Wolf's-own: Koan

by Carole Cummings

  So it really shouldn't be hurting this much. Like a blade to the gut, and Jacin's hand moved unconsciously to the scar beneath his breastbone.

  "—is the name of my trade, after all."

  Jacin let his gaze drift over to his left, to the reedy voice that somehow traveled through the damper of falling snow and the crush of pedestrians to reach him from yards away. The man was small and thin, but not with ill health; it looked like he was just built that way. He was young, perhaps Jacin's age, his clothes bright and motley, a colorful mishmash of strips of fabric sewn together into trousers and voluminous shirt that very nearly dwarfed him. Spectacles with dark-tinted lenses sat askew on the tip of his nose, giving his mien a look that was halfway jaunty and halfway enigmatic. His hair was long and satiny-looking, bound back from his angular face in a loose tail.

  There were too many people crowded around and inside the tiny stall, but they all merely browsed or stood quietly, waiting patiently for the young man to get to them. The man looked up, as though Jacin had called him with his gaze, then merely smiled and tipped Jacin a wink over the rims of the spectacles and went back to speaking with the middle-aged woman with whom he appeared to be haggling.

  Jacin looked again for Malick. Hope had flared so abruptly in his chest he hadn't realized what it was until it had dissolved in the acid of bitter disappointment. Now it turned to something nauseating and sour.

  "I do not promise that you will walk away with what you want,” the man at the stall said, “but with what you need.” He waved his hand to the placard nailed to a post holding up the roof of his little stall. Necessities, it read. “I assure you,” the man went on, patting at the woman's hand with a reassuring smile, “you desperately need this."

  Jacin couldn't see what passed from the man's hand to the woman's, but it made the woman startle back a little and gasp. Her mouth worked for a moment, then she slumped like she'd just been punched. It looked like she was trying not to sob.

  "There, now,” an old man put in soothingly. “Sometimes, the answer comes hard.” He reached out and patted at the woman's shoulder with a crooked hand, then went back to perusing the stall's wares.

  Intrigued, Jacin took a few steps through the people weaving their way around him, and toward the stall. He couldn't hear any of their voices anymore, but the man looked up at Jacin again, just looked, that calm smile speaking a subtle welcome, even as he patted the woman and accepted payment for whatever it was he'd just given her. Sniffing, a tremulous smile slanting her mouth, the woman thanked the man, turned the smile on Jacin as he idled up to her, then went slowly on her way. Jacin watched her go.

  "You look like a man lacking in several necessities,” the man said, still smiling, peering at Jacin with no reserve, no real caution, no discomfort. Like Jacin was a normal person. “And yet,” the man went on, “I wager you have no real idea what you need."

  Several of the stall's patrons turned to look at Jacin curiously. A girl who couldn't be fifteen yet frowned. “I was next,” she said softly.

  The stall's owner gave the girl a gentle smile. “Some need more than others."

  The girl huffed a great put-upon sigh and slid Jacin a glare, but merely backed away and busied herself with poking about the apparent disarray, half of her grudging attention on Jacin, half of it on a small chunk of dark amber, a tiny insect trapped forever in its center. The color of Malick's eyes, Jacin thought with a hard pang, and wondered if he was the bug, snared inside someone who wasn't even here anymore. Then again, it would probably be more appropriate if the stone was darker—onyx, maybe—deep and fathomless, and... bloody hell, he really needed to get over himself and stop being such a punter.

  "Now, Kyai,” the young man said when the girl reached out to stroke a finger over the stone's smooth arc, “you know that is not what you need."

  The girl's mouth pinched down, but she said nothing, just pulled her hand away and cut Jacin a resentful scowl out the corner of her eye. She turned and made her way slowly around to the back of the stall.

  The young man smiled after her for a moment then turned to Jacin. “Now, then,” he said, rubbing thin hands together and peering at Jacin with clear appraisal. “Let me look at you so I can find what you need."

  Jacin narrowed his eyes. “You can't see in me.” No one could. It was the one good thing about being him.

  "I cannot,” the young man conceded, smile blooming into a friendly grin as he tipped his head in a shallow bow. “But I can see you."

  Jacin didn't know what that meant, so he ignored it. “You're spirit-bound.” It made sense, with the colors and all. He couldn't be sure, because he'd never cared enough to ask, but with Shig's hair and Xari's shawls, the apparent shared preference made sense. His mother hadn't worn bright colors, but then, his mother had lived her life trying to hide what she was. He frowned at the stall's owner curiously. “Magic is legal here?"

  "Ah, so you are Jin, then.” The man nodded, ignoring the rest of his patrons when they all paused to shoot not-so-surreptitious glances at Jacin; Jacin found that a little harder to ignore. “I thought you had the look. Full-Blood, yes? Mitsu has not seen full-Blood Jin for ages, and now I've seen two in a week.” He beckoned Jacin closer. “The spirits are not to be captured and bound,” he said as Jacin stepped beneath the slanted roof and out of the steady fall of thick, wet snow. “It is not my right. I merely ask of them, and they answer."

  He waved his hand over the seemingly nonsensical piles of varied goods scattered around the small space. If “goods” they could truly be called. A little mound of what looked like smoothed sea stones sat next to an oil lamp that looked like it was made of solid gold. A rusted-out length of thick chain, its links corroding to russet dust, coiled around an unset beryl stone that was probably the size of Jacin's fist. Several small water-filled bowls held gossamer-finned fish the colors of bright jewels, floating in bored tedium as they stared wide-eyed at the world glass-warped beyond theirs. The entirety of the small space was a jumble of riches and just plain junk.

  "Let's see what we can do with you, then,” said the man. There were drops of water prisming the dark glass of his spectacles. Jacin could see his own distorted reflection, so he stopped looking. “I think there are many things you need, and most of them not easily got."

  The young man tapped at his chin, peering at Jacin intently, then turned and rummaged beneath a table draped with thick damask and heaped with books and scrolls. Jacin noticed the thick leather tie holding back the man's hair was coming loose, and reflexively tried to drag his fingers through his own. He got caught up in the tangles and gave it up.

  "I wondered who might be coming for it,” the man muttered, seemingly to himself, as he rummaged beneath the table. “Funny... another Jin rather had his eye on it; a boy with the mark of....” He trailed off and straightened, gaze sharper, more assessing than it had been, hands holding a black-lacquered, ivory-headed walking stick in both hands like he was offering a champion's sword. “This, I think."

  Jacin shifted a reflexive look down to his leg, where his boot hid the misshapen muscle, but couldn't hide the limp. The patrons were all watching and trying to look like they weren't. Jacin didn't necessarily relish the idea of disparaging this young man's livelihood in front of what were apparently loyal customers, but magical or no, the man couldn't possibly see inside Jacin, couldn't possibly know what he needed when Jacin didn't even know himself, and the cane was just too obvious.

  "Hardly magical,” he said as he reached for the stick. Jacin's frown was unconscious but immediate; the ivory cap was carved into the shape of a wolf's head.

  "I claimed no magic,” the man countered easily. “Merely a necessity."

  Jacin refrained from rolling his eyes. A harmless enough swindle, he supposed. “How much?"

  That seemed to give the young man pause. “I'm not quite certain,” he answered slowly, fidgeting with the spectacles and setting them more firmly to the end of his nose. “And I don't think that's all you
need."

  "How would you know?” Jacin couldn't help the way it snapped out of him, edging on anger. The rest of the small gathering was completely silent, listening. Jacin didn't care. Too many people thought they knew what he thought, how he felt, what he needed, and not a single one of them did. Malick was the only one who ever came close, and even he—

  Jacin cut the thought off before it could pierce him.

  "That's the odd thing.” The man was peering at Jacin intently over the dark spectacles, like he was trying to remember Jacin's face, or look behind it. “I don't know. I can't see. It's like you're not even standing there, but....” He hesitated, eyes narrowing behind the spectacles, drifting down over Jacin and pausing on—

  Shit, maybe Jacin should have hidden Malick's ring or something. The man was staring at it now, head tilted to the side, then he cut his glance quickly back up to capture Jacin's. “Huh,” he said, though he raised his eyebrows when Jacin fisted his hand and not-so-surreptitiously slid the ring around so that the stone rested in his loosely curled palm and only the band was visible. “I believe I see more than perhaps I should,” said the man with something too close to a smirk.

  "You see nothing,” Jacin barked back, though he suspected perhaps the man saw more than Jacin wanted him to. And wasn't that just his fucking luck?

  A shudder rippled through Jacin, despite himself, and his glance reflexively roved over all of the faces trying to look like they weren't looking back. Jacin didn't want them looking, he didn't want them seeing, so he shoved the stick back into the man's chest. Whether this was all one big, long delusion or not, a strange awkward shame Jacin didn't understand was writhing through him, and it pissed him off. He didn't wait for the man to take the stick back from him, just let it drop to the rush-strewn floor of the stall and turned to leave.

  "Wait!” said the man, and he latched on to Jacin's sleeve, reeling back quickly when Jacin spun with a ready snarl. The man held his hands up, harmless. Slowly, he crouched down and picked up the walking stick, then tilted it at Jacin. “A gift,” he said, still studying Jacin carefully, perhaps not as friendly now, but not unfriendly, either. “My wares come to me through the hands of Fate and the gods. I dispense them as those who need them come to seek them out. They pay their hearts’ worth, not mine.” He waggled the stick. “Perhaps it has no worth to a heart that can't find itself.” His head tilted when Jacin scowled, but the man merely smiled. “On the other hand, it has no worth to me beyond its purpose. If the one for whom it was meant turns it away, it has no purpose, and is worth nothing to me. Take it."

  "I don't want it."

  The young man chuckled. “That hardly ever matters.” He tried to push the stick into Jacin's hands, so Jacin just fisted them. “You need it."

  Jacin couldn't truthfully deny that. “How much?"

  "I told you, it's a gift. Its worth is—"

  "I don't care about ‘worth’ and I know you can't know anything about me or what I might need. I don't even care about whatever swindle you're trying to pull. Just tell me how much and I'll pay you and go."

  The old man who'd soothed the weeping woman earlier shook his head and tsked. “No respect,” he muttered.

  Jacin curled his lip but didn't snap back.

  The stall's owner seemed genuinely nonplused. “To me, it is worthless,” he said, his smile still lingering, but not as sure as it had been before. “Fate placed it in my hands, and I now place it in yours. Its only worth is what you make of it."

  He waited. Jacin merely stared at him, slit-eyed and wary, then reached out and took the walking stick. He glared down at the wolf's head then back up at the man. He wanted to smack those clever little spectacles off the man's face.

  "I don't worship Wolf. I don't worship any god. In fact, I despise them all."

  There were gasps and angry mutters from the stall's patrons. None from its owner. Jacin had been kind of hoping for shock and a quick retreat. He didn't get it.

  The young man merely chuckled. “That hardly ever matters, either.” He tilted his head, as though listening, and as it had with Asai on the roof, the reflection of the pose triggered an unsettling body-memory and sent a light shudder down Jacin's spine. “There is a tavern,” the man said, slowly, his brow twisted like he was unsure and his voice distant, “past the fountains and several buildings down from the silk shop.” He pointed. “Across from The Happy Tearoom and through the alley in the back. Rihansei is the man you need."

  Jacin set his mouth tight. “Right. So I can walk right into a group of thugs waiting to mug me for what you won't ask for here in the light of day.” The last time he'd walked into that trap, his whole miserable world had ended. He wasn't falling for it again. Jacin leaned in and lowered his voice. “I don't care if you're a con, I don't care if it's a trick. You don't have to prove your ‘magic’ in front of your followers, we both know it doesn't work, and you don't have to sic your cronies on me for making you look a fraud. I'll pay for the bloody stick, all right? Just tell me how much."

  The man's eyes cleared and he frowned. He shook his head. “Perhaps I cannot see for you, but I can see.” He waved up and down over Jacin's person and the sheaths strapped all over him. “No, I would not set ill will on one such as you. I think retribution, though swift and no doubt painful, would come not only from your direction, did I dare. I am Wolf's, you see. I do worship him, and I have no wish to anger him."

  Yeah, sure. Whatever that meant. Jacin had no interest in trying to decode it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two koins—remnants of his blood money, earned by slaughtering Blood thieves and torturing names out of a lord's vulnerable whore. More than generous, in his opinion.

  The scabbed gash on Jacin's palm itched and flared as he pulled the money free. He tilted his head. “Don't suppose you've got any gloves about, then.” Something he actually did need. Then, a little more hopeful: “Smokes?"

  When the man merely lifted his eyebrows and shook his head, Jacin rolled his eyes. Damn it, if this was Jacin's personal delusion, the answer should've been “yes.” Because he really needed a smoke. Or maybe this part was real. Maybe just the parts with Asai were the delusion. That would be a helpful indicator.

  A touch more optimistic than he'd been a minute ago, Jacin handed over his money.

  "These are Adan koins,” the man said, peering at them sitting dully in his palm.

  Oh. Jacin hadn't even thought of that. This part must be real, then. His mind might have come up with that bizarre outfit, because his mind was bizarre, but Jacin didn't think he had the kind of imagination that could conjure the mundane annoyance of this. Plus, everyone else in the tiny shop was openly staring now, and the discomfort felt real enough; Jacin glared back for a moment before cutting his glance away and down.

  "Gold is gold,” he said. If the man didn't want the money, Jacin wasn't about to argue with him. It wasn't like the walking stick had been his idea in the first place.

  "And fate is fate, I suppose,” the man sighed, but he tucked the koins down the front of the baggy shirt. “You need Rihansei,” he repeated and shrugged. “I don't know the name. I don't know where it came from or what he has for you, but the spirits say you need him. Fate is fate."

  With a disbelieving scowl, Jacin turned to go, then paused. He slanted a look at the young man over his shoulder. Smirking now, Jacin reached out and plucked the loose leather tie from the young man's hair. There was a belated flinch back, then the young man merely stared at Jacin with a questioning frown.

  Jacin shrugged as he used the tie to pull his own tangled hair back and secure it. “I need this,” he said, flipped another koin at the young man, then he turned and left.

  No one came after him, so Jacin assumed the sale was final. Which was good, because he really did need the tie. Though, what he really needed, Jacin thought as he tapped the new stick against the cobbles, was to find a vendor who sold smokes.

  * * * *

  He found one. And just about got into a fistfig
ht with the vendor when she tried to refuse the Adan koins, which were the only currency Jacin had. And he really needed a smoke. The attention the row had attracted would have made Jacin uncomfortable once; now, he didn't care. Perhaps Asai wasn't dogging him anymore, but that didn't mean this whole thing wasn't just one long hallucination, and if he was going to live inside delusion, he was going to be smoking while he did it, damn it. And if he wasn't living inside delusion... well, he was going to be smoking while he did that too.

  Even the threat of the Patrol wouldn't move Jacin. A hard, stony stare had finally moved the vendor. She'd taken four of Jacin's koins, more than Jacin had paid for the stick and the bit of leather, but oh, so worth it. He sucked the smoke greedily as he hobbled.

  He'd never bought them before. He'd always nicked Shig's. Some warped sense of... he didn't know—loyalty, maybe; loyalty to Asai, because Asai wouldn't approve, and, I think that you still... care. I think it still messes with your head, and Jacin really needed to stop letting it.

  This was his world now, his insanity, and if he was to be master of nothing else, he would be master of his own fantasies, whatever form they took. If he could keep this long, drawn-out dream from tipping into nightmare, he might do all right.

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  Chapter Eight

  A few new spells, Dakimo thought as he carefully dipped the brush into the henna, Emika's fine-boned hand settled trustingly in his palm. The swirls and slashes and curvettes came back to him easily, though it had been... he didn't even know how many years it had been since he'd used these wards. No need for them, really. Dakimo's magic was much stronger than anything even Rihansei could throw at him—not that Rihansei would—but there was the matter of Kamen and supposed magic he hadn't been able to thwart, and whatever nothing-that-was-obviously-something that Imara had not-felt, and Dakimo had a personal interest in keeping Emika safe.