On his first contract, Tzu-lung was hired to kill a famous swordsman.  Tzu-lung revered him.  General Wen had proven his greatness twenty years ago fighting the Tung Ma, a triad society.  He now lived in disgrace three day's trek from Chang An.  Tzu-lung didn't know why.  The pig-men of nobility wanted him dead.  Someone was going to kill him.  This way, Tzu-lung could meet his hero, and ensure Wen died with honor.

Tzu-lung passed the colorful fruits of the market stalls, ignoring the salesmen's shouts and the guards who flanked the gate, halberds glinting in the sun.

Yellow River extended east, wide enough it might have been an ocean.  He followed it through sopping rice fields, passed old mountains, weathered to look like musician's fingers, long and curved.  He avoided the villages, living off smoked meat in his pack, sleeping under trees and beside rocks.  When he reached General Wen's home, it rained.

It rained like Yellow River had been turned upside down.  The water seemed to freeze on his scalp.  The home was a shack of wood planks and thatch.  It rested beside a low cliff, surrounded by trees with leaves in flat clusters like wisps of cloud.  Water bounced off the wood, creating a white, hazy aura.  Yellow River lapped a mud bank nearby.  Tzu-lung planned to keep the fight near the trees.  Mud made footwork unpredictable.

No answer at the door.  Tzu-lung pushed it open.  Rain drummed the ceiling, leaked into a cooking pot and chimed like a bell.  Bookshelves overflowed along every wall.  On the table was a teapot painted with a phoenix, and half-wedged underneath it, a letter addressed to the Tung Ma.  There were two cups.  Tzu-lung drew his sword.

Outside, General Wen stood in the mud, sword in hand.  Rain bounced off his wide bamboo hat.  Time had been cruel.  In portraits he was tall, muscular, his black hair like a stallion's mane.  Gray hair wisped about his wrinkled face.  Time had stolen his thick muscles.  But he stood tall.

"What's your name, son?" he called.

Tzu-lung shook his head.  I can't.

Wen sneered.  "So you are Tung Ma.  You have no honor."

I can't! Tzu-lung pulled his own letter from his sash and threw it.  Wen stooped carefully to pull it from the mud.  He held it under his bamboo hat and read.

"You're mute," he said.  The letter addressed him as hero, and asked why he was disgraced.  Wen laughed.  Tzu-lung looked down in embarrassment.  Wen said, "Sometimes, son, you have to choose between honor and acclaim."

Tzu-lung had hoped for more.

"It is not time for words."

Tzu-lung beckoned Wen.

Wen laughed.  "I'm afraid not, son.  Mud makes skill count for more than strength."

Tzu-lung put his fist in his palm and held them before his heart.  Wen threw Tzu-lung's letter into the muck, followed suit with fist and palm, and they bowed.  Tzu-lung approached cautiously the mud sucking at his boots.

Wen's sword leapt for the heart.  Tzu-lung knocked the blade aside and swiped for the throat.  The blades were two serpent tongues vying for supremacy like a bad kiss.

Wen's skill was supreme.  Tzu-lung was faster, stronger, but Wen's sword was wily, and always too close.  He deserved to win.  Tzu-lung leapt back.  One boot caught, the other slipped.  He cut Wen's leg on the way down.  Wen cried out, fell to one knee, stabbed and missed.  Tzu-lung slashed Wen's throat.

Wen's face sagged, eyes widened so he appeared almost sad.  His arms went limp and his sword fell, and he fell sideways into the mud.  Tzu-lung flipped him onto his back and pulled him onto hard earth.  He bowed deeply.

They would have killed you anyway. He wished he could speak.  I'm sorry.

Inside, the teapot was still warm.  Tzu-lung sat, closed his eyes.  Had he killed Wen without honor?  It was a lucky shot, catching Wen's leg when he fell.  Wen deserved to win.  More than that, he deserved not to be hassled by an idiot like me, Tzu-lung thought, who can't do anything of value.  Wen deserved to die in peace.

Tzu-lung pulled Wen's letter from under the teapot:  Dear Puppet of the Tung Ma, hopefully unaware.  I fought for honor. Not acclaim, not money.  Thank you for letting me die a warrior.

Tzu-lung poured tea, first in the cup across from him, then his own.  He raised the glass in formal toast, sipped, and wept.

He always cried when he killed.  Every death he'd wrought as a soldier, he'd forced himself to remember each man's face, and he'd wept.  But this was different.  He'd taken the legacy of a great man.  The Tung Ma had beaten General Wen in the end.

The magistrate sat with one leg folded over the other.  The head of the gold-embroidered dragon hid behind a crease in his blue robe.  He was scrawny, the kind of man who couldn't do his own dirty work.  The tall wooden hat of his office seemed almost to crush his toothpick neck.

"You did well," the magistrate said, and sneered.  "Wen won't bother us again."  He laughed.  Tzu-lung fought the urge to bash the magistrate's face in with his own hat.

On these rare occasions Tzu-lung saw the advantage of being mute.

General Wen never fought for money, he thought, careful not to gesture.  And there was no honor in killing him.  And you are a cockroach.  I guess that makes me the mandibles.

The magistrate threw a sack of gold at Tzu-lung's feet.  He didn't even blink.  Was that what Wen's life was worth?

"You did us a great service."

And who is "us"?  Bastard Tung Ma.

"There is more work available."

Tzu-lung shook his head.  I'm through being the mandibles on a cockroach. He picked up the money bag and left.  He hurried.  Failure to bow to a magistrate was a major offense.  The bag was heavy.  There was enough gold to buy a house.

I'm glad I robbed the Tung Ma.

A beggar sat slumped in the road, long black hair matted on his filthy face.  Sometimes you have to choose between honor and acclaim, Wen had said.  What about honor and money?  Tzu-lung threw the money at the beggar's feet and dashed down an alleyway.

In his rented room, a note rested on the table.  Tzu-lung glanced at it:  an invitation from the Tung Ma.  He packed quickly, throwing bundles of clothes into his sack.

He kept his head down and walked with the crowd over yellow brick streets and red-railed bridges.  The sun was hot and Chang An smelled of dried bricks.  He walked for an hour, found another lodging house and booked a new room.  He lay on the bed, thinking of General Wen, and the money he gave up.  Enough to buy a house, to never sell his sword again.  But how could he keep the money?  What kind of dullard was he that he had to kill to live?

He lay until time became liquid:  moments and thoughts slipping into each other.  He wasn't sure if he slept, but when he looked up the sky was dim grey through the window.

Downstairs, the tea-house was quiet.  A short, pretty girl in an apron approached him and smiled.

"Would sir like a table?"

Thank you.

She led him to an empty booth, said, "I will bring the menu," and departed.  He felt sheltered, surrounded by dark wooden lattice that reached almost to the ceiling.  It was carved ornately to resemble flora.  The table was also dark.  Tzu-lung slumped into the cushioned bench, rested his head against the lattice.

Two men approached.  One was bald, thickset.  The other was swarthy, with a long, scholar's braid and goatee.

The bald one smiled, said, "May we join you?"

No.  Sorry.

"Forgive my friend's manners," said the swarthy one.  His voice was a rumble.  "My name is Fan.  His is Chou."

Tzu-lung waved his hands across his chest.  I don't want company.

"We have a proposition," Chou said.  "Just hear us out.  If the answer is no we'll leave."

"We aren't with any society," Fan said.  He gestured at the seat opposite.  "I beg you."

Tzu-lung gave in.

"You're mute, correct?" Fan said.

Yes.

"We heard there was a mute swordsman here.  We followed you from the last lodging."

Chou added, "I hear you were quite the soldier."

I never liked the work, Tzu-lung thought, but made no gesture.  He watched the men, growing impatient and letting it show.

"We know you need money," Fan said.  "We have a job for you.  There's an abandoned copper mine, far from Chung Kuo.  Probably you won't have to lift a finger, but we'll give you a cut for protection."

Chou said, "Wealth is a boat ride away."

The serving girl returned.  She smiled at each man in turn.

"Can I get you anything?"  Chou's eyes lingered on her.

Tzu-lung looked at the menu.  Expensive.  He couldn't live like this forever.  He pulled a pen out of his pocket, wrote I won't have to kill? and passed the note to Fan.

Fan shook his head.  Tzu-lung sighed, nodded.  Fan smiled wryly.  Chou grinned.  Fan held up three fingers.

"Three special blend," he said.  "We have much to celebrate."

From the ship's prow, Tzu-lung watched the island approach.  Jungle rose over the beach, and black mountains jutted from the jungle like monoliths.  It's a funny thing about being a hired sword, Tzu-lung thought, that you hope your employer wasted his money.

He gripped the rail.  His stomach lurched.  Each tidal pull left his gut behind, and it rushed to catch up.

"It'll be your world soon enough," Chou said, pointing one thick hand at the beach.  Fan laughed wickedly, gripping his goatee.  Tzu-lung smirked.  He forced his mind from the sickening motion of the ship.

Sunlight glimmered off the rippling blue.  The ocean stretched in every direction around the island, placid on the far horizon where the sea joined the sky, pale blue against crystalline.  All was silent save the gentle rush of the tide, and it pulled the vessel closer with each foamy breath.

They jolted to a halt against the sand.  Tzu-lung slid down the rope ladder, splashing in the shallow brine.  He waded to the beach.  His head spun.  He pressed it into the sand, as though the soft stillness could absorb the vertigo.  Chou and Fan laughed and mocked him.  They sounded far away.  Finally Tzu-lung rolled onto his back and smiled at the hot sun.

"We'll need food and fire," Fan said.  "Tzu-lung, you can stay.  Find your legs."

Chou gave a single bark of laughter.  He said, "Just don't sleep with the sun and spray on your face.  Burn you like kindling.  Seductive mistake."

Their boots thudded in the sand.  Their voices diminished.  Tzu-lung wiped the spray from his face with his sleeve.  The sun's rays felt heavy.

He found himself in a cavern.  A dream.  He rarely knew when he dreamed.  It felt surreal, like an opium haze.  Mists played around his feet.  Jagged rocks faintly peaked from the darkness.  Ahead, a faint glow.  Tzu-lung felt along the walls.  The rocks were sharp as swords.

A man, palm tree tall and white as bone, stood within a vast hollow.  The details of his face slipped from memory, visible but elusive as eels.  He clutched a staff like a thin tree.  An orb upon it emitted pale blue light, like the sky at noon.  He raised one long arm, pointed a thin, white finger.

His voice was as elusive as his face.

"Your greatest enemy lies within."

Tzu-lung woke to starlight.  A campfire crackled and spat.  His face felt like he was being roasted.  He pulled away onto cool sand.  It didn't help his face.  Chou snored, a large bundle beside the fire.  Fan sat with his head between his knees.  His head lifted and he looked at Tzu-lung.  He tossed Tzu-lung a small brown bottle.

"Ching Wan Hung.  For your sunburn," Fan said.  Tzu-lung applied the cool, sweet smelling ointment.  Fan gazed into the fire.  His eyes were troubled.

Tzu-lung gestured as well as he could, What's bothering you?

"Chou likes this stuff," he said.  "I want to get it over with."

Tzu-lung couldn't sleep either.  When he closed his eyes, he saw the tall albino.  He sat up, crossed his legs.  He pulled his sword into his lap and rubbed the blade with duck grease, the savory smell making him hungry.

Chou led them through the jungle.  Tzu-lung listened for danger.  There was only the rare cry or flutter of a bird, and the steady rustle of movement as the three slipped under fern leaves and around moss covered trees.

A wooden shack clung to the obsidian black cliff-side.  Tzu-lung pulled his sword an inch from its sheath.

"You first, warrior," Fan said.  Tzu-lung nodded, but Chou didn't wait.

Splintered wood lay upon the shack's floor.  Tattered rags clung to rotten chairs by a table.  There was a bookcase, rank with decay, and a vast cellar door, half rotten to reveal darkness.  It must have been an office.  Tzu-lung imagined the sticky heat, the smell of ink that wouldn't dry mingled with body odor.

"The story goes," Fan said, "that some pirates raided the mine, killed everyone.  They wanted the copper, found something better.  Rumor has it they killed each other, too."

Signs of struggle but no bodies, Tzu-lung thought.

Fan pulled a lantern out of his pack while Chou opened the cellar door.  "Let Tzu-lung do his job, Chou."

"I hired him for a second good sword-arm, not because mine's limp."  Chou smiled.  "Come along."

Tzu-lung shrugged and followed Chou into the cool darkness.  The cavern walls were glossy black, like the outside.  Stalactite's stabbed from the roof like obsidian lances.  Dilapidated carts lay smashed along the walls.  Fan held a map to the lantern.  He directed Chou.  His low mumbling echoed like a chant.  Tzu-lung followed, listening, watching the shadows.

They reached a broken door with a circle drawn in red.  Tzu-lung recognized the flaked, scab color of dried blood.  The door's hinges wailed like a banshee.  In the cavern beyond, mist clung to the floor, stalagmites jutting from it like mountains from the clouds, exactly like Tzu-lung's dream.

"Must be an underground river," Fan said.

Tzu-lung tapped Fan's map.

Was it on the map?

Silence dragged.  The rare splash of their footsteps echoed loudly.

Another splash in the distance.  Tzu-lung stopped.  He tapped his foot for attention.  Listen.

"Just a dripping stalactite," Fan said.

Tzu-lung hushed him.  The drip was rhythmic but unsteady.  Ra-tata-ta-ta.

That doesn't sound like water.

Chou said, "It's just a trick of the echo.  Let's keep moving.  Best to do these things quickly."

Tzu-lung followed.  They were probably right.  The drip echoed louder.  Something glowed ahead:  pale beads of light on a distant wall.  They reached a vast space.  The glowing beads surrounded them:  a thousand tiny moons, hung in empty darkness.  Chou ran across a crude bridge that crossed a chasm.  Misty darkness lay below.

"I knew there was treasure here!" Chou said.  The echo hurt Tzu-lung's ears.

Tzu-lung forced a smile.  So long as I get out alive. The drip resounded from the walls.  It was like slapping.  Ra-tata-ta-ta! Like hands slapping bare flesh.

"Come on!" Chou said.  "The path will lead to one of the walls, and we can start getting rich."  He laughed.  "What do you say?"

Do diamonds glow?

Chou led them over the cavern, the slap growing louder.  Again Fan said that it was dripping water.  He sounded nervous.  The path seemed to go on forever, dimly gleaming tracks winding over dark rock.  The tiny moons seemed no closer, the cavern's end still lost to darkness.

They disappeared, like a hundred eyes blinked shut.  Even Chou stopped.  Tzu-lung pulled his sword free, the sound like a rasped breath.  Chou and Fan did likewise.

"A passing mist?" Fan said.

Tzu-lung stamped his foot for silence.

There was no sound save for the slapping.  It seemed to grow louder as Tzu-lung focused.  Did it quicken pace?

It stopped.  Tzu-lung shifted his sword to hold it with both hands.

Tiny moons erupted from the dark, and they moved.  They encircled like a swarm of fireflies.  Tzu-lung placed his hand on Fan's lamp.  Fan was frozen.  Tzu-lung forced the lamp from his grasp and lay it on the ground.

The moons reached the ambit of light, and became eyes; wide, fang-toothed grimaces; squat figures, pallid skin; pudgy bellies and thick arms; crude weaponry:  splintered wood and pick-axe heads.  Shrill cries erupted from twisted mouths.

Chou hacked the head from one as it drew close.  Blood sprayed their pallid flesh, like red paint thrown upon white canvass.  Tzu-lung hacked wildly.  He felt his sword bite flesh, block weapons, but saw only the blur of combat.

Someone cried out like a tiger's roar, went down.  Probably Chou.  Another cry, a deep-voiced yelp.  Tzu-lung couldn't see where his comrades had fallen.  The enemy stopped attacking.  They fled, like a tidal rush back into the dark, and Tzu-lung was alone in the ambit of flickering lamplight, which glimmered in dark blood on the cavern floor.

He panted, heart like a lion-dance drum.

There were no bodies.  Not of his comrades, not of the things he'd slain.  On its side, the lamp leaked oil, almost empty.  Tzu-lung killed the flame.

He followed the track by feel.  The coward inside begged him to leave.  It was only a job, but he couldn't abandon Chou and Fan.  To what?  Demons?  Angry ghosts?  The darkness harbored no sign that his comrades lived.  Fan would have dropped a trinket to mark the way.  He would have thought of that.

Tzu-lung's legs turned to noodles.  Everything seemed far away.  Had he turned around?  He stared into the abyss, trying to remember.  He shook his aching head.  He fell to his knees, lay his face against the cool floor, took a deep breath and the dark swallowed everything.

He was cold, like he lay on a slab of ice.  Light seared red on his eyelids.  He covered his face with his arm.

Light?

He pushed himself up.  Crude steps led down from his platform to a small passage.  Ochre glow danced upon the wall and floor.  Tzu-lung managed to his feet, stumbled.  His thighs felt full of knives.

It was a short hallway of stone.  At the end:  a cavern large as a theatre hall.  A thin ledge wound around it, over a vast pit.  Small monsters danced around a blaze.  Their stomping feet and cries filled the cavern, vaguely song-like.  It was like watching a savage play from high in the rafters.  Tzu-lung pressed into the shadows.  He circled the dancers, drawing upwards.

Bars in the wall, rusty enough to look like spires of dirt.  Tzu-lung scrambled towards it.  Fan lunged to his feet.  Tzu-lung pressed a finger to his lips.  Fan nodded, crept close.  The cell was filthy.  Bones lay upon the ground, jaundiced by time.  A puddle of urine reeked from one corner.  Fan was alone.

Why leave them un-guarded?  They knew Tzu-lung was alive.

Where's Chou?

"They dragged us through darkness that lasted forever," Fan hissed.  His eyes were wide.  "They aren't human.  They're wrong.  Wrong!"

Tzu-lung gripped Fan's shoulder through the bars.  Where's Chou?

"They took Chou below.  Screaming.  Such screaming."  Something creaked below.  Fan hissed, "Look!"

Something wheeled towards the ambit of light.  In shadow, it was like a mast, propped in a mining cart.  The dancers quickened.  Light touched the mast, revealing flesh colored wrappings, red paint.  No.  Not paint.

Tzu-lung vomited.

Chou was wrapped around the pole.  It was as though they'd pulled the bones from his flesh.  He was like a rubber approximation of the man.  Breaths came in quick pants.  His