NFBE B3 Chapter 5
B3 Chapter 5
"Grandfather! How is the day treating you?" The man in the lead called respectfully. His hair was very short, even by human standards. It made the prominent scar that snaked across his brow and the top of his scalp stand out all the more clearly. It looked like a worm burrowing under his skin. Orange-crest disliked that image immensely. The laughter that followed the leader's words sounded a little less respectful. A mocking chorus that reminded orange-crest of the way birds would sometimes gloat at the flightless. "Have the takings been good, on your little stretch of the road to Huangshi?"Orange-crest's heart leapt at the confirmation he in fact was on the correct road. The idea that he was hopelessly off course with nobody to ask for directions had been weighing upon him surprisingly heavily.
The old man opened his eyes fully. His shoulders rose in a languid stretch.
"Stout fellows!" He called out cheerfully. "A pleasure to meet you on the road on such a beautiful day."
The man at the head of the procession frowned, drawing to a stop. His hand drifted to the old sword resting at his side.
"A pleasure? That remains to be seen. You've yet to answer my question."
"The takings?" The beggar said, tilting his head. He reached out to the bowl at his side, raising it for their inspection. As his hands emerged from his sleeves, orange-crest saw that his right hand was missing its smallest finger. "I take nothing except what I am given, you can see before you what that has been."
"Oh?" One of the men at the back of the pack called out, leering at the old man's outstretched hands. "It looks like you've been on the wrong side of the law before, old man. Only thieves lose that finger."
He lifted a hand, showing off the same amputation.
"Perhaps you're not so different—"
"Shut it, Brother Ruo." Whatever the man had been about to confess, a quick cuff from one of his fellows silenced him.
"I made some mistakes in my youth." The beggar said, smiling easily.
The worm-scarred man stepped forward, taking the bowl from the old beggar's hands. He tilted it, rattling the coins about.
"A good day, or a mean season," he noted, "unless those sacks conceal some better fortune."
The old beggar shrugged.
"Some rice, and blankets for the winter. Enough I will not starve."
"It is customary, when crossing this stretch of road, to make a small contribution to those who help keep it clear of beasts."
The bowl tilted. The crust of bread fell to the ground. The six coins vanished into the scarred man's hand.
They were robbing him! Orange-crest didn't know how human society worked, but he certainly knew extortion when he saw it! His master had insisted that was what an empire was supposed to stop. Only the emperor's servants got to extort people.
These were bandits, then. Orange-crest's eyes narrowed. Who was the old man? Would he fight, or submit?
The beggar's smile widened, his teeth peeking out. They were not quite as white as his hair.
"This Hong Bo was not aware. I have not travelled down this stretch of road in many years. The Huangshi of my youth was a very different city. We had bandits and worse haunting the roads, not such civic-minded young men, driving off the wild beasts."
"You dare!"
"What do I dare?" The old man asked, slowly rising to his feet. He collected his staff as he did so, tilting it so that the sacks upon each end slid free. He stepped forward, accepting his bowl back from the bandit's captain, their eyes locking like the horns of stags in heat. "Certainly I do not dare not to withhold my good fortune from those of similar need. As one who survives upon the kindness of others, it would be low indeed for me to hold such blessings for my own use."
There was a sharp intake of breath from the gathered men. Orange-crest didn't get it. Was he calling them poor, or insulting them?
"You presume much, Uncle Hong." The leader said, his smile watching the beggar's.
"I presume nothing, except what small respect I am owed, and what kindness I am given."
"Hah! What a mouth you have on you, uncle. I should keep this cash as the price for such lip."
The copper-filled fist clenched tightly, then slowly rose up. The bandit drew it back as if to strike, but the beggar did not flinch. Orange-crest leaned further, watching carefully. Hong Bo's left foot had silently shifted backward. He was almost halfway into the neutral position of the Beast Dance's Serpent Stance.
The scarred man's fist opened slightly. His thumb flicked, and a single coin clattered into the wooden bowl.
"Boss?"
"It's nothing. Gotta seed the bowl, after all. What benefactor finds a barren bowl inviting, even on a stretch of road as remote as this one? Come on boys, our fortune awaits."
After the bandits had put a few dozen yards of road behind them, Hong Bo sat down once more beneath the mulberry tree.
He chuckled quietly, then smiled.
Orange-crest desperately wished to ask what was so funny, but restrained himself. He'd passed the others in rapid succession, they'd not be far behind.
The travelling family arrived next, their youngling in tow, not half an hour later. Their eyes were hard and suspicious. Their child dipped behind his mother, clutching at her thigh, as they approached Hong Bo. He peeked out furtively, like a turtle assessing the situation from the safety of its shell.
"Good people," Hong Bo said, "may the bodhisattva protect you on your travels." The old beggar's hand rose in a gesture that looked similar to when Li Xun had held up his hand for silence, but with his fingers curved at ever-so-slightly unnatural angles.
The elder of the men, judging by the weight of his wrinkles, frowned.
"We have nothing to give you, uncle."
"And I have but words to offer you."
"Then we shall have to return your kindness in kind." The woman said firmly, placing her hand on her son's shoulder. "Share some kind words for the uncle here, little bean."
The young boy flinched, then muttered something under his breath. Orange-crest couldn't make it out. Perhaps his master's impossible ears might have.
"Louder, little bean."
"Be well, old uncle." The young boy half-shouted, dipping further behind his mother as he did so.
The old man's smile was brighter than the rising sun. Something churned in orange-crest's gut at the sight of it. He felt a crushing envy toward the boy. He wasn't sure how old the child was, but he suspected he had seen no more than orange-crest's eight winters. He lacked the monkey's great strength and mystical powers.
But he had this. A family that clearly loved him. Strangers upon the road smiled so blindingly brightly at him. The world welcomed him, even this in-between-place, the road to Huangshi.
"Thank you, young master." The old beggar said, raising his voice slightly to match the boy's volume, earning a happy giggle.
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As the family made ready to move on, Hong Bo spoke up once more.
"I met some men upon the road not half an hour ahead of you. They were not so generous of spirit as you. A wise man might refrain from making their acquaintance this day."
The two men nodded seriously.
"Thank you, uncle. We shall heed your words."
Orange-crest's tongue itched in his mouth. He had so many questions. Why did Hong Bo speak so obliquely? Did the old man have more coins, hidden away? Why did the bandits not take all that he had? Why did he look ready to fight, yet refused to defend his things? Was he a hidden master, devoted to concealing his cultivation? Or a mortal who did not fear death?
Orange-crest could happily forgive a theft. But it was much easier to forgive the theft of a brother than that of a gang of strangers. This old man seemed so similar to him, yet so different. He longed to approach him now, but knew the Assistant Magistrate, and his cultivator, would not be far behind.
He tried to listen for that strange noise he'd heard before. The distant shifting and twanging of fated threads. Yet as he stared at the beggar, and the departing family, he could sense nothing. He didn't know what that meant.
The magistrate arrived in a hurry. Both in his coming and his going. The unmounted men that shadowed him moved at a fast march, sweltering in their heavy scales despite the early hour and lacking sun.
Hong Bo rose the moment he saw the official's entourage bearing down upon him. Beneath his mulberry tree, he bowed at the waist, holding his hands out so far that they entirely concealed the small bald spot atop his head from the view of one mounted upon a horse. His bowl sat upon the ground.
Orange-crest sat still as a stone. He was starting to like Hong Bo, and did not wish to make complications for him before the official.
None of the men spoke as the official progression approached. The two horses slowed as they drew even with Hong Bo. The weak cultivator looked toward his master, one hand resting upon the sword at his side.
A pair of copper coins clattered into Hong Bo's bowl.
"Heaven sees the honest and generous official."
"A group of outlaws calling themselves the Road-Clearing Society has taken to harassing travelers upon this road. Have you seen evidence of them?"
This was it. He'd asked the question, instead of telling his pet cultivator to clear the road. Hong Bo was right, this was an honest official, not one of the petty tyrants his master had sometimes told stories of. He'd get his coins back and all would be well.
Hong Bo opened his mouth.
"Honored official, just this day I have seen men passing upon the road in numbers, armed with sickles and sabers. But if bandits were among them, this beggar's eyes did not discern them."
What?
"I see. How long ago did you witness such men?"
"They passed an hour ago."
The assistant magistrate looked to his men. They were sweaty, but not breathing hard.
"Double time, two more hours. We'll catch them yet."
The official and his men set off at an aggressive trot, tearing up the muddy road in their wake.
Orange-crest didn't get it. What was going on here? Why would Hong Bo lie? Would he not suffer punishment, if his falsehood was revealed?
None of this made sense, when taken with how his master had spoken of officials and magistrates. Bandits were bad. Officials were sometimes petty tyrants, but ultimately good. Li Xun had been very firm that the occasional injustice was outweighed by the terrible costs of war and anarchy. Did Hong Bo think otherwise? Did he know the bandit's leader and pretend otherwise?
This was getting too complicated, too human. Orange-crest decided he would simplify it. The old man didn't want the bandits blamed, but he deserved his coins back. So orange-crest would go get them. He was strong now. What was strength for, if not fixing that which was wrong in the shape of the world?
Hong Bo's eyes snapped open a fourth time, as he heard something rustling not far from him, just off the road. It was neither small nor light from the noise of it. A curious stag? This was supposed to be a quiet stretch of road. How was a man to enjoy a nap with such constant disruptions?
Orange-crest tore across the countryside like a winged thing. He kept the road just within sight, moving parallel to it. He circulated his qi internally, enjoying the flush of vigor that suffused his limbs. He felt like he could run all day, reach Huangshi before night fell if he wished. The weak little cultivator the magistrate had brought with him did not even notice as orange-crest rushed past his charges.
It was a little annoying, that orange-crest could not run the trees as he once did. His body felt as light as ever to him. Like it should be more graceful for his longer back and limbs.
But sometimes the trees disagreed.
Thinner limbs would snap outright beneath him, dumping him unceremoniously to the earth. He felt light, but he weighed at least thrice what he had when he first came to the Azure Mountain, more than most grown humans did.
Still, even running as a ground-bound human did, it took him less than half an hour to catch up with the possible members of the Road-Clearing Society.
They were lax and boisterous, utterly unaware of the pair of cultivators hunting them.
Orange-crest had time. He could have waited for the scarred captain to take a break to drain his dragon. He could have scattered the men with sounds from the underbrush to investigate.
He didn't really want to do any of that.
Instead, under the cover of his invisibility, he just carefully crept up to the captain. Step first with the heel, roll the side of his foot through the damp soil to kill the noise. Don't make noise. Don't draw any eyes to the footprints appearing in the mud. He'd been an old hand at sneakery even before formless-gleam had given him such a potent tool.
He could see a money pouch, bouncing with each step the captain took, bulbous as an overripe peach.
All he had to do was reach out and take it. So that was exactly what orange-crest did.
The thin cord that secured the pouch snapped as he ripped it free. The captain reacted with surprising speed, snatching at his hip, but orange-crest was already turning, running, out of arm's reach.
He made it two steps before he felt a weight upon his back, and shouts arose behind him.
"Brother Fu!"
The bastard had tackled him! No hesitation, just dove right onto the invisible monkey!
"Sorcery!"
"Impossible!"
The man with the worm-shaped-scar hung from orange-crest's back, suspended in the air. Orange-crest grabbed at his clasped hands, pulling them apart. But the bandit cried out in pain, digging his fingers deeper into the folds of orange-crest's jacket.
"Give it back!"
Orange-crest didn't have a good angle. He couldn't reach far enough back to grab the man's body. A moment's struggle would sort it, the man had as much chance of restraining him as shadow-tail, but he could see his hands, his illusion had broken.
"Shit."
Orange-crest ran for the trees. The man on his back weighed nothing, but his bulk covered his head, obscuring his fur from the rest of the bandits.
Stupid. Even when he thought things through, he didn't think things through.
A powerful leap carried orange-crest across the swampy gully at the lower side of the road, half a dozen quick strides took him behind the cover of a bush.
Shouts followed him, but the feet attached to those voices lagged behind.
"Move, and I'll gut you." The scarred man, likely Brother Fu, sounded different up close. Or perhaps he sounded different when his voice trembled with fear.
Orange-crest swallowed, feeling the knife pressing into his throat. That might hurt. Not grievously. But it might be unpleasant.
"No." The monkey murmured gently, allowing a measure of his qi to seep free. "That's enough of this."
Gently, he peeled his jacket out from Brother Fu's clutches. The operation was complicated a little by the magic preventing the bandit from moving a muscle. Clothing was such a silly thing. Far too grabbable. He could have thrown Brother Fu off his back in a moment if his clothing hadn't given Brother Fu something slack to work his fingers into.
"He who steals shouldn't complain about theft." Orange-crest told the bandit, staring him dead in the eye. The Immobilizing Spell truly was a very thorough magic. He could not even tell what the bandit was thinking, so still was his face.
"This," the monkey said, waving the purse before Brother Fu's eyes, "this was stolen by a human cultivator. That's what you tell them."
Orange-crest manifested another illusion, forming it a dozen yards away, out of the frozen bandit's field of vision.
"I'll know." The invisible monkey murmured in his ear. "I'll know, if you don't. And I won't be so nice, the second time you meet me."
Orange-crest stepped back, and let the spell expire. Brother Fu clearly knew where the monkey was. His footfalls were easily apparent, to one paying close attention.
The bandit stared orange-crest down with a scowl, silent.
Orange-crest waited, for him to move, or agree, or do something, anything at all.
The others were drawing closer. He could hear one scrambling up the muddy bank of the ditch, shouting for Brother Fu.
Brother Fu spat upon the ground, just a hair to the left of where orange-crest's foot rested.
"What a pathetic cultivator, to stoop so low as to rob a mortal."
Orange-crest smiled. It always felt better to be hated for something you'd actually done. And he didn't feel bad in the slightest about this one. They'd begun the matter. He'd just escalated it.
Orange-crest lingered just long enough to hear Brother Fu reassure his compatriots that the cultivator had left, and boast about holding a knife to the man's throat, only to be defeated by his unfair magics. There were moans about the loss of his purse, but not so many that orange-crest suspected they did not have food waiting for them, wherever home was. He wondered if they were the Road-Clearing Society the magistrate had spoken of, or if there were yet more players in this strange game.
Orange-crest left the men to their next encounter, and made his way back south along the road. Perhaps Brother Fu would speak of him the moment the magistrate put him to the question. But perhaps he would lie for orange-crest, as Hong Bo had for Brother Fu. The monkey found he liked that hope.
He came upon Hong Bo again just after the sun reached its zenith. The crust of bread had vanished, and the beggar was lying down, using one of his sacks as a pillow.
The road was empty. No others to see the face he took such pains to fail to conceal.
There were words, words that beggars were always supposed to say. Li Xun had mentioned them once, offhandedly.
Orange-crest dropped the heavy bag of coins into Hong Bo's bowl. It landed with more of a thump than a clattering, sending the wooden bowl into a little bounce.
Hong Bo startled, awake in a moment. His eyes bulged, at the sight of the heavy purse in his bowl, then narrowed, at the empty road.
"You were here before." The old beggar said slowly. "I heard you, moving about."
He reached for his staff, then hesitated, and lowered his five-fingered hand back to the ground. Orange-crest swallowed. Enough waiting. He let the illusion fall away, revealing himself.
"Do a kindness?" The monkey asked. That was what beggars were supposed to say, wasn't it?