The Serpent Of Pankow

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. There weren’t always demons in the sky. There was a time when giants walked on land as well as across the bottom of the sea, and fey minstrels had not always danced around old trunks in dark forests. According to Geomancer Sect, the Meng Fanxi floodplain hadn't even always been a valley - but that was going too far back for Kang Ahn. In the then and there of a presently humid evening, ripples pulled into a saurian hump behind the aristocrat’s weathered gondola. Scales glistened briefly in the setting sun, and the creature submerged.

Lying on a comfortable lounge beneath his gondola’s tasseled awning, Kang hadn’t seen the dragon directly. A keen observer, he heard the creature’s wake beneath snarled river traffic - and caught an electric whiff carried by currents in the air. Pankow’s Great Guangde Canal wasn’t deep enough to hide a dragon, of course. Further complicating matters for submarine predators was a forest of poles and oars rising from and sinking into the water. The river dragon was not entirely present in mundane reality, however, and swam wherever it wanted.

Kang’s gondolier, a junior member of the Rafters Guild, pulled up his pole and shoved it back down with practiced exertion. Everything worth moving through Pankow moved on water. Rafters grew strong in body and pocket pushing their poles as hard as possible. Not that Rafters had pockets. Small purses hung inside the brims of their bowl-shaped hats. The broad hats cast enough shade to protect the narrow figures underneath from Pankow’s merciless sun. To invite cooling breezes into as many hard to reach places as possible, however, Rafters eschewed fabric. Kang sighed. Forgoing silk in Southern Song’s suffocating air was a luxury available only to those lacking social status.

Two Pumpkins stood unusually tall and lanky for a Rafter. What cloth scraps he fixed to his elongated body failed (utterly) to hide the origins of his moniker. Of that the boy was quite proud. When either of his hands found a moment free from the pole, it took that opportunity to fan a stew of pheromones and musk onto sweltering breezes. Those thick aromas gave river dragons cause to favor him. Of that, too, the boy was quite proud.

Though always short, Kang Ahn had been muscular in his youth. He led revolutionary armies back then. Before he ended up in one of the Intendant’s cells awaiting execution, scholars and brigands favored him with costly refreshments in tea houses across the land… most of which was a humid, marshy swamp.

Warm ocean currents east of Pan Jiang’s eastern mountains, and more of the same west of its western ones, meant rain. So much rain, in fact, Geomancer Sect insisted the mountains (despite not always being there) were once much taller. Perpetual precipitation washed bits and pieces of their flanks down river valleys into the Bay of Pankow - and on to Two Song Sea. What the geomancers insisted had been soaring peaks were now nothing but fancifully eroded lumps. Meanwhile, the ancient river valleys filled with so much sediment, Pan Jiang had become one gargantuan mud puddle crossed by the labyrinthine meanders of Rivers Meng and Fanxi.

Something similar apparently occurred far to the west in a land called Carthalga. Kang Ahn might visit one day to study how Carthalgans dealt with suffocating air. But that afternoon’s thoughts made him realize mountains shared the same fate as women and men. Time conspired with gravity to ruin everything that wasn’t an elf. Unlike giants and dragons, elves existed only in fairy tales. Inhaling an unexpected mouthful of sweltering pheromone and musk stew, Kang took further comfort in the fact time and gravity had particular bones to pick with the tall and lanky. That which soared, high and firm, inexorably eroded into lower, softer lumps.

Kang adjusted his lumps on the comfortable lounge.

Not all dragons in Fanxi River Valley came with scales, and Beggars Guild had bones of its own to pick with the Rafters. Kang Ahn couldn’t see the gangsters who shadowed his gondola on what passed for dry land any better than the scaly one in the river, but he felt them much the same way. Everywhere else in Two Song Dynasty, it was Beggars Guild which dictated the flow of commerce. Initially a chapter of that organization, Rafters learned to specialize in mud commerce and went independent centuries ago. Swampy martial artistry, combined with the affection of river dragons, kept them independent.

But notoriety invited challengers, and Two Pumpkins stood out for a couple of notorious reasons. Sensing eyes on all the body parts which mattered, the unusually tall, unusually lanky, unusually aromatic young man preened more than usual. Yes, not counting the dowdy aristocrat, he was alone on the gondola. But there were hundreds of other gondolas, rafts, boats, barges, and planks floating on the Great Guangde Canal. Kang considered it a wonder the river dragon had found a patch of open water to materialize in at all.

Pankow’s traffic communicated with itself using loud bangs, piercing whistles, and exaggerated body language. Most conversations focused on imminent collision avoidance. As a keen observer, however, Kang recognized the subtle flicks Two Pumpkins made with his long pole, the off key bangs here, and the awkward poses there as markers in a tactical discourse. Immortal Sage Wan Yu once memorialized in flawless calligraphy: “something goes down.”

The gondola turned off Guangde Main Channel onto Red Ox District Commercial Approach. Administered by swarthy “salt barbarians” from the high plains of Xhoshuan Flats, Red Ox District was the entertainment capital of Southern Song. Entertainment was interpreted broadly. Salt barbarians were always fighting somebody, after all, so there were naturally always fights breaking out somewhere on their turf. As long as it didn’t get too out of hand, the Intendant’s centurions let revelers blow off steam without rebuke.

Kang Ahn waved toward shore. He wasn’t unusually tall, lanky, or aromatic, but he had led revolutionary armies before making a deal with a dragon to avoid execution, and his martial artistry was on a higher level than that of feral hooligans. He didn’t want to risk spoiling anyone’s fun. Besides, he had picked up the scent of serpents older than dragons drifting through Red Ox District’s sinking alleys. That required investigation.

Rising from his lounge, he tossed Two Pumpkins a bag of coins.

“Meet me behind the scroll shop in a few hours,” he instructed.

Two Pumpkins snatched the coin pouch from the air and flashed a toothy grin. Walking past elevated warehouses, Kang pretended not to notice Beggars studying him from lengthening shadows. They all twitched like kittens. To pounce, or not to pounce - those were the horns of their dilemma.

The Beggars hadn’t expected the gondola to come ashore so soon. There weren’t any obvious destinations for bumbling aristocrats nearby. The focus of their collective attention shifted warily between a notorious rival within easy reach, and a soft mark suddenly in their midst. Silent inquiries flashed between dirty hands - and dirtier fingers. Should they pump Kang for information about the Rafters, make indecent proposals to earn a few extra coins, or lighten his pockets without inquiring about positions?

Beggars Guild was a sophisticated organization. Many of its operations were completely legal, and so it rarely risked provoking True Authority with anything crudely violent. Brawls with rivals were a good night on the town for all - including the Intendant’s enforcers. Bloodying the intelligentsia, however, meant imprisonment, hard labor, or some imaginative kind of unpleasant end.

Familiar with the nature of shadows, Kang disappeared into one.

That unnerved the Beggars so much they pretended he was never there. All their attention swiveled to the waterfront. Counting his booty, conspicuously, Two Pumpkins yet lingered near land. Having decided where he would spend each coin, on what, he fastened the small pouch to a strap under the dome of his hat and prepared to push off. If the Beggars allowed such a notorious rival to slip away unmolested, their standing in the global trade syndicate would suffer.

Exasperated shouts from merchants trying to close shops told Kang the proverbial something was indeed going down. Though fully capable of inflicting serious injuries upon one another, even the youngest and most exuberant Beggars and Rafters understood serious injuries cut into profit margins. Kang smiled. Fisticuffs in days before those spent trying to overthrow oppressive warlords were the high water mark of his happiness.

The retired revolutionary tasted sultry air on the tip of his tongue.

Snakes were rightly worshiped in Pankow. They played a critical role in controlling more destructive pests. But a serpent older than dragons wound through the world’s shadows, and it was becoming clear to Kang Ahn the troubles of Fuyan had finally reached Pankow. He knew that he would not be able to flush this serpent out easily. Looking hard would turn up something, however, and he headed deeper into the entertainment capital of Southern Song.

Almost every structure in Pankow abutted water of navigable depth. Every veranda in the City of a Million Verandas acted as a port - and every port boasted an old woman selling spicy noodles. A million noodle connoisseurs disembarked from a million planks of floating wood, bought a million noodle bowls, and embarked on different planks in search of yet more noodle horizons.

Inhaling noodles of his own, Kang leaned his head to one side and entered a tunnel carved through tumbled bricks. Each of Pankow’s million tenements began tipping into the Meng Fanxi floodplain as soon as they were built. Kang found entertainment in the angles his countrymen considered livable. Turning a corner around more rubble, he climbed steps up what was not long ago the tiled roof of a “palazzo.”

A million brick workers fired a million kilns in Pankow’s more industrial districts. A million masons fanned across the sinking city, laying dry bricks on top of those about to submerge. Pankow had been sinking so long, Kang Ahn considered it a certainty at least some of its oldest bricks had finally sunk all the way to the bottom of the buried valleys.

Stairs and ramps climbed roofs that had fallen onto communal balconies. Those connected into a web of something almost qualifying as streets adjacent to streams and canals. Brick packers crushed structures beyond hope of repair into open spaces ready for redevelopment. Packing by workmen sufficiently skilled in the packing arts created “oases of dry” almost as good as the buried bedrock ridges known only to Compass and Chisel Bureau’s geomancers.

Superior packing (or priceless bedrock) supported “downward towers” (which sounded better than “dry pits”). The Ministry of Rice and Water used downward towers for water works. Ingenious systems kept water in Pankow’s canals free from parasite swarms - and safe enough to drink.

Red Ox Society used downward towers for boxing arenas. Kang Ahn looked into an arena and placed a bet. His fighter lost. Red Ox was the district for losing. At its core, the whole of Pankow represented a muddy scheme for perpetual wealth redistribution. People too easily entertained redistributed their wealth too quickly - and became entertainment.

A smiling member of Dragon Turtle Society offered Kang a loan to place another bet. There was only the risk of life in bondage for missed payment. Kang declined. Others in need of money, but likewise shy of bondage, scrounged for any coin in easy reach. Kang redirected fingers from the inside of his robes to the possessions of competing thieves, admired the thick calves of a boxer up for trade, and moved on.

Across an enormous wine tent, a dangerous lout patted a chest pocket absent-mindedly. Kang curved to intercept. There were no straight lines through the tent’s seething mass of inebriation, sexual frustration, and discontent. Pickpockets came fast and furious from all sides and angles. Kang conceded small prizes, making up for what was lost by taking some of what had been stolen from others. Not realizing the game played under covers, the tent’s hosts and hostesses tried to reach the bumbling academic before all his coins had been redistributed to people who never tipped.

Kang sliced behind his target.

Fingers here, redirection there, an “accidental” bump, and the lout discovered a thief. Steps away, Kang Ahn paid an adorable host for a glass of peach wine. He tipped well. A shock wave of expanding melee followed the bumbling academic out of the tent. Kang remained a few steps ahead as combat flowed into a garden square, around a carnival promenade, over a multilayered bridge, down a boulevard split by a canal that served seafood from colorful boats, onto the decks of moored casino, and to the foot of steep steps leading up to a small scroll shop.

Kang Ahn climbed the steps - and stepped inside.

A hulking attendant looked out and sighed. Red Ox may have seemed a rough district for scrolls, but the barbarians of Xhoshuan possessed a knack for discovering ancient parchments in glittering crystal caves. An Uncle of Red Ox ran this shop well. Behind Kang, the attendant slid heavy wooden shutters into place. Daringly, a customer lifted something from a rack during the confusion.

Kang lifted it back.

“I wonder if anything new has come in?” he asked another hulk behind the counter.

“For you, Scholar Xan, there is always something new,” replied the hulk.

Contrasting with their fearsome features, and the fact they could squeeze a man’s lungs out through his nose, the natives of Xhoshuan spoke mildly. A hidden door slid open. Kang slipped through. The corridor beyond was only wide enough for a barbarian to walk down sideways, like a crab on two legs, and Kang adopted the local custom. When his shoulder hit the wall at the corridor’s end, he stepped forward through a curtain.

Red Ox Uncle slid a reinforced door shut behind. A mechanism locked loudly enough for anyone to hear. Red Ox Uncle greeted Scholar Xan warmly, and moved around the back of a counter he made look small by comparison. A different mechanism than the first unlocked. Only keen observers could have heard that one. Red Ox Uncle slid a panel open, removed a whale bone tube from a rack, and slid the panel shut. Its lock fastened.

When the give and take of gang warfare demanded, Red Ox Uncle twisted heads off necks as if opening bottles of sparkling cider. His motions behind the counter, however, were as delicate and precise as a courtesan’s. Like a fairy godmother changing Imperial diapers, the hulk smoothed a sheet of parchment across black velvet. At his nod, mirrors redirected the light of a distant flame down onto the scroll.

“From Maharagolkun by way of Rhubayat,” Red Ox Uncle whispered. “See the layering where the corner frays. Discolorations conform to techniques used by monasteries during time periods for which Scholar Xan previously expressed interest.”

“Red Ox Uncle’s analysis is correct,” said Kang Ahn.

“Yg script,” continued the proprietor, “with the decadence you predicted.”

“Remarkable,” murmured Kang.

“Only Scholar Xan’s genius could have anticipated it,” said Red Ox Uncle.

Like a professional gambler with decades of experience, Kang spread thirty Imperial Taels - a fortune - across black velvet. Platinum gleamed. Red Ox Uncle nodded politely, rolled up the scroll, and returned it to its case.

“I will arrange delivery,” he said.

“I depend upon your kindness,” replied Kang.

He exited from the rear of the shop, descended narrow steps to a covered gondola bay, and smacked Two Pumpkins on a meaty round rump. There wasn’t any fabric behind the gondolier, just old twine. Bruised but not seriously injured, Two Pumpkins had been napping face down on the lounge - infusing it with his thick scents. Without looking up, the Rafter grumbled, stretched out a hand, and quoted a price in silver. Kang Ahn pressed a gold coin into the awkwardly upturned palm. Feeling the coin’s value, Two Pumpkins rolled over into a flirtatious pose, recognized Kang, and curbed his rising enthusiasm.

“Just let me sleep,” he grumbled. “They’ve shut everything down.”

“They” meant the Intendant’s heavies.

“Not to worry,” said Kang. “I’ve got a plaque.”

In fact, he had several plaques. One in particular would get the gondola through any official blockade. Two Pumpkins sighed heavily, and then took his time standing. Kang’s eyes came nearly tangent with the top curve of a puffy pectoral muscle. The unofficial magistrate refused to tilt his head up when interacting with Two Pumpkins at close range. When Kang was younger, he had a strong chest that… was much less marketable than the one occupying his field of view. There was no sense pretending.

At that distance, the gondolier’s musky pheromones twisted Kang’s heightened senses into knots. Perhaps he was the child of a water buffalo spirit. With ferocious will, Kang resisted the urge to sneeze. Two Pumpkins brushed muscular arms against the awning, shifted his weight from one foot to the other almost childishly, and sighed again.

“Just wait for them to haul everyone off,” he said. “I’m tired.”

“Think of how many people will see you if we go through the blockade,” said Kang.

Two Pumpkins liked that thought and scampered to his pole.

“Who is this?” asked Kang, pointing down.

Hunched over and sulking on the floor of the gondola, a surly young Beggar glowered up at Kang. With a compact, gymnastic body, he looked much more typical of Pankow’s urchins than Two Pumpkins. Certainly, Kang recognized more of himself in the Beggar than the aromatic gondolier of uncertain parentage.

“My tribute,” said the gondolier proudly. “His name is Bat.”

“Bat,” said Kang. “No wonder you’re tired.”

“Which house?” groused Two Pumpkins.

“Biwan.”

The elongated mutant teenager stamped huge feet.

“That’s the farthest!”

Kang waved. It was the farthest, yes, but also completely downstream. He took position behind the gondola’s figurehead. He would have to present his plaque… and it was best to give the lounge time to air out. The Intendant’s centurions had in fact cordoned off the district. A Pillar of Authority, surely in possession of actual draconic blood, looked down on Kang Ahn from a bridge.

“The way is closed,” the pillar said.

Kang held up his plaque.

The gold dragons entwined on its jade surface were not entirely present in mundane reality and could not be forged. The centurion turned his head to one side and calmly issued an order. The way opened. Swollen with pride, Two Pumpkins soaked in the adulation of a million eyes. Watching the gondola pass from a short distance away, a clump of bruised Beggars nearly fell off their crates.