The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Page 2

  “I know, I know. This war’s only just started. We’re not even out of Chinzei yet.”

  His speech was slow and measured — no longer the machine-like flood of words that Dylan remembered from their first encounter. He arced the landscape, encompassing the entire army camp below with his gesture.

  “Do you think this is a strong enough force to take on the Taikun? To reach Edo?”

  Nariakira chuckled. “You’re wondering if you’ve chosen the right side. Don’t worry, Dracalish. Even if we lose, I’m sure you’re cunning enough to earn some profit from it.”

  “That may be, but I don’t like wasting time on fool’s errands.”

  The daimyo tapped his pipe on the battlement. “I sense you have an idea, Commodore-dono.”

  “I have several, but only one involves your help.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You said almost your entire fleet is here—” Dylan picked up the spyglass again. “But I don’t see the most important of your ships. The mistfire warship.”

  Nariakira puffed on the pipe. He leaned against the battlement. His fingerless hand was pale and shaking.

  He’s in pain, realized Dylan. This will make things easier.

  Finally, Nariakira spoke again.

  “It’s guarding the river’s mouth, some ten ri away. I couldn’t risk bringing her here. What do you want with my ship anyway?”

  “I want to borrow it.”

  The daimyo bit on the pipe’s stem. “I don’t like this idea, Commodore.”

  “I spoke with Curzius. If we man it with a Bataavian crew, it could still make it to Qin and back before the pattern of the Sea Maze changes.”

  “To Qin? A Yamato ship? But that would—” Nariakira gasped and shook his head. “What for?”

  “Weapons. I’ll write an order to my men in Qin. In a couple of weeks, you’ll have enough thunder guns, cannons, and Congreve rockets to vanquish any fortress, with or without the help of my dragons.”

  “Wouldn’t that mean the Dracaland endorsing the rebellion?” the daimyo asked. “Have the hold loaded with silver, gold, silk. You will buy the munitions from the Dracalish quartermaster. Better yet, mention something about willing to acquire some new technologies, for a good price. A pneumatic railway, or a blast furnace.”

  “And your superiors would agree to it?”

  “They will, if I show them where the profits lie.”

  In reality, the order would have to be written by Edern. After all, Dylan no longer held any position in the Dracalish army; he wasn’t even presumed to be alive. But Nariakira didn’t need to be made aware of any of this.

  The daimyo tried to light the pipe again, but his hand was shaking too much.

  “Allow me,” said Dylan, and set the tobacco aflame with a snap of his fingers.

  “There is one thing you’d have to remember,” said Nariakira between puffs. “It’s my ship. Not the rebellion’s, not the Mikado’s. The ship, and everything on it, belongs to the Shimazu.”

  Dylan nodded. “I understand perfectly.”

  A movement caught his eye across the river. He raised the spyglass: a column of warriors marched up the road under a banner he did not recognize. He handed the spyglass to Nariakira.

  “Friend or foe?”

  “That’s Kuroda clan from Fukuoka,” replied Nariakira. “And their banner’s embroidered with the Mikado’s colours. Looks like they’ve decided to join us after all.” He smiled and patted Dylan on the back. “That’s our left flank secure, and without a single shot. A fine omen.”

  What a dismal, desolate country this is, thought Wulfhere.

  All day he had been flying over little else but dense, deep woods and jagged, shattered mountain chains; dark green and grey the only colours for miles. Once or twice, he’d passed a narrow river valley with traces of human life: small hovels surrounded by a smattering of irregular patches of fields. It was a wild, primitive territory where, he imagined, beasts roamed freely, and people huddled together in their straw and mud huts by the faintly lit hearths. It reminded him of Rheged, an equally wild highland district not far from the ancestral manor of the Warwicks. He had always loathed the place and its near-feral inhabitants.

  Not that the rest of Yamato was any better. He hadn’t paid attention to the views when he hurried to Heian, but now, studying the land below was his mission — he was to scout on the enemies of Lord Shimazu.

  They were supposed to occupy the northern provinces of the island, but so far, Wulf had not only not seen any evidence of military control — he hadn’t spotted anything worth controlling. Beyond the borders of his master’s domain he saw no factory chimneys, no steel mills, no mechanized farms, no shipyards — and of course, no magic. The small fields were tilled by hand by half-naked peasants, and what little movement of goods there was occurred on foot along narrow and winding dirt roads. There was not a single brick building, not one iron bridge ...

  He understood why Lord Shimazu may have wanted to exert his power on this savage land, and bring it up to modern times. What he did not understand, however, was why any foreign power would be interested in conquering Yamato.

  The place is a worse dirt hole than Qin.

  There was nothing here worth taking ... except, perhaps, women.

  He adjusted the chafing collar of his lacquered armour. He then took off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his head, and put the helmet back on. At this height, the winds cooled him down a little, but he knew the sun’s rays were as unrepentant as below, if not more. Dealing with the tropical heat was something Wulf, the son of a northern Dracalish clan, had had to learn the hard way. His arms and back still itched, burned scarlet a few days before. Soothing his pain with balms and delicate massages had been one of the tasks of the women sent to his house on Lord Shimazu’s order. The other was, of course, to make him forget about her.

  Kyokō, as far as he knew, was still in a coma, her life slowly seeping away. No doctor or magician could help her. The mountain shamans claimed her soul was already dead, and all that was left was to wait for her body to catch up.

  He blinked and rubbed his eyes, teary from the wind. He straightened his back and wiggled his sore shoulders. What was it that the Qin interpreter said? Beyond Fukuchi the mountains drop all the way to the coast. The peak he had just passed looked like it could be Fukuchi — or similar enough. Either way, the land sloped steadily northwards from here. Wulf saw the glittering ribbon of the sea on the distant horizon. A thin, dark wisp rose somewhere beyond it, the only cloud in sight.

  This must be it. The enemy territory.

  He pulled on the reins. The green colt snorted, shuddered, and ascended by about a hundred yards, catching a faster, more stable current of the Ninth Wind. With nowhere to hide in the clear cerulean sky, Wulf could only count on the altitude to conceal him from curious eyes on the ground. To a layman, the dragon flying this high would be indistinguishable from a large bird of prey.

  The roads grew wider, and more crowded, as Wulf descended into the coastal plain. Through a spyglass he spotted regular columns of footmen, marching from the harbours towards the mountain passes, and quick-moving dots of horsemen riding the other way. Workmen busied themselves with building field fortifications around the harbour city — earth mounds, ditches, barricades of fallen trees and rocks. Some canals were flooded to fill in the moats.

  Wulf pulled a notepad out of a saddlebag and jotted down the troop positions, then turned his attention to the harbour itself. It was filled with dozens of small, fast oarships and large, flat-bottomed transports. The fleet was impressive in size, but in poor shape: the sails were in tatters, the masts broken, the decks scorched. Many were listing, others half-submerged, stuck in the shallows. Pale dots of workers and craftsmen moved about them like fleas on a mangy dog.

  Wondering what — other than a dragon, of course — could have caused this devastation, Wulf noted down what he saw and pulled up again, turning his attention to the peninsula which lay across t
he narrow strait.

  What seemed earlier like a dark wisp grew into a puff, then a billow, and then it split into many single streams of soot and ash, all feeding into a vast cloud of smoke. As soon as Wulf gathered a sense of scale from its surroundings, he realized what it was.

  A burning city.

  Black Wings. Just like Heian and Kagoshima before it, the city on the other side of the coast had been ravaged by the wrath of the Gorllewin dragons. Wulf shuddered, no longer feeling safe in the open skies.

  Are they still here?

  Both times, he had so far managed to miss the beasts, and only heard tales of their immense size, the fantastic destructive power, and their ability to hide in plain view. He whipped his head around.

  They could blow me from the sky before I knew what hit me.

  He hid the notepad in the saddlebag with shaking hands.

  I think I’ve seen quite enough.

  He swerved on the spot and bid his mount race back inland. The dragon struggled against the turbulent, seaward stream of the Ninth Wind. Wulf lowered his head and tightened his grip on the reins. His thighs and arms sweated and ached. The cold wind whistled, then roared in his ears, louder and louder ...

  It wasn’t the wind.

  Wulf looked over his shoulder. A dark shape shaded the sky behind him. He snapped the reins. His dragon could not possibly go any faster, but the Black Wing was still there, retaining just enough of a distance for Wulf to clearly see the grey-robed, hooded figure on its back.

  What does he want? Why isn’t he attacking?

  The sky in front of Wulf shimmered and blurred. The blue turned dark, then black. The second Black Wing materialized silently, like an unsheathed sword. Wulf banked at the last moment and flew underneath its outstretched wing, as if under a rain cloud. The dragon’s roar smothered all other noises.

  The reins slipped out of the Seaxe’s sweaty grip. He grabbed tight onto his mount’s neck, closed his eyes, and bade the beast fly straight on, southwards, inches over the tops of the cedar trees. The two black dragons behind him made no effort to follow. He could almost hear the mocking laughter of their riders.

  CHAPTER II

  The grand palatial tent, its sides marked with the crossed circle, rose in the centre of the Shimazu camp in cascades of flowing striped cloth. A squat, square-jawed and square-shouldered samurai stepped away from the entrance to let Dylan inside. Nariakira lay propped on one elbow, on a silk mattress, reading a Western-style book.

  “You wanted to see me again, sir?”

  The daimyo put the book away slowly, making sure the title page remained in view for long enough: The Rise of the Dracalish Empire, by Viselius. He showed Dylan a pillow, then sat up, propping himself with the bamboo cane.

  “I’m glad you’re with us, after all that’s been said and done,” he said. “I do hope you don’t hold a grudge over that … little deception with your son.”

  Dylan forced a smile. “I am a diplomat, Nariakira-dono. If I didn’t let bygones be bygones, I couldn’t do my job.”

  The daimyo nodded with approval and clapped his hands. From one of the adjacent cloth-walled chambers an attendant entered carrying a tray with a teapot and two bowls of fine Qin clay. Nariakira waited in silence as the attendant poured a dark brown liquid into the bowls. He raised his bowl in both hands, with a nod. Dylan did the same.

  “Fermented, as I hear you Westerners prefer it,” the daimyo said. His fingerless left hand trembled. He sipped and grimaced. “Although I have to say, it’s an acquired taste.”

  “It tastes better with some sugar,” replied Dylan.

  “Ah, yes, sugar.” Nariakira chuckled and put away the barely touched bowl. “One of your ‘Imperial’ commodities. Hah!” He patted the book at his side. “We only give sweets to children and women — and only if they’re well behaved.” He chuckled again, then turned serious with his typical aristocratic abruptness. “But maybe this is another thing we’ve been doing wrong all those years.” He paused for breath with every sentence, and his hands wandered aimlessly around the mattress, as if in constant search of something precious.

  “Do you enjoy the book, sir?” Dylan asked, putting the bowl back on the tray.

  “It is most fascinating. I have neglected the study of Dracaland for too long. I should have known you would come here sooner or later.”

  “There are only four of us here,” Dylan replied with a light smile. “Hardly an invading army.”

  “Oh, but isn’t it how it always happens? A single ship, a handful of merchants …” He tapped the floor with the cane. The attendant appeared again, with another tray. He replaced Nariakira’s bowl with a clean one and filled it up, this time with green Yamato cha. “Don’t you think our countries have a lot in common, Di Lan-sama?” he asked after quenching his thirst.

  “I suppose …” Dylan replied, uncertain at what Nariakira was aiming at.

  “‘A small, but fertile island separated from a great and ancient continent, peopled by an industrious tribe of warriors and merchants’,” the daimyo recited. “That is what Viselius says about Dracaland, but he might as well speak of Yamato.”

  “Rather more merchants than warriors,” remarked Dylan. “That is a crucial difference.”

  “Naturally,” Nariakira agreed. “It is one of the many things I intend to change when I rule Yamato.”

  “If you rule Yamato.” You don’t even command the rebel army.

  The daimyo hid his smirk in the cup. “I used to think I would emulate Bataavians in the way I ruled. But now I believe Dracaland is the shining example to follow.”

  “I’m, uh, flattered, I’m sure.” Dylan ran a finger around the edge of his bowl. “Our science and industry are the foremost in the world.”

  “It is your empire building that interests me more,” said Nariakira with surprising sincerity. He used a Bataavian word, Keizerrijk — there was no synonym in the Qin language for what he wanted to express.

  He knows he’s running out of time. We’re no longer in the guessing game.

  “An empire? Isn’t that too bold? You haven’t even conquered Chinzei yet.”

  “Always think two steps ahead.” Nariakira moved his hand from one end of the tray to the other. “That’s how I do my job.”

  “The world is more crowded than it was when Dracaland sent its ships into the eastern seas.”

  “But it was already pretty crowded even back then.” Nariakira touched the book’s cover. “You took what you wanted from Bataavians, from Vasconians, from Qin—”

  “This is where the ‘warriors’ part comes in handy,” said Dylan with a hint of warning in his voice.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Di Lan-sama.” Nariakira laughed. “I’m not interested in Dracalish territories. There’s plenty of land elsewhere. Chosun, for instance. With Rangaku weapons and tactics, we could soon bring them down to heel. Then we could take revenge on the Horse Lords for their invasions. Maybe move towards the Khmer. As for Qin … There’s plenty of it to go around for everyone. We could share it with you and the Varyaga, no?”

  As he spoke, his eyes glinted into the distance, and blood rushed to his cheeks. He raised himself from his mattress, and drew shapes of imaginary provinces in the air with his fingerless hand. But he ended on a cough, and had to lean back against the pillows.

  The weapons deal — it awoke an unhealthy ambition.

  “The Dragon Throne does not take kindly to threats,” said Dylan. He took a sip — the tea in his cup was lukewarm and acrid.

  “Threats? Please, Di Lan-sama, do not insult me. In me, Dracaland has a friend and an admirer.”

  “Does Curzius know about your plans?”

  “He guesses, I’m sure.” Nariakira shrugged. “But we never spoke about it.”

  “Then why tell me about it?”

  The daimyo leaned forward. “Do you think I’m the only one with grand plans for Yamato? Nabeshima, Mori — even Tokugawa with his Abominations, they will all do the same, as soon as this i
s over, as soon as one of us comes out on top.” He looked at the old, yellowed and wrinkled map of Yamato on the tent wall. “This country will never be the same again. We have dragons destroying cities, Rangaku wizards fighting magic battles, foreigners openly flaunting the Taikun’s orders … We will never go back to the old, secluded ways.”

  “Ah, I think I see what you’re saying.” Dylan nodded. “But I could go today to Nabeshima-dono’s tent and gain the same assurances of friendship. Words are cheap.”

  “You want a treaty, Dracalish?” Nariakira glanced at him. “I can give you a treaty.”

  “You have no authority to sign pronouncements in the name of the entire country.”

  “Aaah,” the daimyo drew a long vowel, “but what if I did?”

  He grasped the cane and raised himself up with a surprising spring in his step. “Come with me to the harbour. I have something to show you.”

  A large two-masted junk, richly decorated along the sides, with a temple-like aftcastle, stood at anchor in the middle of the river. Dylan recognized the hulk as of the same type used to build Nariakira’s mistfire warship — the largest available to the Yamato, he guessed. This one had no engine, only snow-white silk sails with the Satsuma crest painted in the centre in striking black.

  On the upper level of the aftcastle, in the usual place of the captain’s cabin, was a room of silk curtains and feather cushions. Its walls were decorated with hastily painted chrysanthemum flowers and cranes in flight. The curtains and cushions muffled all sound.

  In the silence, Dylan heard the tinkling of a bell. A small cloth ball rolled under his feet. He picked it up — the bell inside jangled.

  A soft but commanding voice spoke in Yamato; it was coming from the centre of the room, where the curtains were the densest. In the dim light thrown down from a skylight, Dylan saw a silhouette of a slender, narrow-shouldered man — or a boy. Nariakira bowed deeply — deeper than Dylan had seen any of the Yamato noblemen bow before.

  “Why do your servants insist on bringing me these toys, Nariakira?” said Mutsuhito. “I am not a child.”