Shallows of Night - 02 (19 page)

“Is that so valuable a possession?” asked Mantu. “It is, in the end, no different than land, a house, taels of silver, a work of art or”—he looked at Ronin—“a sword.”

“But those are all physical.”

“Yes, but all possessions are indistinguishable and must be surrendered before the Nothingness so that wholeness may be attained.”

“And what then?”

“Why, then perfection,” said the priest, somewhat nonplussed.

“But I do not believe that man was meant for perfection.”

Llowan laughed and pounded the table.

“He has you, Mantu.”

The priest did not join in the general good humor.

The animated conversations continued as the servants silently removed the dishes only to replace them with fresh ones onto which they heaped portions of steamed and fried rice diced with meats and vegetables. No sooner had this course been devoured by the guests than gleaming tureens piled with whole boiled langoustes were served with cups of rice wine.

Ronin thought then of Kiri’s earlier remark and he saw that she was smiling slyly at him. Yes, I was famished, but this—

He cracked into the thin carapace. She had spent most of her time in conversation with Llowan and Li Su and he began to wonder why she had brought him here. He felt now that he was jealous of her soft whisperings and gentle touches because they were directed toward their host. He gulped at his rice wine.

Perhaps she did not own poppy fields or trade in the silver market yet she was a powerful woman, the city’s leading merchant of a commodity at times more precious than either smoke or metal or silk for that matter. Was she really privy to the secrets of Sha’angh’sei? If so, she was his only way now into the Council. Yet, even as he thought again on these matters, he felt the ebbing of the urgency. As he stared at her awesome beauty, imperfect and therefore terribly thrilling, as he felt the radiance of her aura, the only imperative was his desire to master her.

The langoustes, empty red and green exoskeletons languishing now in their own congealing liquids, bits of white and pink flesh still clinging to their edges, were slowly carted away.

Hot scented cloths were brought for face and hands and then bowls of pudding, dark and creamy, custard, yellow and fluffy, trays of pastries stuffed with candied fruits were put before each guest.

“A warrior Llowan called you.” said Po, leaning over so that Ronin could hear him more clearly. “My folk were such once upon a time.”

Ronin bit into a pastry, washed it down with more wine. He was not really interested in what this trader had to say; he could think of but one thing.

“What happened?”

“Very unprofitable.” The black eyes regarded him like those of a dangerous reptile squatting beneath a rock, suddenly magnified, unknowable in the brief moments before—

Ronin realized belatedly that he was being baited. He dipped two fingers into a pudding, cool and spicy. It did not seem to matter.

“Perhaps they were not then sufficiently adept.”

The dark eyes widened, staring madly for an instant, and Ronin’s fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. Then the face relaxed and, like a thunderstorm after a long drought, Po began to laugh.

“Oh yes,” he gasped, gulping at his wine. “I might even get to like you.” He bit into a pastry. “But tell me, how did my people fail as warriors?”

“They do not rule this land,” said Ronin softly.

The smile was gone and the face before him now seemed incapable of expressing any happiness. The mouth opened.

“Yes, warrior. I cannot argue with that.” He sighed. “Yet they had no choice, a small tribe from the west.” He shook his head. “We lacked the numbers.”

“There are many tribes in this land?”

“Many, yes, scattered on the land.”

“The unification of many into one might have been a beginning.”

The ebon eyes peered at him with keen interest now. “Do you imagine such a task to be a simple one? Words! But it takes—” He was choked with emotion, boiling inside, an unleashed storm, and his hand clutched whitely at his glass. His voice but a sibilant whisper now, controlled and venomous. “But there was no one. We cried out to our gods for help, sacrificed our children, rent ourselves in desperation, and how were we answered?” The unpleasant smile returned.
“They
came. The foreign priests and then the rikkagin and by then it was too late; enslavement seemed almost pleasant by comparison.”

The salad arrived in great bowls, accompanied by wedges of yellow cheese and thick slices of a heavy bread made from grain.

“Yes, it is too late now,” Mantu observed, “because you failed to keep what could have been yours. It is ours now and it serves you ill to blame others for your own shortcomings.”

“Silence, you!” cried Po.

“You see,” said the priest blandly, turning to Ronin. “An illustration of the Canton teachings. Man’s craving causes suffering to all about him.”

“Words!” Po spat.

“My dear fellow.” Llowan raised a hand warningly. “You really must learn to control—”

But the trader was already on his feet, swaying. A tall dark creature of the night.

“For too long have the outlanders plundered our land, twisted the ideologies of our people with taels of silver. Too late, is it?” He laughed. “Now! Now the time of retribution draws nigh! Now come the days of darkness and all foreigners shall taste defeat before they are ground into the mud of the Sha’angh’sei delta!” His cloak swirled like the wings of an avian predator as he pivoted and strode from the room. In a moment they heard the door slam.

“A bitter man,” said Mantu out of the silence.

“I trust we can all forget that unfortunate outburst,” said Llowan.

But Ronin was watching the rikkagin and he did not like the look in the other’s eyes.

Llowan clapped his hands and, with that, the last course was brought. Oranges, peeled and soaked in wine, figs, white raisins, and an assortment of nuts.

When, at length, the last of the dishes had been cleared away, pipes were distributed, bone-white with long stems and small bowls. Tiny open lamps were set beside each guest and Llowan commenced to carve chunks from a block of a brownish substance.

They began to smoke and it seemed to Ronin that after a time the light in the room grew dim and diffuse and there were more women around the table than before. He took little of the smoke himself but watched the others relax as they inhaled deeply. The air became thick and sweet. Kiri shared a pipe with Llowan as they continued to whisper together. He leaned over, inhaling her perfume, anger welling within him. He gripped her cool wrist and she turned as he pulled, falling into his arms because he was expecting resistance and there was none.

Her purple lips were at his throat and he felt the press of her breasts as she murmured, “Let us not overstay.”

He felt only surprise as he watched her kiss Llowan gently on the lips.

He was rising dreamily, holding her lithe form as they moved off the soft cushions and through the sweet smoke, across the room, speaking to no one, their departure unnoticed, past the guards and out the doors into the chill startling night. He breathed deeply, freeing his lungs of the cloying scent, clearing his head. And the sweating back and jogging feet took them down the mountainside, away from the tall firs and thickets of gardened foliage filled with the chirruping of cicadas, away from the round shining faces, lips slick with gravy and bubbling wine and lust, away from the gilt and the guards bought with precious metals.

He was silent.

She watched him for a short time as if wanting to imprint the outline of his profile on her mind.

“You are angry with me. Why should that be so? I have done nothing to you.” The call of a whippoorwill.

“Why did you bring me?”

Light on her brows and cheek like a new moon.

“Must I have a reason?”

“Yes.”

“I wished to be with you.”

He laughed shortly and she shivered a little. “You spoke with Llowan all evening.”

“What does that matter? I am with you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, sensing a tension springing up between them which was both unpleasant and vaguely comforting in its familiarity.
K’reen, why are you crying? You know I hate that.
Oh, you bloody fool!

Not again.

He opened his eyes, found her staring at him, the gathering lights slithering by them reflecting in her impossibly violet eyes. He smiled.

“Yes, it was foolish of me. My mind was filled with thoughts of other times. Let us forget it, yes?”

Her lips opened and she leaned toward him, the heat reaching out to him, her “Yes” a vibration in their mouths.

Into the clearing night with a fresh sea breeze blowing, into the blazing Sha’angh’sei delta, chittering with countless people, past stalls selling rice and frying fish, silks and cottons, knives and swords, past brutal brawling men, drunk and stinking, past women in pink and green parasols, white-faced, red-lipped, long-legged and beautiful, past wine vendors and money-changers hiding behind the protective barrier of their street-corner cages, past marching soldiers and screaming hongs, past thieves and pickpockets lurking in the blackness of the alleyways and drunken cripples living along the edges of the streets, past battling children and slinking dogs, past piles of refuse upon which dark figures slept and crawled, past rotting corpses kicked and stepped upon by the teeming crowd, onto the Nanking and halted now by the festival’s milling throngs, the wide avenue a riot of color and frenzied motion.

They were confronted by a giant dragon, thrice colored, undulating to the movement of the crouched figures beneath its paper hide. It eyed them mock malevolently before turning aside and following the turning of the Nanking. Children in tattered clothes danced along its writhing flanks, urging it on. There was discordant music, percussive and staccato, and much shouting as the people accompanied its slow rippling passage.

Kiri, enfolded within his arms, put her lips to his ear so that she could be heard over the tumult.

“The festival of the Lamiae is this night reaching its zenith. This creature before us is the effigy of the Lamiae, the female serpent which lives in the sea at the edge of Sh’angh’sei. It is she who turns the waters yellow by the thrashing of her immense coils, thus lifting the silt from the sea’s floor. The festival annually honors her who guards our dragon gates.”

“This land is filled with legends.”

“Yes,” she said. “So it has been for all time.”

They moved on, their kubaru seemingly tireless as they rocked gently through the endless tumbling streets filled with the sleeping and the dead, huddled families and vacant-eyed ancient men and women alone in the sputtering cracked darkness.

He smelled at last the sea as the blackness of the port quarter engulfed them, the streets slick with salt water and fish blood, the great warehouses windowless, gleaming in the silver light from the moon which had finally managed to slip its cloud cover, looming over them like vast mysterious stone monuments. The sea smell was very strong now and, when they stopped, Ronin thought that he could hear the lapping of the sea against the wooden wharves.

They slipped from the ricksha into a silent black building. He closed the door behind them and in pitch-darkness Kiri went away from him. He heard small sounds and, after a moment, a yellow flame flickered as she lit a lamp.

She led him through the rooms, four on this level.

“This is one of Llowan’s harrtin,” she said. “Where his produce is stored and where, normally, his compradore lives.”

“Llowan is a hong also?”

She laughed lightly. “Oh yes. He is master of many poppy fields in the north.” They stepped into another room. “Here,” she said quietly, “are stored dreams enough for ten thousand lifetimes. Dreams of passion. Dreams of desperation.”

“What?”

She started. “Nothing.”

They moved on.

“Look here,” she said. “The compradore’s office. He is the go-between for Llowan and the stevedores and kubaru. He runs the day-to-day shipping and oversees the storing. A most lucrative position.”

“And where is he this night?”

She turned to him and smiled. “At Tenchō, my warrior. At Tenchō.”

The room on the second story stretched almost the entire length of the building. The far wall was constructed of a series of window doors, wooden and slatted, beyond which the spangled night beckoned.

To the left lay the expanse of an enormous bed, low, with many pillows, which took up most of the width of the room. To the right, rugs were strewn across the wooden floor boards. A massive writing desk took up a far corner. Above it was a large mirror set in a carved wooden frame. There were several low chairs made of a tough resilient reed.

Ronin went across the room and pulled at a window door. It opened, folding back on itself, and he was surprised to find that he could step out onto a wide veranda.

Below him the sea: dappled in platinum moonlight chopped to a shower of rippling shards by the undulating surface, so clear in the night that it might have been a molten pathway building itself, beckoning him to climb to the far reaches of the sky, to illimitable whirling shores. Dazzled now, he listened to the quietude composed of the gentle sea lapping at the wharves’ stanchions, the creaking of the dark brooding ships at anchor, the stirrings of sleeping families on the galaxy of tasstans rocking on the waves, the splash of a fish. All these now familiar sounds made more searing to him the absolute alienness of the cosmography arched like bits of a shattered world above him.

He felt her presence behind him just before he felt the touch of her body as it pressed itself against his. Through his silk suit seeped the warmth of her skin; the contours of her breasts and thighs, at once soft and firm, defined themselves. The heat.

He turned and pressed his mouth against hers and her small tongue licked at him and the night beat on around them, the eternal lapping, the soft singing of the kubaru as they made ready for the sailings at first light, the distant cries of the festival of the Lamiae. His finger tips traced the indentation of her spine, descending slowly.