Shallows of Night - 02 (24 page)

“We are not greedy souls.”

Tourmaline hung in the smoke.

“We are what we must be.”

Red green brown, its facets winked dully in the pearled glow.

“What history decreed we become.”

The blue haze, frozen, rose and fell like the swell and suck of the sea.

“Pawns.”

There was a raucous burst of laughter bubbling like the release of water under pressure.

“Oh my. Oh my.” Voice deep and heavy.

Tourmaline dancing in multicolored splendor, a miniature sun upon the convex surface.

“Yes. We are the result of an unforgiving past. Hurled this way and that by the necessities of our land. Did we arise before the need for us had arisen? Could we?”

Tourmaline sun shaking against its quivering sky.

He had fat cheeks and heavy jowls which wobbled when he laughed. Wide flat nose, cheekbones lost in flesh guarding long almond eyes of cobalt blue. No neck, his billiard head stuck to his massive shoulders and bare chest, deep green robe open to the waist. His mouth was small and delicate.

“We were formed from the minds of our gods, in centuries too distant to calculate, for the protection of our people, to guard the wealth of the land.”

He was sitting in a wicker chair, its high back curving up and out like the questing necks of some monstrous and headless creatures, mindless twins.

“To destroy the Reds!”

A massive arm lifted, fell to the wicker with a sharp snap.

“To undermine the power of the rikkagin. To take vengeance on all who come within our precincts seeking only wealth. Thieves and worse. Murderers.”

The cobalt eyes shifted their focus.

“Our price is high, yes; and it is met every hour of every day and night within the borders of Sha’angh’sei. We are paid to protect those who live like frightened ants within the walled city. Yet the walled city is ours if we so wished. The fat hongs deliver up to us the tariffs we request. The rikkagin, who grow rich on the war to the north, pay us taels of silver on the last day of each month—” The eyes flashed. “How I hate them! How I work to defeat them. It is not enough to take their money, no, not nearly. Infiltrate, am I not correct?”

There was a noise. The eyes peered down in front of him.

“Has he heard, do you think?”

He made a motion with his hand, a flicker of movement, and Ronin was drenched with sea water, chill and fecund with microscopic life. The salt burned in his wounds but it cleared his head. He groaned again.

“We wish you to be fully conscious,” said the immense man.

Ronin broke his bleary gaze from the tourmaline around the man’s neck. He was in a room whose walls were constructed of bamboo, coated in a clear lacquer so that they gleamed in the low lamplight. There were no windows but overhead a skylight was open to the clear night.

“You have caused us many deaths, brought grief to many women and their families.” He sighed. “We are the Ching Pang. The Greens.” His hand reached into his robe. Something sparkled in the air and dropped in front of Ronin. “There.”

It was the silver necklace he had taken off the dead man in the alley and which T’ung had taken from him at the gate of the walled city. He stared at the tiny silver blossom, wiping the salt water from his eyes, and for an instant he fancied he heard the tolling of far-off bells, the muted call of a horn, seeing again the lazy fish in the perfect garden of that mysterious temple, lost now within the maze of Sha’angh’sei. Eternity.

“Tell us who you are. Who sent you to Sha’angh’sei?”

Ronin coughed, put his hand up to his throat. He swallowed experimentally.

“Not the Reds, surely. They know less of the sakura than we do.”

“I know nothing of this necklace.”

“That is a lie. You attacked Ching Pang in the alley, trying to save your friend.”

“Who?”

“The man in black.” The voice was patient, an uncle speaking to a mischievous child.

“I saw someone being attacked by many men. I went to help him.” The immense man laughed.

“I have no doubt. Stupid to expose yourself to us so openly. You underestimate us. Why were you sent here?”

“I came to Sha’angh’sei to seek the answer to a riddle.”

“Where did you come from?”

“The north.”

“Liar. There are savages only to the north.”

“I am not of this land.”

“And the sakura.”

“I do not know what you want.”

The immense man looked with pity upon Ronin and then lifted his eyes.

“T’ung, it is time for you to do what you must do.”

“Shall I kill him first?”

“No, but be content, that will come later.”

“I want him.”

“Yes, of course you do. But first you will take him with you.”

“But—I—”

“Let him witness it.”

They moved stealthily through the twisting, refuse-strewn alleys of the city, deep in shadows where no night lanterns shone, where the sweet smoke drifted through the air and the rattle of gaming dice was an intermittent atonal tattoo.

He went with four of them. T’ung and two other Greens garbed in deep blue, ax blades sheathed in black fabric so as not to reflect. They had with them a man with lusterless skin and bright burning eyes, whose body trembled with fear and who ceaselessly implored them to spare him. His hands were bound to a short bamboo pole behind him.

T’ung, ever by Ronin’s side, had whispered to him, “If you attempt to cry out, I will stuff a rag in your mouth. This is Du-Sing’s order. I would slit your belly now, if I could. But I am a patient man. My time will come when we return.”

The shadows were endless as they moved silently through the replicating alleys in the night. A dog barked throatily. There was the sound of someone urinating against a wall close by, curiously distinct. They heard distant laughter, the thrumming of nocturnal hoofs, a tense and enervating noise. They walked through the litter of the tiny animals who screeched briefly at the disturbance.

“Where are we bound?” said Ronin, careful to keep his voice down.

T’ung smashed him just above his ear.

He called softly to the Green leading the way and they turned to the right, into a dimly lit street, residential, a fairly wealthy area.

They approached a house and one of the Greens produced a bowl of rice from beneath his cloak. The man’s eyes bulged at the sight and the other Green was obliged to hold him.

Carefully, ritually, the first Green set the bowl of rice onto the street directly in front of the steps leading up to the front door. Then he rose, produced a pair of sticks, bent again, setting them beside the bowl. He turned and, bowing to T’ung, went and stood beside Ronin.

Swiftly T’ung moved to the side of the squirming man, slammed his fists into the hinges of his jaws so that they gaped open in reflex. His left hand moved into the mouth, the fingers expertly grasping the slippery tongue while the right hand flashed upward. The glint of naked metal. The man was about to gag and the blade had already slashed through his tongue. Blood spurted, black in the dimness of the street, and the man’s head whipped about. Terrible guttural sounds issued from him like an animal pathetically attempting to mimic human speech.

Again the dagger rose and flashed forward and the man’s head recoiled horribly and the mouth redoubled its efforts to scream. The Green gripped the dripping hair and the blade came up for the third ghastly time. Then the Green let go of the head and it bounced back and forth as if on a spring. The maimed face came up and stared sightlessly at Ronin, two black holes, wet and shiny, running with blood and ribbons of viscera.

T’ung nodded and the Green unsheathed his ax, arcing it down, severing the tendons at the backs of the man’s knees, so that the body folded in on itself and he was forced to kneel in the dust of the street. He fell over into his own blood.

T’ung bent and arranged the tongue and eyeballs on their bed of rice as if they were savory delicacies to be consumed by the most discerning of gourmets. When he had finished, the Green placed the body of the man next to the bowl and sticks.

The Green who stood beside Ronin handed T’ung an immaculate yellow silk cloth as he came up. T’ung wiped his hands.

“He knew many things,” he said to Ronin when he was quite close. He handed the cloth back. “But he said them to the wrong people.”

He shoved Ronin and they all vanished into the alley from which they had moments before emerged and were swallowed up by the Sha’angh’sei night.

“You see how unfortunate it is,” said Du-Sing. “We who are the protectors of Sha’angh’sei must rule it by fear. It is an imperative of this city, a given rule, if you will, which we view simply as another fact of our existence. There are no two ways about it. Fear cuts through all boundaries. If you say to a kubaru, ‘Tell us what we wish to know or we shall be forced to cut off your foot,’ why then he will respond because, without his foot, he cannot work the poppy fields and thus feed his family. Similarly, if you say to rikkagin, ‘Tell us or we shall cut off your sword hand,’ what do you imagine his answer will be?” He laughed, his fat face jiggling.

Then Du-Sing’s face took on a sorrowful edge. “It is the hongs and the rikkagin and the Canton priests spewing their soulless filth who rob the people of Sha’angh’sei. Yet it is the Ching Pang which gains the reputation of thieves, murderers, and evil men.” His fat hands clapped together. “Nothing could be further from the truth!”

“Is that justification for what T’ung and these others just did?” asked Ronin.

“Justification?” cried Du-Sing. “We require no justification here. We do what must be done. No one else will do it. And this city must survive. Through us it does.” He settled himself more comfortably in his wicker chair. “You were shown that as a moral lesson. You are drawing breath now under our sufferance.” He drew out the silver necklace. “Where is yours?” he snapped suddenly.

“I have only seen that one,” replied Ronin.

“Did you bury it, perhaps?”

“I have only seen that one.”

“Is your mission in Sha’angh’sei the same as the other’s?”

“I never heard of this city until I was fished out of the water.”

“Is that where you met the man?”

“I never saw him before—”

“There are many ways to induce the truth from you and T’ung knows them all. I need not remind you how eager he is to have you all to himself.”

“The truth has already been spoken.”

“Spoken like a true hero,” said Du-Sing sarcastically. “Are you so stupid as to believe that we lack the skills to break you?”

“No. You will eventually find a way and then I shall be forced to tell you a lie so that you will kill me.”

“The truth is all that we require.”

Ronin laughed shortly. “That and my life. I am not a kubaru or a fat hong whom your threats can affect. I am not of this city. I do not hold you or the Ching Pang in reverential awe as all do in Sha’angh’sei. You are nothing to me.” He stared at the deep blue eyes, which had not blinked for the longest time. “And besides, this is all academic. Tomorrow’s handwriting is already on the wall. All your carefully built networks of power will be for nought if The Dolman cannot be stopped.”

T’ung stirred behind him. “Such foolishness is—”

A flicker of Du-Sing’s heavy hand stopped him. The blue eyes blinked and within the instant Ronin thought he could detect a hint of some emotion quite foreign to Du-Sing flickering uncertainly in those depths.

“He knows of the Bujun,” said T’ung. “I know it. He can tell us—”

“Silence!” roared Du-Sing. “Fool! Do you wish your tongue ripped from your mouth?” He made a great effort to calm himself. “Have Chei send in four men,” he said after a time.

T’ung went to the door and spoke softly to a Green standing just outside. When he returned, Du-Sing looked up at him and said: “Now give him his sword.”

Ripple like liquid silver. One, then two in the lamplight. Cold and hard and honed. Whistle of curved blades swinging through the air, the hot pungency of sweat and animal fear. Ripple along the periphery of his vision. Light squirting across the double edges of his long blade causing his heart to soar, the adrenaline pumping again, the brain thinking in rapid-fire bursts. Double. Thrust and reverse.

They did not understand, their style was different and adaptation takes time. He did not give it to them. A blade scythed upward at him and he deflected it out and away, reversing simultaneously, his own blade biting into the flesh of the Green behind him on the vicious downswipe. The man cried out as the blood spurted from his side. He stumbled and fell.

Ronin whirled as he felt an ax nick his shoulder, ripping into his robe. His sword thrust forward, scraping along the curving blade, and blue sparks flew. He parried two more blows before lunging in under an oblique swipe, thrusting with the point, spitting a Green through the mid-section. The man went to his knees as Ronin withdrew, his shaking hands clutching at the ooze, trying vainly to stem the flow. The stench of death thickened the air.

He was out of position now and the second man slammed his blade against Ronin’s sword and it all but flew from his hands. The ax came at him again and he went to his knees in parrying the jarring blow. His sword flashed again and again but he could not regain his feet, so profuse were the slashes raining upon him. He waited patiently for an opening and when it came, an instant when his opponent reached back to deliver the killing blow which would break through Ronin’s defense he used his blade vertically, driving upward with all his strength. He caught the man under the chin, the tip biting deep. He jammed it in, through the throat and into the brain. The body jerked, arms flying out wildly as if the man were attempting to fly. The mouth gaped open and bits of pink and gray spattered out. The corpse convulsed as if trying to throw off a tremendous weight and the ax skittered along the floor.

Ronin ripped his sword through the head and dropped, rolling across the room until his back was against a lacquered bamboo wall. The fourth man moved toward him but T’ung caught him by the arm and, staring at Ronin, said, “He is mine. Stay away.”

T’ung advanced on Ronin then, crouching, his gleaming ax blade swinging. He came in low, aiming for the knees, wanting to cripple first and then kill, and Ronin got his own blade down barely in time. As it was, the sickle came away with skin and a film of blood.