The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5) Page 5

  How does he do that? I have so many traps…

  They were at the top floor of the castle keep; the doors and windows were locked shut; just outside the room stood Saigō Takamori, the square-jawed Captain of his bodyguards, watchful.

  “You’re late,” Nariakira said, lighting a new candle, his hands shaking slightly.

  “I keep hearing that,” the cold voice replied. “I make my own time.”

  Nariakira touched the grip of his short sword; it buzzed reassuringly. He turned slowly around to face the intruder.

  Most men, he knew, would welcome the visitor with nothing but dread. But Nariakira was almost glad to see him. There was something strangely calming in the sight of the invariably garish cloak, ever the same dark shade of purple, and the familiar twin katanas at the Swordsman’s waist.

  “I don’t just mean today,” said the daimyo. “Where have you been? I needed you here.”

  “Here and there. Mostly Chōfu,” replied Dōraku. “Where is Takashima?”

  “On a scientific expedition to the northern borders. Chōfu, you say? What’s young Mori-dono up to these days?”

  Dōraku produced a pipe and lit it, deliberately slowly, before answering.

  “He’s established his own school of Rangaku.”

  “Mori?” Nariakira cried out in genuine shock. “This Mori? He hates everything Western.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Dōraku puffed on the pipe. “Perhaps the recent events changed his mind.”

  “Have you talked with him?”

  “No, I don’t have his trust anymore. He grew up in the shadow of Ganryūjima. He hates my kind more than he hates the Westerners.”

  Nariakira sat down, laid his hands on his knees and straightened his back. Dōraku hesitated for a moment and then sat down too. The casual part of the conversation was over.

  “Speaking of Ganryūjima…” started Nariakira.

  The daimyo had learnt about the events at the island fortress from the Daisen and the Takashima girl. By now, he had managed to calm his fury over the disappearance of the dragon rider — though not enough to forgive Dōraku his negligence.

  The Swordsman scowled. “I know what you’re thinking, but I assure you, the boy is still somewhere in Yamato.”

  “But not here. And neither is his dragon. I trusted your judgement and I lost everything.”

  Do you have any idea what I would do to my own vassal if he’d failed me like this?

  Dōraku shrugged.

  “This is temporary. Everything’s going according to my plan.”

  Nariakira slammed his fist on the floor.

  “It’s not my plan! I don’t have time for this – I’ve made my own arrangements.”

  “You have a knack for attracting foreign castaways,” said Dōraku, unperturbed. “But I’ve seen that new boy. He’s nothing like Bran-sama.”

  “Good!” Nariakira waved his hands in exasperation. “I don’t need another disobedient Westerner. This one will do just right.”

  “You’ll still need a dorako.”

  Nariakira’s eyes glinted. “I know.”

  Dōraku puffed on the pipe to conceal his surprise. “Looks like you really don’t need me anymore.”

  “Oh,” Nariakira tried his best to sound casual. “I’m sure I can always find use for your services.”

  The Swordsman’s eyes turned cold and dark. Nariakira fought the urge to reach for the sword. The candle on the desk flickered in the icy wind coming from nowhere.

  “I don’t serve anyone,” said Dōraku slowly. “I help you because we share common goals.”

  Nariakira smirked. “Noble words, but empty. I need more commitment than that.”

  Dōraku raised an eyebrow. “More than that?”

  “I’m thinking of the future. I might do things you will not approve. I can join forces with people you dislike. I know my men sometimes disagree with my methods — but it doesn’t bother me as long as they remain loyal to me.”

  The Swordsman leaned forward, stone-faced.

  “What have you done, Shimazu?”

  Nariakira felt his fury rising. He knew it was a test; if they were to remain allies, he would have to swallow the insult. But if he was to assert his authority…

  He’s like a feral dog… that needs whipping.

  Though rich and powerful, Nariakira was merely a mortal after all. Not even a Taikun could stand against the Fanged. Perhaps…not even the Mikado.

  But if I let this slide now, in my own castle, how will I be able to tame him once I rule Yamato?

  He put a hand on his wakizashi and felt it vibrate gently. Dōraku’s eyes focused on its black sheath and his own hand moved slowly towards the grips of his swords.

  You can feel it, can’t you? It calls for your blood, demon.

  “I call it Wolf Bite,” Nariakira said, revelling in the Swordsman’s unease.

  “How… fitting,” the Swordsman replied. They both knew of Dōraku’s distinct lack of fondness for the wolves.

  “I found it in Hosokawa’s armoury,” the daimyo added, “After you helped me depose the old man — remember?”

  Don’t even think of doing the same to me.

  A sudden thought struck Nariakira.

  Who told Captain Kiyomasa about the coup…? I thought it was my dear little brother, but what if…

  “Why did you really send Takashima-sama away?” the Swordsman asked, not letting the sword out of his sight. “It’s because of the Ship, isn’t it? When is she coming back?”

  She is not, Nariakira thought, and licked his lips.

  It was as if the Swordsman had heard his thoughts; he froze suddenly, and then stood up. Nariakira stared straight at him, unblinking, straining his eyes and tightening the grip on the hilt.

  “You’ve gone too far, Shimazu,” the Swordsman said quietly.

  “Everything I do is for the good of Yamato.”

  “Yamato… or yours?”

  “There is no difference, Swordsman. Can’t you understand that?” he said through gritted teeth. “The time of darkness is upon us. Only I can lead the country safely through it.”

  Dōraku’s eyes glinted gold.

  “I’m wasting my time here,” he spat.

  The world around Nariakira swirled. He stumbled forward in a daze, drawing the black sword and slashing the air blindly.

  When he came to, he was alone. The candle on his desk was burned half-way down.

  “Takamori!” Nariakira roared.

  The Captain burst through the door, sword in hand. His expression turned from fury to relief in an instant when he saw the daimyo unharmed.

  “Have you seen anyone coming in or out of the castle?” Nariakira asked.

  “No, kakka.”

  “Gather your men. Call a manhunt.”

  Making no noise, Dōraku opened the door to the Daisen’s room. He didn’t expect anyone inside: all the wizards of the Shigakko Academy were working through the night on the artefacts retrieved from the Bataavian ship. But the room was not empty; a girl in golden silk robe was sitting beside the Daisen’s desk, so quiet and discreet he barely noticed her. It took him a moment to recognize the white-daubed face.

  “You look well, Yokō-sama.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you here to stop me?”

  She giggled. “Me? I’m just a weak, blind girl.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Shimazu-dono is a good man.” she said. “He would have made a good Taikun.”

  “The first Tokugawa was a good Taikun, too. And look where we are now.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I’m a mere shrine servant who got lucky. I don’t know much about history.”

  He reached for the documents strewn on the desk. There had to be a clue to Takashima’s whereabouts somewhere among them…

  The girl lay gentle fingers on a piece of paper and slid it towards him.

  “I will have to report this to Shimazu-dono, of course,” she said.
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  His keen ears caught the sound of cries and alarm gongs, and feet stomping across the courtyard of the Academy. He had little time. He grabbed the paper from under her hand and looked at her inquiringly.

  “The wizardess was the first who was kind to me,” she said, her voice even quieter, almost a whisper. “Please save her.”

  Dōraku moved towards the door, but stopped at the threshold, listening to the noise outside.

  “You will tell them where to find me, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” she smiled and bowed her head slightly.

  “Good girl.”

  “What’s wrong, boy?” asked Li, noticing Wulfhere brooding in his room. “Your silk-clad beauty abandoned you?”

  “She’s busy tonight,” said Wulf. “It’s boring here without her. When do we fly to Keeyo?”

  “Soon.”

  Wulf sighed. Li eyed him from under a raised brow.

  “Are you sure you want to fly with me? Kiyō will be even more boring than Kagoshima. You won’t even be allowed to go outside the Bataavian district.”

  Wulfhere shrugged, resigned. “I can’t really stay here, can I?”

  “Can’t you? I know you’ve even started learning the language.”

  “The Commodore said — ”

  “Let me deal with your Commodore. Here in Yamato he’s not as important as he thinks he is.”

  Wulfhere’s eyes lit up. “Well, I could stay a few weeks if Lord Nariakira agrees. Yes, I’m sure I’d manage that.” He smiled to himself.

  Li smirked. “I thought you would. I’ll let Lord Nariakira know.”

  He suddenly stiffened and his nostrils flared as if he’d smelled something nasty.

  “What is — ” Wulf started, but the interpreter silenced him with a raised hand.

  “Hush… can you not feel it? All my hair is standing on end!”

  Slowly, Li stepped towards his bedding where his sword lay. Wulfhere had seen this weapon only once out of its sheath — an old Qin blade, broadened and split at the end, fit for ceremony rather than battle.

  “Get your sword,” the interpreter whispered, “and hide in your room.”

  “Hide? What’s going on?”

  “A Black Lotus is here.”

  “Black Lotus? In this castle?” he whispered back.

  Li unsheathed his sword and waved at Wulf, impatiently.

  “Hide, hide! I can sense it’s near.”

  Wulf slid the door to his room; it had never seemed as thin, as fragile as now. Just to be sure, he extinguished the oil lamp, and waited in silence and darkness.

  I’m not hiding, he told himself. I’m waiting in ambush.

  He heard the main door slide open. The room turned cold. There was silence, and then a voice spoke, cold, emotionless. It spoke in Qin, with some difficulty.

  Wulf’s heart pounded furiously; his hand, tightened on the hilt of his sword, got cold and clammy.

  There was an even longer pause before Li replied, shakily. The two exchanged a couple more sentences in this manner, and then Li spoke a sentence in which Wulf recognized the Qin word for “the boy”. He clenched his teeth.

  I did it once. I can do it again.

  He heard steps again, across the straw floor, moving towards his room, and he raised his right hand. The door started to slide open slowly.

  I can do it!

  Wulf summoned the Soul Lance and lunged forward with what he planned to be a roar, but turned out a feeble cry.

  The man leapt aside. Wulf swept the Lance around wildly, and felt it hit something soft and fleshy. The next thing he knew somebody turned him around and twisted his arm painfully; his Lance shimmered away.

  “Stop!” cried Li.

  Wulf struggled and gasped, but it was futile to try to wrestle from the tight grip. He felt cold fingers on his windpipe; the arm they belonged to bore the deep and wide cut of a Soul Lance blade; a dark gash running down the entire forearm. But there was no blood, and as Wulf watched mesmerised, the edges of the wound started drawing together. Before long, the gash was gone without a trace.

  The man holding him said something in Qin again, then in Bataavian; Wulfhere looked helplessly at Li.

  “I don’t — ”

  “Don’t move, boy,” the interpreter said sharply. “He says he can crush your neck with that hand, and I believe him.”

  “Is he a Black Lotus?” Wulfhere tried to twist his head to face the enemy, but the grip on his neck forced him away. He choked and coughed.

  Before Li could answer, Lord Nariakira and his guards burst into the room. The daimyo pointed a blade at the man holding Wulf; the short sword was at once black and translucent, shimmering and humming, like the scales of a Highland Grey. Wulf didn’t need True Sight to tell it was a magic weapon.

  Wulfhere followed little of what happened next. There was a lot of arguing in both Qin and Yamato tongues, shouting, threats, and waving swords in the air. The Lotus’s hold on his throat and arm once slackened, once tightened, as the argument progressed, but was always firm enough to ensure Wulf could not even think of getting himself free.

  At long last, the argument quietened down. Lord Nariakira stepped back and lowered his peculiar blade, resigned and coldly furious.

  The Black Lotus shoved Wulfhere forward.

  “Do what he tells you, boy,” said Li. “We’re going to the dragon.”

  Something twinkled next to the hair-thin crescent of the new Moon hanging low in the southern sky.

  A shooting star?

  The golden sparkle disappeared, only to return a few seconds later, a bit to the left. Again, it vanished, and again it returned, and Satō realized that whatever it was, was coming in and out of clouds. With difficulty, she stood up leaning against the hard, cold, wet wall.

  The shining dot grew to the size of the evening star, then a sesame seed, and it kept growing; it was moving fast, in what she could tell by now was a bobbing movement. Her heart fluttered.

  Could it be… a dragon…?

  Satō couldn’t see the wings yet, but she was now certain the gleaming dot — now almost as big as a grain of rice — was heading in her direction.

  Bran! He’s coming to save me… she thought, watching the fast-approaching beast.

  She had lost count of the days at the bottom of the frozen mine; she was tired and hungry. The piercing cold sapped all her strength. She had used everything she had, every spell she could think of, to get out. She climbed on ice bolts stuck in the rock — but they were too brittle. She tried various fire spells to shatter the shield, but those never worked for her well, and the dome didn’t even begin to melt. It didn’t surprise her — Snow Beard was among the most powerful ice wizards she had ever met.

  She’d gathered splinters of bamboo and set them on fire to stay warm. Now this fire was also gone, and with it, her remaining power.

  The humiliation she felt was worse than the cold; a shame that burned her inside out and kept her awake at night. They wouldn’t even leave her the sword. For all she was worth, for all she had done to prove it, the good and the bad — she was still unworthy to die with the dignity of a samurai.

  She drew one last blade of frost, long and sharp. But it splintered on her stomach into painful shards. She hid her face in her hands.

  Endless hours passed. The night turned into the day and again into the night. By the time the dragon appeared, she could barely move.

  The shimmering of the ice sheet was playing tricks on her eyes — the dragon was not jade green but golden. Her heart sank. The long wasn’t coming for her. Lord Nariakira had sent it and its rider to fly across Satsuma in the dark of night on some urgent errand.

  The Taikun will never stand for this, she thought, feebly.

  The dragon vanished from her sight. She lay down, resigned, barely registering the cool of the cavern floor on her cheek.

  She closed her eyes.

  Goodbye, Bran.

  She woke up with the warm sun on her face and the howl of win
d in her ears.

  She tried to sit up, but was too weak; she got dizzy and lay back to the ground. Her body was light.

  “Careful, Takashima-sama,” spoke a voice she hadn’t heard in a long, long time.

  I’m dreaming.

  A flask was put to her lips; cold shōchū spilled into her mouth, and she started coughing. Slowly, she opened her eyes and sat up, shivering. Her head was spinning and her cuts started to burn.

  Master Dōraku put the flask away, looked her over and touched her forehead. His hand was cold, like the walls of the ice mine.

  “Good. You’re not sick.”

  Satō glanced to her left. She was sitting just a few feet from the ice dome, the shattered remains of which melted quickly in the sun. That meant only one thing… Several hacked bodies lay beside the rocky outcrop, Yukihige among them, his grey beard splattered with drops of red, his neck sliced through, his mouth open, silenced forever in mid-spell.

  Still dizzy, she looked to her right, and saw the dragon.

  The beast was a lot longer than Emrys, but slimmer, more a flying snake than a lizard. Its scales shimmered purest gold, like tiles on a temple roof. Satō couldn’t help herself and gasped.

  So it’s true. Qin dragons evoke awe, she remembered. Not fear.

  A man stood beside the long and stared at her with an angry, resentful glare. He had a strangely angular face underneath a blue hat, and he wore the kind of clothes she had only seen worn by the officials in the Qin district of Kiyō.

  Master Dōraku smoothed his moustache with his fingers. His eyes were black as coals, and his face seemed even paler than usual. If such a thing was at all possible, Satō would think he was… tired.

  Why is he here with that Qin man?

  “You look terrible,” she said weakly. “What happened?”

  He laughed. “I look terrible? Oh, that’s a good one.” He reached into his bags and gave her a rice ball. “You must eat.”

  She sank her teeth in the rice and took hasty bites; it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She felt her strength slowly coming back. She finished her rice ball and before she could ask, Master Dōraku put another in her hands and then another.

  “How long…” she asked, licking rice off her fingers.