The fisherman grunted, shrugged, hid the coins in his sleeve, and went on to help with the boat. Takasugi stared at her.
“What was that all about?”
“They’re assassins,” she whispered through her smile. “Strike them when we’re out at sea.”
In the darkness, they quickly lost sight of the land. The older fisherman was sitting in the bow of the boat looking at them curiously, sharpening a stick with a short knife. The young one rowed the vessel forward with broad oar strokes.
The mood was tense. Apart from their knives, the fishermen were unarmed, as far as Nagomi could tell, but then so was she and her companions, and if her suspicions were right, the men were trained fighters. She wasn’t sure if the Chōfu man was any good in a fight; lean and dishevelled, he didn’t seem like much of a brawler. She glanced at Torishi – the bear-man was sitting on the edge of the boat, bobbing nervously from side to side; he was obviously wary of having to fight in a small, wobbly boat in the middle of the black ocean.
She looked over the prow. In the bleak distance she saw the gleaming light of another harbour. The same light flickered behind them. The boat was half-way across the bay.
“Now!” she cried.
Torishi lunged forward, grabbing the older fisherman with him and dragging him beyond the side of the boat with a loud splash. The boat wobbled back and forth as Takasugi grappled with the oarsman. He had surprise on his side, but his enemy was stronger and larger. They struggled for a few seconds, and then the fisherman toppled Takasugi down, pinning him to the floor of the boat. He raised a short knife to strike. Nagomi looked around, spotted Torishi’s quiver, pulled an arrow and stabbed the enemy in the back with all her strength. The iron-tipped shaft tore through the muscles with sickening ease.
The man howled in pain, his blade brushing Takasugi’s arm. Takasugi kicked him desperately with all four limbs, and threw him overboard. The boat wobbled again and Nagomi fell on her knees.
“Get the oar!” she ordered, grabbing the sides of the boat to keep balance. Takasugi reached for the wooden pole. She leaned over the side, trying to spot Torishi. A gurgling cry came from the front of the boat. She reached out, and a hairy arm grabbed her hand. With Takasugi they helped Torishi climb back on board, wet and grim, spluttering blood and heaving.
“Thank the Great Otter,” he said between coughs, “I was sure I’d drown.”
He noticed the pole in Takasugi’s hand.
“I hope you know how to steer this thing.”
The boat hit the sand with speed, and they all fell out, splashing into the shallow waters on the other side of the bay. It took them a while to scramble back up, gather their scattered belongings, and find a place for shelter among the rocks.
Fire was out of the question — even if they could somehow prepare it from the wet tinderbox and driftwood, — they did not want to draw attention to themselves. It was going to be a long and cold night.
“How… how did you know?” asked Takasugi, panting. He had done most of the frantic and clumsy rowing that brought them ashore.
“The nets were for shirasu trawling… but this is not the season.”
He squinted. “The season…? Are you a fisherwoman?”
“I grew up near the greatest harbour in Yamato. Every child in Kiyō knows the fishing seasons by heart.”
“And that money thing…?”
“I had to make sure — I wanted to touch their hands. The fisherman’s hands have a certain pattern of calluses, cuts, and furrows… The old man had the hands of a swordsman.”
“Again, how — ?”
She smiled sadly.
“I worked with all sorts of patients in my father’s clinic. Fishermen, peasants, samurai…”
He stared from her to Torishi, his mouth agape, scratching the back of his head in wonder.
“Who are you people? Back then, on the road — ”
“I think it’s time you told us about yourself.” Torishi leaned forward, wiping seawater from his brow. “ We’ve saved your life twice now.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Takasugi laughed nervously. He rose slightly to a bow, almost slipping on the wet rocks.
“I am Takasugi Hiro, student of Meirinkan, the Chōfu School of Rangaku.”
“You’re a wizard?” Nagomi asked, genuinely surprised. “Why didn’t you use magic to fight?”
“I’m not a very good spell-caster,” he answered, scratching his head, “I’m more interested in the technology side of things. I lack the ability… — if you know what I mean. Though you probably don’t know the difference.”
Nagomi chuckled. “Don’t worry about that. Did you say Meirinkan?” She reached into her sleeve where, sewn into lining, was the letter from Satō, and unravelled the soaked paper. “Is that where the headmaster is a boy called Yoshida Shōin?”
“You — you know of him?”
“Know of him? We are invited to his wedding!”
The dawn was near, and the air grew warm, foretelling the scorching heat of the morning to come. They spread their clothes high on the rocks, hoping to dry them in the salty breeze. Nagomi huddled into the nook of a rock, wrapping her arms around her knees. The rush of the battle had now passed, and she started trembling at the very memory.
She looked at her right palm… How did Torishi’s arrow end up in her hand? She had never struck anyone in combat before… and she didn’t plan to ever again.
If this is what war is like, let the warriors have it, she thought, bitterly. Even in self-defence, even justified, bringing physical harm to somebody made her feel sick with herself. Her instinct was to heal the wound she had caused. But it was too late… the assassins were now somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, beyond her or anyone else’s help… She wiped her eyes and turned to the man.
“Why were those men after you?” she asked, drawing her blanket tighter around herself. “Why were you in prison?”
Takasugi sneezed. Naked and trembling in the moonlight, he looked frail and weak.
“I was sent to Edo by my domain to recruit students and teachers to the school.”
“There are Rangaku scholars in Edo?”
“You’d be surprised. Chief Councillor Abe was a remarkably lenient man. He may have been fierce with the outlying clans, but under his rule, in Edo, the Western arts flourished.”
“That’s good, I guess?” She said without conviction. Whatever the Edo politics were now, it was too late to help either the Takashima family, or her own.
My family, a thought flashed through her mind. What’s going to happen to them?
But she was too tired, her thoughts too muddled, to worry about it now.
He shook his head. “After the Taikun’s death,” he continued, and Nagomi barely registered the news at first, “the new Chief Councillor began to purge all those whom he saw as threat to the government.”
She raised her eyes.
“Wait, did you say the Taikun is dead — ?”
The mightiest will fall.
Somewhere in among the snippets of the visions she remembered scenes which seemed completely enigmatic until now: An old man in hollyhock-embroidered robe, dying in spasms. Dark-eyed man with bloodied face, holding him in a tight embrace…
The foe lurks within.
“Yes, it was a sudden illness… or so they said. A brief succession dispute ensued, led by a Mito branch of the Taikun’s family... The Rangaku were the first to fall under scrutiny, and we in Chōfu doubly so. We are always suspected of plotting and conspiring against them after all.”
Conspiring against the Taikun. This was the accusation that led Lady Kazuko to her death.
“And do you?” she asked.
There are no coincidences, the High Priestess had always said.
He grinned. “They did send assassins after me, didn’t they?”
“You don’t seem like very safe company,” Torishi said.
“Safe company?” Takasugi chuckled, eyeing the bear-man’s rippling muscles an
d grim face. “I wonder which one of us has more to fear.”
“You can go your own way,” Torishi grunted, “as soon as you want.”
“No,” replied Takasugi. He nodded at Nagomi. “Twice you’ve saved me now. You must let me repay the debt. This is Todō land, I believe,” he said, looking towards the mountains rising in the dark to the west. “I have many friends here. They will help us cross over to Naniwa. No more snags from now on, I promise you that.”
CHAPTER VIII
It was an unlikely place for a naval base, Bran thought. The beach was a perfect crescent of golden sand, bounded by tall dunes. A summer paradise. If there was a harbour here, it must have been hidden by the teeth-like hills covered with the kind of lush, almost tropical forest Bran was by now so familiar with.
He looked back towards the eastern horizon. The forbidding black wall of clouds and winds had already closed, and was now just a thin dark line — he could only see it because he knew it was there. As Leif had predicted, one day the Sea Maze had simply vanished all around them; the winds quietened down, the waves calmed, and the compass pointed north again, long enough for the entire flotilla to pass through to the other side.
The Gorllewin sailors had not known what to expect, for them it was just another phenomenon of the unknown Yamato magic. But Bran had flown through the barrier, and had known the reverence with which the Yamato people spoke about it. Only the Taikun had the power to control the Divine Winds. And that could only have meant one thing: that the Grey Hoods had finally struck some kind of deal with Edo. The potential repercussions were staggering… but for the moment, Bran had something else on his mind.
The Star dropped anchor at the head of the crescent-shaped bay and, for a few hours, nothing else happened. The bay was eerily empty; no boat appeared on the horizon, no curious peasant emerged from among the trees. The only living thing he spotted were several black kites circling over the ship trying to figure out what to think about this new arrival.
He felt something at the back of his head, a tingling buzz of the Farlink. It quickly grew irritatingly strong. Somebody nearby was flying a dragon, and they were getting closer. Bran looked up, but he still couldn’t see anything over the hills.
Over the weeks spent on board of the Star, Bran had been honing his newly found talent. He still wasn’t sure how it worked exactly, but he could now distinguish with ease, from within the confines of his cabin, whether the rider flying out on patrol was Thorfinn, or either of the other two men. He began to wonder how far he could reach with this skill, or how detailed the information he could get. At times he could swear he could not only sense that the Farlink was active, but also what it was transmitting — orders, emotions, of both the mount and its rider.
This would make spying a breeze, he thought.
But those moments were fleeting and they left him with a pounding headache that was almost unbearable.
The dragon he had sensed finally appeared from beyond the hill; another Black Wing, maybe even larger than the ones on the ship. Bran watched it fly heavily, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Come,” said Leif, unhappily. “I’m afraid I must lock you up. Vice Komtur’s orders.”
Bran cast one last look at the black dragon swerving to avoid an invisible current of the Ninth Wind. He remembered how difficult it was to steer his own mount in the lands of the Orient and he almost felt sorry for the unknown rider.
“Can you at least lock me up in the cargo hold, rather than in the cell?” he asked Leif, trying to sound casual. “I don’t want to leave my dragon all alone.”
The chaplain scratched his blond head.
“I don’t see why not. Locked is locked.”
Bran leaned down and touched Emrys’s neck with his cheek. He closed his eyes and focused. He didn’t know what the result of him melding with Emrys looked like, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Perhaps he turned into some kind of two-headed, two-bodied monster… or maybe his human form simply vanished…?
With everyone above busy welcoming the arriving rider, Bran thought he had his last chance to try. He calmed his mind, focused and called on the Dragonform. His entire body jolted. For a moment he found himself in complete emptiness; he smelled the red dust around him. Emrys was not keen on letting him in without a struggle. Bran panicked; he was out of his own body, but not yet inside the dragon’s, stuck in the limbo between minds. But he remembered how he had fought back and forth with Shigemasa, and firmly forced his way in.
He opened his eyes. The stall was cramped and stuffy, and he hated it, but it was better than being locked up in a cage, forced to sleep, or in that box of steel, at the mercy of the glowing red ball. At least here his mind was clear and he could stretch his wings a little.
He wanted to fly so badly. Lately, humans did nothing but kept him locked in strange, dark places.
There were other dragons here. He sensed them through the wall. Big, strong dragons, like the ones he used to play with before – before the white light came, before he flew over endless water… Before he lost his rider. He didn’t want to lose his rider ever again.
Three of the dragons he knew already; the fourth one was new. He was older than the others. He beamed with arrogance and pride. There were none like him, anywhere in the world.
The Firstborn.
He’d hatched from the first egg their brood-mother laid. A distant memory: an oval-shaped cave, flat, with a viewing gallery above it, like an arena. Other eggs hatching, in their dozens. The body of a bull thrown into the ring from the gallery. Dragons, fighting for the meat, with claw and teeth, too young yet to breathe fire. There’s not enough meat for everyone. Those who get killed, get eaten by others. At last, only four remain. The Firstborn among them, the prince of the brood. Chosen for greatness. Chosen for the secret mission.
Another memory: a long flight over a never-ending expanse of the sea. Lesser dragons would balk at such effort; they would revolt, throw their riders down, show their fury. But not him, never him. The Firstborn trusts in the rider’s judgement. He must have been someone important if he was chosen to ride him. So they fly into the unknown, into the maze of winds, clouds, and angry Spirits.
A little pale man comes to greet them in a forest on a mountain. He’s bowing a lot, smiling nervously. But his shadow is great and terrible, greater even than a dragon’s. The Firstborn had never seen a human like him.
The little man with the big shadow is riding the Firstborn. The dragon doesn’t like it. His skin feels cold where the little man sits. The scales are defiled, stained; they must be scrubbed clean. But other humans don’t notice anything. Why can’t they see it?
Oh, good. The little man is leaving. He and the Firstborn’s rider bow and shake hands. They sign a long piece of paper. They are both happy about it. The Firstborn is happy, too. Happy that the little man with the big shadow is gone.
The other dragons are coming. The young ones — the second batch of hatchlings; they are weaker, of course. The Firstborn knows, because he… had seen them in the other world, the world of the red dust, where the rider sometimes takes him. It’s different than the world of blue sky and yellow sun. There are no trees there, no sea, no birds, no wild animals to feed on. But there are mountains — tall, grey, cold mountains — and hills, and the immense plain of red dust. And towers, with red lights on top, many, many towers. How the rider knows his way around it, the Firstborn doesn’t know, but he’s glad that they never get lost among the beaming turrets…
Bran broke away from the dragon’s mind, and, breathless, fell to the floor. He coughed, exhausted and sick from the mental and physical strain. His limbs and back ached, as if his entire body had been stretched on some torture device… But it was worth it. He was now sure that he knew the secret of the Black Wings.
The red dust plain… the Otherworld.
Somehow, they had found their way to the same place Bran had been visiting with General Shigemasa… He never got quite around navigating that place himself
, but he knew the distances and barriers from the physical world meant little in the Otherworld. Of course it could have been used for communication. It now seemed so obvious. All it took was two people with the ability to travel through it and find each other’s position…
Too bad I don’t know anyone I could reach that way, he thought. Although… hadn’t Torishi mentioned that the Kumaso could travel through the Otherworld as well? But there was no chance he could just randomly stumble upon the bear-man taking a hike through the red dust plain, was there?
“I could never get past all the walls and wards,” Shigemasa had told him. That meant he’d tried… and that he thought it was possible. Perhaps Bran didn’t need another person to actually be present in the Otherworld… perhaps… perhaps…
The stall lock rumbled, and the door slammed opened. Bran scrambled to his feet and, squinting, saw the man coming in from the light, followed by four soldiers. He was short and somewhat portly in his grey hooded cloak, bespectacled, with greying, receding hair, shaved around the horned circle tattoo. He walked briskly across the floor towards Bran, and looked him over through the thin, wiry spectacles. He murmured something Bran didn’t understand.
“Is that him?” he asked, louder.
“Yes, Komtur,” said Vice Komtur Aulick from the corridor.
Emrys snorted angrily. The Komtur glanced at the dragon, raised an eyebrow and then returned to studying Bran.
“Fishermen village, eh?”
He gestured at one of the soldiers, who opened a jute sack he was holding and emptied it on the floor. It contained the indigo kimono and sandals Bran had been wearing when the Grey Hoods had caught him.
“That doesn’t look like fishermen clothes to me,” he said, picking up the silk kimono.
He turned to the Vice Komtur.
“Clean the boy up. I’m taking him with me to Shimoda. Maybe the Councillor will want to explain what’s going on here.”
“What about the dragon, sir?”
The Komtur looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes.
The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5) Page 13
