald announced in a loud shrieking voice then presented a rolled up paper to the elder of the guards. The spearman checked the seals and nodded at his companion. The two bowed and stepped aside.

  She leaned further; she had not seen the new Overwizard before. A short portly Westerner stepped down from the carriage, straightened his long vermillion tailcoat and put on a wide-brimmed green top hat.

  “Welkom, Oppertovenaar,” a voice spoke in nigh impeccable Bataavian. Satō’s father was proud of his ability to speak the language without a strong accent. He claimed it made his spells work that bit more precisely. “I’m grateful for your visit.” />
  “I’m grateful for your welcome, Takashima-sama,” the guest replied in the language of the Yamato, in a correct, but rather coarse, manner.

  She ran down to the main hall just in time for the two men to enter the building.

  “My heir, Satō,” Shūhan introduced the girl and sat down beside her by the low table. The Westerner bowed and joined them, his legs crossed casually.

  “Aah, my limbs are not what they used to be,” he explained.

  Shūhan laughed politely, poured saké into three shallow cups and raised a toast.

  “To the eternal friendship of Bataave and Yamato! Kanpai!”

  “Proost!”

  Satō swallowed the warming liquid and felt immediately relaxed. She reached for another portion, but her father discreetly moved the cup away.

  “I’m so happy I can finally meet you, Takashima-sama,” said Curzius, sipping saké. “It’s so difficult to be granted the permit. The Magistrate finally agreed when I threatened to delay my visit to the Taikun’s court.”

  “I’m honoured,” bowed Takashima.

  “No, no,” protested the guest, “the honour is all mine. I’ve heard so much about you from previous Overwizards. The great Takashima Shūhan, one of the finest Rangaku scholars in all of Yamato! The airgun, by the way — marvellous, one of my marksmen shot a pheasant from two hundred yards last week! I’ll be sending it to the Stadtholder’s court in Bataave; he enjoys game hunting.”

  “That pleases me greatly.”

  “But let’s get down to business!” The wizard looked around, watchful. “Are we in a safe place?”

  “There are only the three of us here.”

  “I’m not sure if it’s a conversation for a young… boy,” Curzius said.

  He knows, she realised. Of course he does. He’s the chief wizard of Dejima. He must have spotted through my disguise the moment he entered.

  “Satō is my heir,” Shūhan replied, “whatever is said or done in this house, he is part of it.”

  “I’ll get straight to the point, then. I come not of my own accord, but on a mission from my master, the Stadtholder — a very special mission.”

  “You intrigue me.”

  “There is something… new in the air. Our soothsayers are anxious. They say the threads of Fate are tangled, disordered, and they all seem to focus here, on Yamato.”

  “Surely, your soothsayers are mistaken,” protested Shūhan. “We are an isolated and peaceful nation, far from the events of the outside world.”

  “And yet the world seems to be reaching out towards you. The Westerners are encroaching on the lands of the East. The realms of Bharata have fallen. The Qin barrier is breaking.”

  “I’m familiar with all this,” said Shūhan, “but I would think the spoils of Bharata and Qin are quite enough to entertain the Westerners for generations to come.”

  “You underestimate our greed, Master Shūhan,” Curzius said, “and the soothsayers of Dejima are rarely wrong — after all, they have learned their skill from your priests. The Empire of Yamato is on the brink of a major change — a change that may have repercussions far beyond your borders. The Stadtholder wants me to be more than just aware of it happening. I am required to take an active part in the events, however should they unfold, and for that, I need trusted men on my side.”

  “You want me to stand with you against the Taikun?”

  The Overwizard puffed his cheeks and looked sharply at Shūhan — as did Satō.

  “I… I did not say that.”

  “But that is what you meant.”

  “I only wish to know what you will do when the time comes to choose sides.”

  “There can only ever be two sides in Yamato: those with the Taikun and those against him. I’ve learnt it the hard way — this is why you found it so difficult to come here. Tell me, have you spoken to anyone else about it yet?”

  “I have,” the Overwizard replied, nodding. “I cannot give you the names, of course, but there is a… network of likeminded people, growing slowly.”

  “A conspiracy, you mean.”

  “I would not call it that.”

  “Call it what you will, you’re still talking about sedition and treason.”

  “This is not just for our benefit, you must understand. We care about the good of your people. You make decent trade, and are an honourable and trustworthy race. We are happy with our agreements. The others, however… they will not care for deals, they will come to steal and conquer. We need to work together against this new threat.”

  Shūhan pondered this for a while, scratching his greying beard.

  “Will you speak to the Taikun openly about these — signs?” he asked

  “As much as I am allowed to divulge, yes, but from what I’ve heard of His Excellency, he is unlikely to be interested in what I have to say.”

  “Yes, the Taikun can be a stubborn man,” said Shūhan, “and tough to deal with. There was a time when I desired nothing more than to serve His Excellency, but he chose to surround himself with advisers who cared for little but themselves. The ’reforms’ they’ve introduced have only served to keep people like me away from the court.”

  There was bitterness in his voice Satō was familiar with; he sounded like this every time he spoke of the Edo government.

  “What about the Mikado?” she blurted. “If the news are as grave as you say, shouldn’t he be notified as well?”

  The two older men looked at her in great surprise. She realised immediately how ridiculous she sounded. She might have as well proposed to discuss current affairs with the Gods.

  “The Mikado has even less freedom than I do,” said Shūhan, “you know that. Only the Taikun matters.”

  “Are we in agreement, then?” Curzius pushed, ignoring Satō’s question.

  “It is yet too early to decide, Overwizard-dono,” Shūhan replied. “As your soothsayers say, the threads of Fate are tangled, but I can promise I will always do what I believe is best for my people and country, not just for Taikun’s courtiers.”

  “That is as much as I wanted to hear.”

  Curzius extended his hand and Shūhan shook it awkwardly. They both rose and headed for the exit. Shūhan held the Westerner back just before they were about to cross the doorway.

  “This ’network’ of yours…” he said in a low voice that Satō could barely hear from where she was sitting, “would they be in a position, should anything happen to me, to take care of my heir?”

  “Is this your price?”

  “It’s my condition.”

  “Then I will see to it that they would. Farewell friend.”

  She watched her father return to the table, sit heavily on the straw mat with a sigh and pour himself yet another cup. The room was deadly quiet, even the cicadas in the garden fell silent.

  “Well,” he said at last. “What did you think of that? Not my noblest moment. To stand against my ruler and master, betray him in the hour of trouble… is that the way of a true samurai?”

  “And is it the way of a true master to give ear to false accusations and imprison those who only wished to serve him? Kōshi the Philosopher said a faithful servant must — ”

  Shūhan smiled bitterly and raised a hand to stop her. “Quoting Kōshi is not as popular as it once was. Make sure not to repeat such words outside this house.”

  “Of course, Father. I’m not a child anymore.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  He swallowed his saké in one gulp and stared grimly at the bottom of the empty cup. A lone raven cawed in the distance.

  The great Suwa, chief of Kiyō’s shrines, lay to the north-east of the city on the steep slopes of Tamazono Mountain. Beyond the long stairs and many gates, beyond the souvenir stalls and main worship halls of the shrine, beyond the cemetery, lay the forested inner grounds where only the priests could enter.

  There were many sand and gravel paths climbing among the camphor trees, connecting the separate wooden buildings. Some led to lesser shrine
s dedicated to the worship of various local kami, others to warehouses or storage sheds, or, farther up the mountain, huts of hermit priests who chose a life of separation. A few disappeared into the underbrush, their original destinations long forgotten.

  Nagomi scaled one of those white gravel paths, wearing her finest ceremonial gown of pale green silk embroidered with red thread, a wreath of flowers and ribbons of paper in her braided copper hair. On her wrists and ankles she wore bracelets of tiny brass bells. She was following Lady Kazuko, the wrinkle-faced, bright-eyed High Priestess of the entire Shrine. Despite the woman’s drab plain garments, she displayed an aura of authority and wisdom.

  The gravel path led past a persimmon orchard then along a grove of tall green bamboo swaying gently in the wind. Nagomi and the High Priestess reached a square building with walls of cedar logs, curved tiled roof and a narrow entrance without a door. Nagomi hesitated a moment before passing under the thick straw rope tied across the entrance to mark sacred ground.

  The inside was dark and musty, a faint smell of sulphur and brimstone permeating the air. The High Priestess pulled out a small clay vessel and blew on it — a tiny Spirit of light living in the pot awoke and an orange flickering flame burst forth, casting disturbing shadows on the wooden walls. The building had no floor or foundations. Its walls were sunk deep into the forest soil around a flat rocky outcrop. A narrow jagged crack ran through the rock, venting dizzying fumes from the depths of the Earth. A large bronze bowl stood on a tripod above the crack, steeped in smoke, filled with dark motionless water.

  The source of the foul-smelling exhausts and vapours was hidden somewhere deep inside the Tamazono Mountain. They leaked through cracks in the ground in many places throughout the shrine grounds. The savage deadly movements of the Earth that produced these cracks were both a curse and a blessing. They provided fertile soil and the relaxing hot springs, but once in a while the kami of the Earth would show their terrible wrath and bring fire and death upon common and noble folk alike. Such was the lot of Yamato: what the Gods gave with one hand, they took with the other.

  Atop certain holy mountains, like Tamazono, the sulphuric vapours had yet another valuable property. They enabled a suitably attuned soothsayer to see into the future. It would take years of practice for a priest to read the Waters of Scrying properly, to not be overwhelmed by the Spirits of the mountain’s heart and understand the secret signs. But Lady Kazuko, as if in anticipation of this day, had brought Nagomi to the Waters when the girl was only thirteen and had done so for a year now, getting her accustomed to the fumes surrounding the rock fissure.