The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  Shigemasa made Bran stroll the street up and down, while he assessed which residence they had the best chance to get into.

  “The best one will be fully booked,” the General said, “so will the cheapest one. Try the one with the plum blossom on the noren.”

  The guard eyed Bran carefully, studying his face, clothes and the crest of the Aoki clan on his shoulders, and then bowed slightly — too slightly, for Bran’s liking — and stood aside.

  The inside of the strange residence was lush, by Yamato standards. The walls and floors were laid of delicate, sweet-smelling timber; the corridors were decorated with vases, paintings and flowers. A group of young women in the vestibule studied Bran unabashedly as he approached the counter. He heard them whisper and giggle among each other.

  “Look at his eyes! He must be from Kiyō. One of them half-bloods.”

  “Impossible! He’s far too high born for that.”

  “He seems so shy — do you think he’s unbroken yet?”

  The last sentence amused them greatly and they broke into another fit of giggles.

  Bran felt his face burn bright red. Following Shigemasa’s advice, he asked for a single table in the common room and “one shamisen girl”.

  “We don’t want to spend too much on your first time.”

  He was then led into a large hall where several other men were already sitting at the low benches, drinking and conversing in hushed tones, accompanied by women in opulent, many-layered kimonos and elaborate make-up. They reminded Bran of the high-born ladies he had seen in his dreams.

  A flask of saké and two cups waited for Bran on his table and, before long, a young girl came into the room. She headed towards him, holding a long-necked string instrument. She smiled gently and nodded her head. Her every move and gesture was deliberate, yet perfectly smooth. Underneath the thick make-up, she was almost as beautiful and gracious as Atsuko.

  “Does my noble guest have any wishes for the music?” she asked in a soft, sensuous voice.

  “A… anything you like.”

  She plucked the strings with the grace of a prowling cat and started humming a sad, slow song.

  Hana wa Kirishima, tabako wa Kokubu

  Moete agaru wa Sakurajima

  Kawaigararete neta yoru mo gozaru

  Naite akashita yoru mo gozaru

  Flowers of Kirishima, tobacco of Kokubu

  Fires of Sakurajima

  Caressed in the evening

  I cried until morning

  Bran stared at her, transfixed. Her fingers were long and slender; her voice was like that of a nightingale, and her lips…

  “Don’t fall for her, boy,” Shigemasa chuckled, breaking the solemn mood, “she’s just one of many. Offer her some saké.”

  The girl batted her eyelashes and sipped like a sparrow from the white cup. She re-tuned her instrument and started on another melancholy song.

  The shamisen’s sound brought him a memory of a bard’s harp back in Gwynedd. His mind was transported by the melody to the sprawling green hills and the slow-rolling rivers of his homeland, the calm, golden-leaved forests where the only danger awaiting a traveller was getting lost in the subtle beauty of the hazel groves, the sea-side dunes of Cantre’r Gwaelod, the narrow, cobbled streets of Caer Wyddno… He saw the stone towers of the Academy; the dried-up marshes of the Teifi; and, as the song grew to a chorus, the red-washed walls of his home.

  Wasuregataki furusato

  Iika ni imasu chichi haha

  Tsutuga nashi ya tomogaki

  I miss my home town,

  How are my mother and father?

  Are my friends alright?

  He saw Rhian holding a basket of freshly cut herbs and talking to Dylan who was cleaning the scales of the Azure dragon. They were laughing and both looked happy then.

  How old is this memory? Bran wondered. He hadn’t seen his parents together like that in years. The dragon was not Afreolus, but one of Dylan’s previous mounts.

  Home. It was strange; he had spent months out on sea without ever missing Gwynedd, but now, this beautiful girl’s sad song made him almost weep from home sickness. His eyes welled up. He shook his head.

  “Stop,” he croaked, then coughed, pretending there was something in his throat. The girl blinked in confusion. “Sing something else.”

  The girl nodded and retuned her instrument to a more cheerful key. He gulped his saké and poured himself another cup right away and then another.

  The evening passed briskly; the girl sang and played some more and once, at Shigemasa’s request, performed a slow, graceful dance with two paper fans. By the end of the night — and of the third or fourth bottle of saké — Bran’s thoughts and emotions were elevated to the point where he wanted to write a poem or paint a picture that would capture an impression of the scene.

  The girl sat back down after another dance; the sleeve of her kimono dropped, revealing a naked shoulder. She did not adjust it; Bran leaned forward, his face burning. The girl was more subtle than the eager, flirty women from Shigemasa’s memories, but she made him burn with the same desire; he recalled the vivid dreams he shared with the General, including one he hadn’t remembered before — of a pale-faced woman in a red kimono, in what looked strangely similar to his inn room back at the Hitoyoshi …

  “You won’t get that sort of thing here,” the voice in his head said with a lewd chuckle.

  “That’s not… I’ve never even…”

  “Oh, but you have. I should have told you earlier.”

  This sobered Bran somewhat.

  Hitoyoshi wasn’t a dream...?

  “You...you took the liberty of my own body to…!”

  “I’m not a monk, boy! But I can make it up to you. There was a place not far, I bet it’s still in business. If you want I will take you there.”

  Bran hesitated for longer than he thought he would.

  “N-no.”

  “Why not? It’s only natural. The little wizardess does not seem willing to give you what your body needs, so I thought…”

  “I’ll be just fine,” he replied, his mood soured.

  The girl looked at him patiently, waiting for another order. He smiled and raised a silent toast to her. She put her instrument down and relaxed a little.

  He could now hear the conversations by the neighbouring tables. Saké seemed to have enhanced his hearing at the expense of other senses. It was clear that the other men came here not just to admire the girls’ performances, but to discuss important matters in a tranquil atmosphere. The two samurai to his left deliberated on the prices of rice and sweet potatoes, but the group to the right — three men whose clothes of soft silk were all marked with the cross-circle emblem of Satsuma — dropped a name in their conversation which made Bran prick his ears.

  “I heard the daimyo’s plan fell out.”

  “Some terrible disaster. All news is suppressed.”

  “Might be wise to invite daimyo’s honourable brother to our next get-together.”

  The elder samurai nodded. “I will let Hisamitsu-sama know. But, have you heard? The Daisen Heishichi has returned from Kirishima. I passed him at the castle gates. He’ll be with the daimyo now.”

  Bran had heard enough. He faked a yawn and dismissed the girl.

  “You have been exquisite, but I am tired now.”

  “Of course, noble guest.”

  She remained with her head bowed until he left the hall. Once out of the residence and onto the sudden cool quiet of the street outside, he stopped and leaned against the red-plaster wall for a moment. His head was spinning a bit.

  “That was…” He searched for the right word, “magnificent.”

  The General said nothing, but Bran could sense his satisfaction.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to that other place now?”

  “Maybe later,” he said with a smile. “I have to go somewhere else first.”

  He looked around; the street was darker and emptier than when he
had entered the establishment. He breathed in the scent, not unlike that of Kiyō on that first fateful night. The noises on the main street were muffled, and in the silence, Bran heard a nightingale singing in the garden of one of the mansions.

  I will miss this place, he realized, just as much as I miss Gwynedd now.

  Once past the trade district, Bran drew the hood of his travel cloak over his head and returned his face to its Gwynedd look. He crossed a narrow canal and approached the deceptively small castle of the daimyo of Satsuma. The guards stopped him before the narrow bridge over the castle’s moat.

  “Halt! The gates are closed for the night. Whatever your business with the daimyo, come tomorrow.”

  Bran threw down the hood and looked up, noting the effect his foreign face had on the captain of the guards.

  “I only seek tranquillity,” he said, using the archaic code word ‘shōhei’. The captain drew breath loudly, then said “keep him here until I come back,” to the other guard and left in a hurry.

  He returned five minutes later.

  “Come with me,” he said and led the boy, not to the main gate, but to the southern side of the castle wall. He pulled a hidden lever; steam spewed from a concealed valve. Bran heard brass pulleys turn inside the wall, and a small postern opened with a clunk. They walked down the narrow, winding corridors, up the stair to the second floor of the keep.

  “Wait here, you will be announced,” the captain said and left the dragon rider in the company of a servant.

  Upon entering the daimyo’s room, Bran became acutely aware of the magic energies permeating inside. A round paper lantern hovered over the floor on its own, illuminating the room with a faint light. A grid of magic trip-wire ley alarms was scattered around the painted walls and paper-covered windows. Even the inkstone glowed slightly with some minor enchantment. This was the room of a man who was not afraid of magic and did not care much for the Taikun’s restrictions in its use.

  Shimazu Nariakira was a broad-shouldered man, with a long, oval face, a large, straight nose protruding between close set, clever eyes. Bran tried to find similarities between Atsuko and her father, before recalling she was an adopted child. The aristocrat was sitting at a table made of a single slab of walnut wood, supporting his head on his hand, studying a board game in complete silence. A thin wisp of white smoke rose from the incense bowl on the table, filling the room with the familiar scent of sandalwood.

  Bran said his greetings and stood, waiting, for a minute, then another; his patience began to grow thin. The daimyo remained unflinching. Bran cleared his throat.

  Lord Nariakira raised his head slowly. There was something odd in the nobleman’s eyes and face, but Bran couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The atmosphere in the room, and the alcohol in Bran’s head unnerved him. The daimyo still did not speak.

  “I… I was hoping I could request your assistance, kakka,” said Bran at last.

  A deep chuckle came from beyond a thin wall. It slid open, revealing another room, almost a mirror image of the one Bran was in, except brightly lit. A man who could have been Lord Nariakira’s twin looked at Bran with great amusement.

  “Gaikokujin!” he said. “Insolent as ever. Do you not know you should always wait until your superior speaks, no matter how long it takes?”

  The boy glanced from one man to another in confusion. At last, he used True Sight on both of them.

  “An automaton!”

  “Yes,” said the real daimyo. “A new creation of my mechanicians. You have the privilege to be one of the first guests I have tested it on.”

  “It’s… remarkably life-like.”

  In the West, automatons were mere toys, their practical pursuit abandoned long before Bran’s birth. Now he understood what Atsuko had meant when she spoke of her chaperon.

  “Come here, boy, let me look at you in better light.”

  The daimyo studied Bran for a while.

  “You are shorter than I expected,” he said at last.

  “Kakka?”

  Bran was ready to provide the daimyo with a long explanation regarding his presence in the castle and his knowledge of the secret password, but Lord Nariakira’s blatant statement threw him off guard.

  “Sit down,” the daimyo gestured at another walnut table identical to the first one in every detail. Even the pawns on the game board were all in the same position.

  “Two days ago I received a letter from my dear daughter Atsu,” he continued, “in which she describes a meeting with a young Westerner whose name she fails to mention.”

  Bran gulped. How much did she tell him?

  “In describing the man, my daughter paid particular attention to his, as she puts it, ‘emerald green eyes.’ By the end of the letter, she entreats me to hear his fascinating story and provide him with anything he may require, if we were to ever meet.”

  He paused. Bran kept silent, waiting for him to continue. The daimyo grunted with satisfaction.

  “You are either brave or unwise to come here,” he said. “I could easily have your head off. Maybe I should, eh? I can only imagine the circumstances in which you two have met. My daughter was to be kept under strict surveillance, so you had to be pretty sneaky - or reckless. Those responsible for allowing your meeting will, of course, be punished.”

  Bran opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.

  They can’t be helped and I’m in enough trouble as it is.

  “However,” the daimyo continued, “my daughter is not easily impressed, and I put great trust in her judgement of people. If she puts a good word in for you — and grants you access to our family code word — my interest is piqued. Let me hear you out first — and bear in mind, your life is in my hands. Let us start with introductions — who are you, boy?”

  “I am Bran ap Dylan gan Cantre’r Gwaelod - the dorako rider,” Bran replied.

  Lord Nariakira digested the information before clapping his knee in joy.

  “Unnh! It makes sense now. I take it you know it was I who kept your dorako imprisoned — and yet you come to me of your own will? ”

  “I… I hoped you might help me… find it, kakka.”

  “You seem to have done it with no problems before.”

  “I lost that ability after what happened at Kirishima.”

  “And what happened at Kirishima? Tell me about it, or better yet, tell me all about your adventures. I need to know what kind of a man comes alone at night requesting the help of a daimyo.”

  Of all the people Bran had recounted his adventures to since coming to Yamato, Lord Nariakira was by far the best, most informed, and avid listener. His knowledge of the outside world, familiarity with matters of global politics, and Western magic was uncanny. The story took Bran much shorter to tell than he had expected. When questioned about it, the daimyo chuckled.

  “Yes, I suppose I do know a bit more about the world than your average country samurai. But, you shouldn’t be so surprised. You have seen some of my machines and workshops on your way here.”

  “Yes, kakka.”

  “So, Kirishima… you did not see the battle to the end, then?”

  “We ran away to save the priestess.”

  “And have you?”

  “Yes, kakka. She is alive and well. If I may inquire, have there been any survivors?”

  “Yes, though not many. My soldiers reached the shrine just in time to drive the attackers off.”

  “Is... Captain Kiyomasa among those alive?”

  “He suffered the worst injuries, but I am told he will survive.”

  “That makes me glad. He was… is a good soldier.”

  “That he is,” the daimyo said with a nod. “Yoshi!” he added, standing up, “I will not have your head just yet. Whether or not I will assist you, is another matter. Tell me, young dorako rider, what were you planning to do once you got to Kagoshima?”

  Bran had realised by now that honesty was the only way to gain this odd man’s trust.

  “I thought
I might sail north following any hints and rumours I could find.”

  Lord Nariakira turned his back to Bran, looking out the open window. This seemed a reckless gesture — they were alone in the room, and the dragon rider had not been searched for concealed weapons. Bran cast True Sight again and saw the shimmering magical shield protecting daimyo’s body — as well as silhouettes of two men sitting behind yet another fake wall. One of them was a wizard, protecting the Lord with his magic. The other’s power signature was strangely familiar…

  “It’s a shame you haven’t seen for certain who stole that ring of yours,” said Lord Nariakira.

  I’m sure you already know whom to suspect, Bran thought, but refrained from commenting.

  “There is one more thing left out of your story, boy,” the daimyo said, running his finger along a wooden slate in the window frame, “what do you know of this... Dōraku-sama?”

  “I know that he’s the Immortal Swordsman. An Abomination.”

  “That’s a very loaded word.”

  “That’s what the stories call him.”

  The daimyo turned around and stepped towards Bran.

  “I take it he did not manage to gain your trust during the journey.”

  The boy hesitated.

  “Even though he saved your lives twice,” Lord Nariakira pressed.

  “He… I may have misjudged him in the end. Did you know of him, kakka?”

  The daimyo smiled.

  “I knew of him, yes.”

  “And… would you trust him?”

  “I am a daimyo. It is my job to trust no one. But I would like to have him on my side; in battle and in a debate.”

  “But I thought… Immortal Swordsman… a blood-sucking demon,” Bran recalled the words of the Unganzenji abbot. The daimyo raised a finger to his lips in thought.

  “Yes, he is all that. But he is also an outcast of his own kind. A renegade. One day the other Fanged will find a way to dispose of him for good, and it will be the biggest loss for Yamato since Taiko-dono mentioned to Rikyū-sama he no longer enjoyed his cha.”