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

“Where’s Mineko?” she asked from under a hot wet towel. “Tell her to meet me at the private study.”

The court lady to whom she addressed the question winced and bowed. “Yes,
kakka.
” They hated Mineko even more than her — she was a servant girl from Satsuma household, the only handmaiden from Chinzei, and the only person in the entire court she trusted.

Atsuko threw on the gown, wiped most of the powder from her face, and left the fuming court ladies and handmaidens busy picking up the scattered robes from all around the garden.

“My lady,” Mineko entered with her eyes downcast. “You asked for me.”

“Is my husband busy?” Atsuko asked. She had asked the servant girl to keep track of Iesada whenever she herself could not accompany him.

“His Highness is at an audience with the lords of Aizu and Echigo. I’m told it will last for several hours, at least.”

“Excellent. Come with me. There is still one more wing of the palace left to check.”

Her careful and patient investigation brought a few clues about her husband’s nightly activities. She knew, for instance, that it all had something to do with that creepy Chief Councillor Hotta.

She also knew there had to be a room, or a hall, somewhere in the Inner Palace, hidden from passers-by, where her husband disappeared to whenever the Chief Councillor called on him.

She had been trying to locate it for days, but it wasn’t easy — there were hundreds of rooms and corridors in the palace, and she only had an hour or two a day to perform her searches undisturbed.

She led the girl down a narrow hallway behind the Passage of Bells, out through the Bridge of the Crescent Moon, past the wisterias and into the Halls of … she couldn’t remember the name. This was a newly built part of the palace, the wood was still young, fresh, creaking as it settled into shape. The nearest half of it, which she had already explored, was a maze of warehouses, where bales of silk cloth lay among chests of
cha
and planks of cedar wood. The far end of the hall remained a mystery.

“Stay here,” she ordered Mineko. “You know what to do.”

The servant girl nodded and stood watch at the entrance to the corridor. The hallway was cold and dark, as if something inside was blocking all the light and warmth of the summer outside. Atsuko rubbed her shoulders and lit a small oil lamp. The corridor turned right and then left before coming to a stop at an unmarked door made of rough cypress. An odd quiet roaring sound came from inside, resembling a faraway ocean wave.

With a trembling hand, she drew the door open.

The ornate golden stand in the middle of the octagonal room was as ancient as the building around it was new. Its four legs were sculpted into a paw of a tiger, a turtle’s leg, the talon of a phoenix, and a dragon’s claw. The rim, carved with ocean waves and fish tails, was inscribed with the crests of old clans from before the Civil War — even the Taira’s butterfly was there — indicating the object’s age.

What stood on top was even stranger: suspended in a large bowl of gold and silver, which levitated over the stand thanks to some old spell, was an orb of milky glass. Inside it swirled mists and fumes, grey, white, and black, like a miniature sea storm. She stepped closer, careful not to spill the oil out of her lamp — the tiniest stain on the floor would betray her presence here. By the flickering light, she peered inside the orb.

There was a shape inside the whirlpool of vapours — a map of all of Yamato. It wasn’t drawn on paper or carved into metal, but was a detailed, three-dimensional sculpture of the country, with grey mountains, green forests, and patches of drab browns and yellow where the rice paddies ached for autumn rains. The islands floated on water, which was the deep blue colour of the open ocean, rather than transparent. The more she looked into the orb, the more she was certain that no human hand or tool had been involved in creating this map. The entire orb reeked of magic.

This must be some spying device,
she concluded,
or a tool for planning wars. Is this what Iesada is doing at nights?

She focused on the golden stand. The legs were covered in age-old dust, meaning that no cleaners were allowed to touch it — or even see it, she bet. Even the part of the wooden floor upon which it stood was dusty and grimy with decades of candle wax and lamp oil.

This thing has never been moved.

Intrigued, she turned to the walls. These were old, too, blackened with soot, painted with scenes from all eight corners of Yamato in the style of ancient masters. At last, her education in art proved useful — the paintings were at least eight hundred years old. Only the wall with the door was new, replacing rotten boards.

This place is older than the whole castle. Older than Edo.

The new warehouses must have been built
around
this, she realized, to conceal it from view. To hide it from … her?

No, the wood is not that fresh
—
and it would take several months to commission its construction.

Hotta. The Chief Councillor had risen to power the previous year; enough time to build a whole new building in the abandoned part of the palace gardens.

Why would they start using it only now? Is it because of the war?

She reached her hand to the orb’s surface. She felt a cushion of electricity between her skin and the glass. The mists swirled to her hand. She pressed both her palms to the orb. It lit up bright and vibrated under her touch.

A gust of wind, birthed in the golden bowl, enveloped her body, tearing at her hair and clothes. The whirlwind filled the octagonal room with its howling. It sounded almost human, like a wailing of tormented souls. The orb grew and engulfed her within it.

She hovered over the map of Yamato. The islands were surrounded by a band of black clouds, spinning around it in a mad dance, the wailing louder and more distinct. She was now certain she heard voices in it.

Curious of what the map could do, she focused on her hometown, Kagoshima. The view zoomed towards Chinzei. It was blurry on the edges, but in the middle she saw clearly the harbour, the ever-fuming volcano, and the tiny dots of the warships ready to sail.

It looks so real!

The centre of the city was a smouldering black pit. This frightened her. She swiped north, past the mountains of Kirishima, past the great Aso-san caldera, all the way to the Dan-no-ura Straits. She stopped over another burnt-out shell of a city.

This is Mori clan’s domain. Chōfu. Is Iesada planning to burn the rebel cities down one by one with the help of the barbarians?

As she stared at the destruction, a tiny black cross passed between her and the surface of the earth. She flinched in fright. The cross vanished as it dived towards the harbour.

That … that was a
dorako
.
Then it dawned on her.
This isn’t a map. This is reality. I’m seeing all of Yamato as Gods would see it. So it
is
a spying device — a most powerful spying device!

She focused on zooming the map back onto Edo, wondering if she could see herself in the palace. This exercise made her dizzy and nauseous. Controlling the orb was proving a great strain on her mind. She tried again. With great effort, the view shifted over the eastern sea, almost touching the edge of the band of storms. Impatiently, she tried to brush the clouds aside with a phantom hand. To her surprise, the storm
moved
in a great swirl, away from her fingers, revealing the clear surface of the ocean.

She had no time to guess what it may have meant. She heard faint steps and then felt herself grabbed by her shoulders and pulled away from the orb.

“Mi … Mineko …”

She looked at her own hands, pale and shaking.

“My lady,” the servant girl said with urgency, “forgive me, but His Highness is coming. We must leave.”

“Already?” Atsuko frowned. “It was supposed to be a couple of hours.”

“But it
was
hours,
hime
! It’s almost night outside.”

“But — I was here no longer than a few minutes! I don’t understand …”

“Please, my lady,” the servant girl bowed, “there’s no time. Please, follow me, I found a side exit from the silk store room.”

Li dimmed the elemental lamp at his desk and pushed the papers away.

The report of the siege of Kurume was ready to be sent to Kiyō and, from there, to Qin’s Imperial Capital via the spirit writing.

Not that there was much to report. Li agreed with the Dracalish Commodore: the real battle was still ahead of them; this had been just a skirmish, a test of strength. The
Taikun
was willing to give the rebels an illusion of control over most of Chinzei, while he concentrated his forces — and dragons — in the north, in the territory he and his
daimyos
held fast.

He lit the Cursed Weed pipe and drew a long, strong puff. He looked out the window at the sleeping castle town below. Unlike the Dracalish, Li was still uncertain which side he — and, by extension, his country — should take in the conflict. The responses he received from the mainland were vague and non-committal. The trade through the Kiyō outpost had always been decent — and Qin never desired any more of Yamato’s riches, so there was no reason to want to change the status quo. The Qin Emperor was still too concerned with his own rebellion to worry about what was happening on some remote island.

This, Li believed, was short-sighted. The time for isolation was long past. Qin — already overrun by the Westerners and their industrialized armies — needed to take a more active role in the affairs of its neighbours.

Starting with Yamato.

He was trying to convey this sense of urgency in his reports. The speed with which both the rebels and the
Taikun
modernized their forces reminded him of the triumphal march of the Ever Victorious Army — but with far less reliance on the Western help. Here, the three Dracalish officers served merely as advisors. The Faer had trained a small detachment of Satsuma warriors in Lord Shimazu’s bodyguard but, unlike in Huating, they had not formed a nucleus of an entire foreign-style division. Rather, it was up to the self-trained natives — the wizards of Kiyō and the magic students of Kagoshima — to lead the charge on Kurume Castle.

It didn’t escape Li’s attention that it was
Taikun’s
own force, armed with thunder guns and formed into squares and wedges according to the latest Western practices, that purported to defend the keep until the rebels overran the ramparts and forced its surrender.

Li was no Scryer or soothsayer, but he could foretell the future based on his experience and intuition, and it looked grim for Qin and its embattled Imperial Court. So he sent letter after letter, each more desperate than the previous, and with each vague, officious response, his frustration grew.

A cool breeze wafted through the guesthouse room window, disturbing the flame of the lamp. He adjusted the elemental’s strength and closed the shutters. The cold remained, hanging in the air, freezing the tips of his moustache.

“Have you come to threaten me again?” he asked the creature standing by the door.

“It was
you
who wanted to see me,” replied the Fanged.

Li put away the pipe. “You spoke to the boy, then?”

“I didn’t have to. Like you, I have my ways of knowing what I need to know.”

“Then,
ah
, you know what I wanted to ask of you.”

“Such knowledge destroyed greater men than you.”

Li paused before replying.

“The need of my country is greater than that of any one man. The Black Lotus must be destroyed at any cost.”

“I agree.”

“You’re willing to trade it, then?”

Dōraku spread his arms. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“What do you need?”

“Same thing as last time. A ride.”

“That’s all?” Li wiped his brow. The sweat was freezing on his forehead. “Why not just force it out of me?”

The Fanged scowled. “That’s not how I
usually
do things. We’re going to spend a good few days together. I’d rather we trusted each other, than feared.”

“
Trust?
” Li snorted, against himself. “Yes, I suppose so. After all, what good is a trade without a little honesty. Still,” he said, playing with the pen over a blank piece of paper, “trust an Abomination — it will take some getting used to.”

The Fanged reached into the sleeve of his colourful robe.

“Perhaps this will serve as a token of good will.” He threw something at Li: a grapefruit-sized ball of tightly packed brown powder, wrapped in pale-pink petals.

The interpreter caught it, put it to his nose and breathed in. He licked his lips. “Where did you …?”

“Does it matter? It’s fresh, and as pure as it gets. I hope that’s enough to convince you I mean business.”

“For that much Cursed Weed I’d fly you to Qin and back,” said Li. He put the ball into the desk drawer. His hands still trembled.

“That won’t be necessary,” the Fanged replied. “First, I’d just like you to take me to Tosa.”