Her blank eyes slid away from Dylan, as she turned her unseeing gaze to the other men accompanying him: Captain Gerhardus Fabius of the Soembing, Li Hung-Chang, the Qinese interpreter from Huating, and the Warwick’s son, Wulfhere. Dylan got separated from Gwen before entering the room, but with True Sight could still see her strong energy just behind the thin paper walls, in the antechamber.
The truth-sayer paid little attention to Li, and focused on the blond boy. A slight frown marred her face.
Is she wondering what he’s doing here? You and me both, girl…
At a nod from the usher, they all knelt down, bowing deeply as instructed beforehand. There was silence, as the warlord studied them without hurry. Dylan knew better than to speak first.
“He’s fluent in Bataavian and classical Qin,” Captain Fabius had explained to him, “but he will prefer to use an interpreter with you.”
The warlord said something in his staccato tongue.
“You have caused some great trouble to my good friend, Captain,” the Bataavian interpreter said, with some difficulty.
Dylan raised his head to answer. At that moment, the sun peered through a ceiling window and glinted off a piece of gold and blue on the daimyo’s hand.
“The ring…” he said, his throat suddenly dry. The interpreter dutifully translated it before Dylan could stop him.
“This?” The warlord raised his hand to the light. “What keen eyes you have. A certain foreign boy gave it to me as a gift for helping him.”
Blood rushed to Dylan’s head, his entire carefully prepared speech forgotten. Suddenly, all was clear. He knew that ring all too well. He remembered giving it to Bran on his eleventh birthday, the boy’s finger too small for the twisted band of gold…
“You have my son,” he said slowly.
“Your son, is it?” The warlord said, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m afraid he’s no longer with us.”
“He… what…?”
Fabius gave him a stern look. Everyone in the room tensed. Dylan assessed his situation. He wasn’t afraid. Neither the soldiers, nor the Bataavian trinkets of the Yamato worried him. He noticed tiny flames dancing around the fingers of the lanky man.
He’s the only one here who’s a threat.
“You’re trying to figure out how to defeat everyone in this room,” the warlord said, looking him straight in the eye. “That’s some courage.”
“It’s no courage when I know I’ll win.”
The warlord touched his bottom lip with his paddle.
“Fine words. Tell me, is your… woman as strong as you?”
Dylan froze. Gwen?
At that moment, a muffled sound of fighting came from behind the door, and all Yamato guards jumped to their feet immediately, their hands on the long hilts. A man burst head-first through the paper wall, dropping his sword as he flew, and landed on the floor with a thud. Gwen followed, with two more soldiers trying vainly to hold her down.
“What on Owain’s Sword is going on?” she asked sharply.
Anger and surprise flashed on the warlord’s face. Dylan glanced to his left to see Wulfhere standing up, his eyes opened wild, and Gwen’s attackers scrambling to their feet. Throughout the ordeal Li remained seated, smirking.
The warlord lowered his paddle.
The lanky Yamato wizard lunged forward, uttering a spell word: “Los!”
Lightning traps erupted from the floor, hitting Dylan in the chest. His own defences triggered in time and the attack merely knocked the breath out of him. Frost chains snaked around his hands and legs. The spearmen surrounded him, steel blades pressed against his tarian.
“Ffrwydro darian,” he spoke calmly. The tarian exploded, smashing the men against the walls, their useless weapons shattered to splinters. Gwen aimed her Soul Lance at their throats, but they were too stunned to oppose her.
Dylan’s hands burst aflame.
The enemy wizard whirled his arms in a circle. His eyes were now bright and clear. A cone of flame flew towards Dylan, enveloping his shield with spiral coils.
What the — ?
His tarian tightened on him, the air inside grew hot as if in a furnace.
“Diffodd!” he cried. The flames turned yellow and vanished in a blink. That at least still worked… He dropped the tarian to gain more energy, and formed his fingers into an ice rune.
He’s a fire wizard, he thought quickly. That will teach him.
He readied himself to launch the devastating attack, pouring enough power into it to flash-freeze everyone in the room. He had little time — his True Sight was telling him there were more wizards in the building, gathering around the audience room for a concerted assault.
“Halt!”
Everyone turned to the warlord.
Red-faced, he barked another order, shaking the paddle. The wizard stood still, his hands clasped together, bowing. The guards prostrated on the floor, face down. Dylan remained standing, poised, tense. The crackling of the ice on his hands was the only noise in the room.
“Sit down,” the warlord said in Bataavian. “Please,” he added in Seaxe, half-mockingly.
One of the old men patted out a singing hem of his robe. The wizard kicked a lightning trap aside, before returning to his seat. His face adopted its vague expression.
Reluctantly, Dylan and Gwen obeyed. The guards left the room in a hassle, picking up their weapons.
“That was a brave show, but futile,” the warlord continued. “I told you, your son isn’t here.”
“Then where — ”
“I don’t know,” the warlord cut him off. “It’s true that I’ve met him, as you guessed, but I have no idea where’s he gone now. I can’t chase after somebody who flies a dorako.”
Dylan frowned.
Does he mean… Emrys? That frog managed to get as far as here?
“How do I know you’re telling the truth? Your wizard,” he said, pointing at the lanky man, “has dragonflame marks all over his face. You threatened my… officer. And you’re wearing Bran’s ring on your finger. Why would he have given it to anyone, especially you?”
The warlord lowered his head and stared at Dylan; his gaze would send shivers down the spine of most men. “You’d do wisely not to question my words in my own home.”
He leaned back.
“I can see it in your eyes. You think I’m some primitive chieftain on a poor, far-away island. Your son was far more perceptive. That’s why I agreed to help him. And my help does not come lightly, wizard. Now, the question is, will I agree to help you?”
“I don’t need your help. You don’t know where he is.”
The warlord twirled his paddle in his short fingers.
“If your son is still in Yamato, I’m the only man who can help you find him. Outside this city you’re nothing but a gibberish-talking barbarian. Ask him,” the warlord pointed to the Bataavian Captain. “Fabius-sama,” he spoke, changing the language seamlessly to Bataavian, “I see you haven’t explained properly the situation in Yamato.”
“N…no, kakka.” The Captain bowed and turned to Dylan with a pained expression on his face.
“Foreigners are banned in Yamato on pain of death. Outside Dejeema, we are only tolerated here, in Kagoshima.”
“And the Taikun allows that because…?” the warlord prodded.
“Shimazu-dono is one of the most powerful men in Yamato. Some say he’s second only to the Taikun, its ruler.”
“Some say?” the daimyo chuckled. “I need to make sure it’s not just ‘some’.”
“And why would such a powerful man help somebody like me?” asked Dylan.
“Why indeed… What could the Dracalish officer have to offer in exchange for my assistance? It would have to be… substantial.”
“I have nothing,” said Dylan, straightening up. “I even lost my dragon coming here.”
The daimyo chuckled again. “I’m sure we can think of something. We’ll talk again in a few days. For now, this audience is finished.�
�
The usher urged Dylan, Gwen, and the Captain to stand up. Li and Warwick rose also, but the warlord pointed at them with his paddle.
“No, you two stay. I still don’t know why you’re here,” he said in Qin.
Li bowed and gestured the Warwick boy to remain in place, as the guards prodded Dylan out of the room.
They returned to the harbour the same way they had arrived – separately, in closed palanquins carried by servants. When they were back in their cabin, Dylan looked around with True Sight; as far as he could tell, they were alone.
“I blew it,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I underestimated him, and then I lost my temper. I know how to handle these things… but when it’s Bran, or — or you, I just…”
He slumped heavily on the leather armchair. Their cabin must have once belonged to someone hefty — the seat was sunken and wouldn’t hold much longer.
Gwen leaned towards him and stroked his head.
“I’ve never seen you start a fight with the natives before.”
Dylan scratched his scar. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Maybe it’s because it’s the first time you actually care,” she said.
He raised his eyes.
“What do you mean? I always care deeply about what I do. I couldn’t do my job otherwise.”
“That’s just the thing,” she said. “It’s not your job this time. It’s your family.”
He held her hand. “And I always tried to keep them separate.”
“We both know it cannot go on forever, right?”
“Are we still talking about the audience?”
She stopped smiling and pulled her hand back.
“You hesitated,” she said. “In a fight. That too was unusual.”
“The spell he used… I haven’t seen one like it before. Is it possible they’re developing their own magic here?”
She shrugged. “Must be something old they’ve learned from the Vasconians. Even you don’t know all those ancient charms.”
“Must be.” He nodded. His eyes fell on the Qin jewel glinting playfully on her neck. His mood brightened.
“Come,” he said, standing up and pulling her towards him, “let’s give our minds some rest.”
CHAPTER II
Wulf and Li followed one of the Yamato servants down the narrow, winding corridors of the palace. They walked far longer than it had taken them before to reach the audience room. At some point, they passed through a garden filled with bushes blossoming pink and blue, which he didn’t remember seeing.
This isn’t the way to the harbour, Wulf thought.
At last, they reached another sliding door; the servant opened it, bowed, and disappeared into the shadows.
“We’re not staying at the ship tonight,” said Li, nodding at him to come inside. “I’m a guest of the palace. And so are you.”
The room was furnished sparsely, with a single thick mattress, and a low wooden writing table.
Is this a servant’s room, or a prison cell?
Li sat down at the table and began taking out the writing utensils from a small drawer, unperturbed in the slightest by their situation.
“Are we going to stay in this shithole?”
“What do you think of our host?” asked Li, ignoring his question.
Wulf got used to this kind of behaviour, but it still angered him. He shrugged.
“I have no idea what you were talking about. I don’t speak this gibberish.”
The local warlord and Li had been speaking Qin, ignoring Wulf’s presence; to his ears, they both sounded identical.
“Good!” Li exclaimed to his surprise. “Words obscure the truth. What did you see?”
“See? Nothing,” he said, looking for a place to sit down. We don’t even deserve chairs? “You sat and talked.”
“Ah, Master Warwick”, Li smiled, smoothing the tip of the brush, “if you want to make history, you must do better than that.”
Wulfhere was gave him an annoyed look. Truth was, he could barely recall anything except the pale, striking face of the girl sitting in front of the warlord.
“Well, the old guy seemed… strong-willed. And he kept laughing, even though nobody else did.”
“Good, good. Anything else?”
Wulf focused. Now that Li mentioned, there was something odd about the man…
“It was as if he was thinking of several things at the same time. His eyes kept darting about, and he kept twitching his fingers. Like this,” Wulfhere said, and tried to imitate what he’d seen.
“Ah! That is remarkable. He’s doing mental arithmetic – it’s a trick learned by Qin accountants. But to do that and talk at the same time…” Li shook his head. “It will be good to have him as an ally.”
“Is that what you were talking about? An alliance?”
Li lay one piece of paper aside.
“We were discussing the Chosen Sayings of Master Kong, and Master Sun’s Rules for Soldiers.”
Wulf scoffed.
“Chosen Sayings? Are you kidding me?”
“All things have their roots and branches,” Li quipped, dipping his brush into the black ink. “All undertakings have their ends and their beginnings. Thus says Master Kong.”
“That’s it? You debated philosophy?”
“That’s the best way for two learned men to get to know each other. See a person’s ways, observe his motive, notice his result, as Master Kong advises. Now, if you please, I must write down my thoughts. Your room is behind that wall.” Li pointed the brush at a sliding panel decorated with flying swallows.
Wulfhere opened the door with a whack. He reeled back.
“She… she’s here!”
The girl from the audience chamber was sitting in the middle of the room, on the narrow mattress. She was wearing a flowing robe of golden silk. The light of the oil lamp she was holding danced on her snow white neck. Her raven-black hair was loose and falling around her shoulders.
“Yes, it seems she’s a gift from our host,” Li explained. “He noticed you liked her,” he added, coldly.
“A gift…? I don’t want — ”
“Now, now, you can’t turn away a gift from a daimyo. That would be a gravest insult.”
Wulf took another step back, and whispered, pointing at the girl.
“But, what… what am I supposed to do with her?”
Li raised an eyebrow. “You’re a man, aren’t you? What you know, you know, what you don’t know, you don’t know, says Master Kong. Don’t worry; I’m sure she’s trained enough that the language barrier will not be a problem.”
Wulf looked at the girl again and gulped.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he heard Li saying. “I think I’ll go for a walk in the castle gardens.”
He sat down beside the girl. In the silence of the dim room he could hear only his heart beating. She was waiting, motionless, like a doll, still facing the door.
“I’m sorry, I…” he broke into the quiet. She stirred and turned towards him. “I don’t even know your name…”
She reached out and put her finger to his lips. Her touch made him shiver. An unwanted memory ran through his head, almost spoiling the mood.
“You’re a Warwick,” his father had said to him, before sending him to the Academy. “King Richard’s blood runs through your veins. Don’t forget that when some low-born girl takes your fancy.”
Somewhere in Dracaland, a daughter of some other aristocratic clan was already promised to him, a bride-to-be, chosen by his father a long time ago, waiting for his return. Everything was already sorted for him back home.
Knowing this, he had ignored the girls at the Academy; the only one who had caught his eye was the red-head from the Geomancy... But now, he couldn’t even remember her name.
She was always around those Prydain boys, wasn’t she?
It all seemed so distant now, trivial. He’d been through war since, he almost died — and had seen soldiers his age die. The Ac
ademy was now just a strange dream. So were his father’s warnings.
The girl took his hand in hers and led him between her breasts, peeking from under the loose robe.
“Yoko,” she whispered.
“Is that… is that your name?” he whispered back. “I’m Wulfhere — Wulf…”
“U… Urufo,” she struggled with the words.
“That’s good enough.”
She ran a hand over his face, as if trying to remember its shape. Then she reached for the thin strip of material holding her robe together and untied it. The golden silk slid to the floor like a cascade of autumn leaves.
She blew out her oil lamp.
Shimazu Nariakira finished reading through the report and put the paper down.
“Just as expected, the crop from the Hayato fields is trebled.”
“Yes, kakka.”
The young man sitting before him nodded sharply and nervously ran his fingers through the bushy, unkempt beard.
“Very well. Get the fourth engine out. The one with the experimental drive shaft. Put it on the sweet potato field.”
“Right away, kakka.”
“You’re doing a great job, Shosuke-sama.”
“I live to serve, kakka.”
Nariakira grunted irritably, the matter of traction engines had already bored his impatient mind. The young man prostrated then shuffled backwards out of the room on his knees.
“Call the girl in!” the daimyo shouted after him.
Yokō entered noiselessly, her golden robe shimmering around her like the scales of a temple carp.
She’s wearing that thing as if she was born into it, thought Nariakira
“How was he?” he asked.
The girl sat down, or rather, folded like a twilight flower.
“Clumsy and eager, like all virgins,” she said quietly.
“Will he do what I want?”
She raised her blind eyes. Her face was pale, bloodless, tired.
“Right now, he’ll do everything I ask of him.”
The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5) Page 3
