Wolf's-own: Koan Read online

  Samin's mouth thinned down. It was quite possible that the advice was good, but this man had no idea what a Jin's life was like in Ada. It wasn't his right to chastise Morin for bearing scars and keeping his—in Samin's opinion—healthy suspicions because of them.

  "The oppression is not so long past,” Samin put in, warning. “The boy's got a right.” Before the young man could sputter a reply, Samin jerked his chin at the table. “Do these come with the spells to use them, or is that extra?” Because that was how these hawkers worked: the product was usually cheap, but the key to using it dear.

  "Not spells,” the man corrected, gathering his dignity about him like a cloak. “Prayers.” He stepped behind the table, dismissed Samin, and shifted his attention to Morin. “You will find many things the same here,” he said, “but also many things different. We do not command our magic with spells; we ask of it. We ask the gods to bless us in its use. Only Temshiel and maijin have the right of control. We merely pray for the blessing of favor.” He picked up an amulet made of ruby that sparked like blood when he held it up to the light. “Merely focus,” he said. “An orison from my hand to yours. You will find no one of the Craft who will promise an answer to all of your prayers—only that the gods will hear them."

  An abrupt upswell of music blatted from a small stage set up across the busy street, nestled between a cut-rate fish market that smelled cut-rate, and a candle shop that was apparently trying to overpower the nasty fish smell with nasty perfumed wax. Morin immediately lost interest in the vendor and turned his eyes across the street, wonder and pleasure blossoming over his expression as a puppet show began.

  Samin only sighed as Morin bolted away, the young man and his booth and his fish forgotten completely. With a polite nod to the young man and a snatch at Shig's arm, Samin followed after Morin. Shig looked like she was going to dip into sullen, but then her gaze caught the show, as well, and she smiled before running to catch up and take a place in the watching crowd beside Morin as the puppets began their larking.

  Samin ambled leisurely up to the outskirts of the audience, watching Morin and Shig almost as much as he watched the show, taking in their expressions and smiling over them like a proud father, and he didn't even let that thought embarrass him. A man could do worse than this brood.

  A tug at his sleeve pulled his gaze down and to the right, to see the young man from the booth giving him that serene, knowing smile over his spectacles as he pushed something chill and smooth into Samin's hands. “For the boy,” the man said.

  Samin looked down, eyebrows shooting upward, and confusion pushing aside the pleasure of a moment ago. He was holding a fishbowl. A fucking fishbowl. A full fucking fishbowl. With a fish flopping around in it. What the hell?

  "The lad needs no luck or protection,” the man went on. “Wolf has already marked him. No small thing, that.” He set his hands around Samin's and forced a firmer grip on the bowl, paused as laughter at the puppets’ antics swelled and drowned out whatever he was going to say, then continued, “The obvious is almost always a mask.” He paused again as music started up, then patted Samin's hands and released them. “If there is equilibrium to be found, it will be the Kurimo that finds it."

  He was making absolutely no sense, and yet so serious, so sure, like a bloody fish in a fishbowl could explain the secrets of the universe. Samin sighed. A nutter, of course. Samin should have known from the way Shig had taken to the bizarre little man.

  "Uh,” said Samin, and he tried to push the bowl back, “I don't think—"

  But the man only wheezed his weird little chuckle and shook his head. “A gift, seyh, a gift. To refuse on the cusp of the New Year...."

  Was dishonor and insult and bad luck besides, right, terrific. Samin made himself tip his head in a shallow bow, and kept back the growl. “As you wish, seyh. Blessings on you for your generosity, and luck in the New Year."

  The man merely bobbed his head and chuckled some more as he retreated back to his booth, pushing the spectacles up the bridge of his nose again.

  Samin did not throw him down on the ground and start kicking his head in.

  * * * *

  "It's our birthday soon.” Joori tried to put buoyancy into his tone, but the statement still came out hesitant, too forced. He took a step away from the doorway, trying to gauge his brother's mood. You just never knew with Jacin anymore. “Malick says they have fireworks at midnight on the Turn here. And there's a bloody-great festival. He said we'd all go."

  Jacin just kept staring out the window, slumped on the bed he shared with Malick, slats of shadow from the crisscross pattern of the muntins on the windowpane bisecting the too-sharp planes of his face. There wasn't even anything to see—just the weathered boards of the pier on which the inn sat, the water, and the suns in the sky—but Jacin watched some kind of inner landscape anyway, so it didn't seem to matter. Joori tried not to sigh, tried to just accept it and pretend at patience. Sometimes Jacin was just like this.

  It had been almost three months now since that horrible day and night. A whole new world had been opened to them, and then at least some of it presented in more tangible ways—a new land, new people, new lives. The grief and shock weren't quite as fresh. The scars were beginning to cover over all the past hurts for Joori. Still there but not so sharp, not so sensitive to the accidental touch anymore.

  Jacin's hurts didn't seem to be scarring over, or even scabbing. Jacin still seemed... raw.

  He wore a braid now. Only a small one, plaited neatly back from his left temple. Joori kept wanting to ask him why, but he was afraid of the answer he might get, so he didn't. He never offered to braid it for him, either.

  "They keep the traditions of the shrines here, Jacin, did you know that?” Joori didn't wait for an answer, because he knew he wouldn't get one. “Tougei's right across the bay, where it's said the Temshiel got the marble to build them. There's a temple in the city's center for each god, and then a whole great shrine for the ashes of—"

  He stopped himself. He probably didn't need to be going on about the dead right now.

  "Malick asked Morin yesterday if he'd want to go see Tougei. He said there are ferries just for people to go across and explore, but no one's allowed to actually live there but the priests. Sacred, and all."

  Joori might not have even been there, for all the reaction he got. Jacin just kept staring, that blank-empty thing that made the hairs at Joori's nape prickle and his stomach curl just a little. Joori looked down at his hand, at the scar across his palm that matched the one across Jacin's.

  "Please,” Joori whispered as he crouched down by Jacin's hip and set a hand to his knee. “Come back, Jacin. I want my brother back."

  Not a word, not a twitch, but Jacin's eyes slid shut, a suspicious glimmer catching the light at his lashes. It was abruptly difficult for Joori to swallow.

  It had seemed like Jacin had turned some kind of corner on the voyage here, come to a somewhat tranquil equilibrium, or at least calm acceptance. He'd still had his bleak days, but the lighter ones had outnumbered them, and Joori had hoped. And then they'd reached Mitsu, Tambalon's teeming capital, and the nightmares had hit and Jacin's “ghosts” had come back, his mind rebelling against contentment with vicious force, punishing him for things over which he'd never believe he didn't merit punishment. Now the days Joori was coming to think of as Jacin's Good Days were like heartbreaking teases, reminders of possibility that seemed to drift further and further from realistic hopes for the future with every spate of Jacin's Dark Days that stretched too long between them.

  Joori dragged in a long breath, followed the blank gaze out the window, and moved his hand to Jacin's shoulder. Jacin didn't flinch away, but that might have just been because he didn't even know Joori was there, so Joori didn't let it bolster the agony of hope. “It'll be all right, Jacin."

  Joori said that a lot. He couldn't think of anything better to say.

  * * * *

  This, Dakimo thought with a tight set to his mou
th, was going to be interesting. Entertaining, perhaps. Irritating, most probably. But definitely interesting.

  He cleared his throat politely, waiting until Emika lifted her frown from the scrolls and missives littering her table, and tilted a slight bow. “Madame Governor. Kamen awaits you in the receiving room."

  "Kamen?” Emika lifted her eyebrows. “The summons was for Kamen and his....” She paused, glanced down at something on the table and then back up to Dakimo. “He has come alone?"

  Not only come alone, but nearly spitting and snarling about it too. He hadn't been happy that Dakimo chose not to disclose how he'd managed to find them. Even less happy when Dakimo had dryly inquired if perhaps Kamen shouldn't be a bit more circumspect about throwing his power around inside the Statehouse itself. Of course, it had been rather strained and lost some of its acerbity, what with Dakimo pinned to the peak of the vaulted ceiling as he'd been. But still. As if Dakimo didn't have his own tricks and contacts. As if he didn't have too many years on Kamen that he would be so put off by a little Null magic. And Kamen had let him down eventually.

  "He has, Madame,” was all Dakimo said.

  Emika scowled. “And should I take this to mean that he is everything I've been led to believe he would be?"

  Insubordinate? Arrogant? Disrespectful, rebellious and uncooperative? If Dakimo's past experiences with Kamen were any indication—"I'm afraid so, Madame."

  "Brilliant."

  Emika shut her eyes, running a hand through silver-shot mahogany before pausing to rub at her temples. Dakimo traced the scrolling patterns of the henna wards on the backs of her fine-boned hands as she did so, noting their depth and detail, checking his work. Just a touch faded, but these were precarious times. He'd have to be sure to clear her schedule for a few hours to renew the spells before the week was out.

  He usually tried very hard not to get attached to mortals. But he liked this one very much. Perhaps even loved her a little. As Wolf's emissary here in Tambalon's capital, Dakimo had worked with Emika since her installation as governor, and more closely, once Wolf entered his Cycle. Beautiful, in the way of mortals, with a brilliant mind and a sincere desire to do well by her people and her office. She would make a fine Temshiel, should Wolf ever decide he had a use for her. Perhaps Dakimo would test those waters before it became too late, before that silver in Emika's artfully arranged dark hair turned to brittle white, and the fine lines at her mouth melted into folds and furrows. She certainly had the sort of heart Wolf sought.

  "Fine,” Emika muttered. “Fine, damn it. What's one more arrogant immortal in a city full of them?” She peered up with a wry twist of her lips at Dakimo's delicate cough and subsequent smirk. “Present company excepted, of course."

  "Of course."

  They shared a small grin before Emika slumped back on her cushions. “He'll be able to help."

  Spoken evenly, a statement, but Dakimo had known Emika for quite a long while, and had no trouble recognizing the underlying plea. He sighed. “Madame, he is our best hope."

  It would have been better, though, if Kamen had brought the Incendiary, as he'd been ordered to do. Dangerous though they were, the Incendiary's arrival in Mitsu two weeks ago had sent futures-possible into a murky state of flux that Dakimo had seen only once before, and it would be wise to gauge intentions and opportunities before moving ahead with any of the myriad proposals and risks now before them. What he'd heard of the Incendiary's state of mind did not fill him with confidence, and he would have preferred to see the man for himself.

  Incendiary were dangerous enough, but this particular Incendiary.... Dakimo could only trust in his god, he supposed. He'd been entrusted with the knowledge of what this Incendiary was—who this Incendiary was—and whether or not Kamen was informed was up to Dakimo's discretion. Today was to have been a test of the Incendiary, more than of Kamen, but the way things were working out... well. So far, Dakimo wasn't finding himself tempted to relay the information. Powerful though he was, Kamen was not known for his even temperament and careful consideration.

  "Kamen is the only Null in existence,” Dakimo went on, “and he is in his own Cycle. If he cannot root out the banpair and put an end to them....” He trailed off then shrugged.

  "Right,” said Emika. She stood. “Let us meet this Null, then."

  * * * *

  "I was busy,” Malick snapped, heedless of his insolent tone. It was annoying enough to be summoned—by a bloody mortal governor—but to be summoned now was just... infuriating. And considering Fen's state since they'd arrived here, possibly unwise. “In case you hadn't heard, things got a little messy for a while there, and I was a bit occupied with trying to follow my own orders. I don't appreciate the implication that I'm responsible for you letting your problems get out of control."

  Dakimo merely lifted an eyebrow, at which Malick's teeth set a bit too tightly, but Emika held up a hand, placating. “Tambalon's problems are the problems of all Temshiel and maijin, and of the gods. As Dakimo said, we have been asking for Wolf's blessing since his Cycle began. You are, perhaps, late in bringing it, but Tambalon is grateful for your presence now."

  Malick almost snorted. He was pretty sure he'd just been very diplomatically spanked. He wished he knew how to diplomatically pummel.

  "Kamen,” Emika sighed, “we need help. Dakimo has been keeping a very close watch on the potential outcomes to what's happening, and every day the possibilities grow more worrying. Their numbers are growing, and so is the roster of the missing. And now the dead. What's worse, no Temshiel or maijin has thus far been able to find either the banpair themselves, or the spirits of the missing. Or those of the dead.” Her mouth twisted in mild revulsion.

  Malick narrowed his eyes and stood a little straighter from his deliberately impudent slouch against the wall. “Are you telling me that these banpair are somehow managing to steal the souls of the victims too?” He hadn't heard that one before.

  "We can't tell,” Dakimo put in. He shrugged when Malick gave him a glare. “No one can speak to the spirits as well as Goyo of Snake. He has worked doggedly with the Patrol for months, and yet he must have a direction to look to locate just one of the countless souls that walk the world. We have yet to find that direction."

  "And how long has that been going on?” Malick had only been told there were banpair operating in some kind of coven and managing to hide themselves from even the eyes of the gods—he hadn't been told they were stealing souls, as well. And considering what Yakuli had been able to do, kidnapping countless Jin and using their own magic against them to imprison their spirits, this was a lot more alarming than Malick had thought. It was a damned good thing he hadn't brought Fen.

  "Possibly since the beginning,” Dakimo put in. He opened a hand when Malick scowled at him in disbelief. “We have had dozens of disappearances over the past several—"

  "Four hundred and three,” Emika interjected. Her hazel glance moved from Dakimo over to Malick. “That we know of. We can't be sure exactly when they began, nor can we know which were victims of these banpair, and which met other fates. Nor do we know if that count is optimistic. Mitsu is a large city, and our ports are swarming at even the thinnest of times. People come and go."

  "Of those discovered dead,” Dakimo went on, “we believe more than half of them were victims of these creatures.” He paused and fixed his dark-blue gaze on Malick. “The method has become quite obvious. We believe they keep their victims alive for as long as possible, to prolong the torture and enhance the... taste.” He looked like he wanted to hit something.

  "And you looked—"

  "I assure you, every Temshiel and maijin with a talent for employing the spirits has looked within their realm. Goyo, as I said, is the best there is, but even he has been stymied. Those who have been lost remain so."

  And not even the gods could find them. This was... really bad. And not at all what Malick had been expecting.

  "Tell him all of it, Dakimo.” The tone was almost gentle, but the lo
ok in Emika's eyes was limned in steel.

  Dakimo met it for a moment, but not with challenge; more like resignation. “I had no intention of withholding any of it,” he answered her, then he turned to Malick. “Of all the banpair now roaming the world, only twelve are unaccounted for. The oldest. Maijin turned to The Six before The One was thrown down."

  Meaning the last remaining maijin from when the world was still called Daichi, and before the moons had come.

  Malick frowned. There should be some kind of conjecture to go along with the way his stomach had just plunged, but there was nothing there, just the knowledge that this was a lot bigger than he'd been led to believe. Than anyone but a very small circle of those involved had been led to believe.

  "And what do you suppose this all means?” he asked slowly.

  Dakimo's teeth clenched. “We don't know."

  "You don't suppose....” Malick hated to even think it, but this was old magic they were talking about. “I imagine you've thought to speak to Rihansei?"

  "Well, of course.” It was too obvious that Dakimo was holding on to his temper with both hands. “He has been as helpful as he possibly can be, and as cooperative as always. More so. He says he knows even less than we do, and I believe him."

  Yes, but the magic of the gods didn't work on Rihansei, so there was no way to know. Rihansei had only ever given away exactly as much as he had to and no more. He held the Gate between the old world and the new, and so enjoyed a sort of cooperative status with the gods’ servants here in Mitsu; but he was a practitioner of the old magic, powerful in his own right, and as manipulative as any Temshiel. Malick trusted him as far as it went, but Malick trusted very little he couldn't get his hands on and squeeze for truth. And Rihansei and his monks had made it a mission to coax initiates away from the temples since... well, since forever, as far as Malick knew.

  "All right,” Malick said, thinking. “I'll have a look myself and see if I can find anything that doesn't feel right.” He noted Dakimo's mouth flatten down and almost snorted, but he kept it back. “Not the spirits. I'll leave that to Goyo and those who can be bothered to do it ‘properly'. I was talking about actually going out and looking—you know, with my eyes. Like people do. Hunting."