Second Round: A Return to the Ur-Bar Read online

The immortal Gilgamesh closed the folding doors of the Nanjing bar behind the last of the morning’s human patrons. He turned to his remaining customer, a dragon masquerading as a tall, well-dressed, Han Chinese youth. “There’s a fresh coffee in it, on the house, if you’ll move that barrel of black powder to the storeroom.”

  The prospect of more coffee—the musky, mysterious, exhilarating elixir served in tiny porcelain cups usually reserved for hard liquor—propelled Lord Bai, White Dragon of the West, to his feet. Then his mind caught up with his taste buds. He frowned at the wooden barrel wedged between the front table and the wall.

  “You keep gunpowder in the bar? Isn’t that …” Bai hesitated. “Dangerous,” “daft,” or the dozen other adjectives that sprang most readily to mind might offend his host. Bai was angling for a look at the glamoured artifacts concealed beneath the bar. The shelves above the bar displayed a number of rare curios, most notably a bronze, canister-shaped, Zhou Dynasty wine vessel. If Gilgamesh left such valuable items in plain view, it stood to reason any item he chose to hide must be precious indeed. Bai hoped the cache included something he could use to lift the restraining spell imposed by his tutor, the old sorcerer and new mandarin Li Lao—a remedy Bai was desperate to find. He settled on: “… illegal?”

  “Not for fireworks. The head of the local gunpowder guild owes a favor to our neighborhood merchants association. He’s paying off the debt by creating a special fireworks display for the Harvest Moon Festival. I’m storing the powder until he gets around to it.” He grinned at Bai’s dismay. “It’s perfectly safe. I’m not using the kitchen for anything except boiling coffee.”

  “What about your cook?”

  “He left for Beijing this morning.”

  “What!” Bai squawked. “Why?”

  “His family needed him,” Gilgamesh said. “His father owns a restaurant not far from the Yongle Emperor’s new palace. Between the crowds who came for the palace consecration and the repair crews brought in after the fire, the business exploded. His oldest son and family couldn’t keep up. So he summoned his younger sons to help.”

  Bai’s dismay morphed into horror. “But what will you do for lunch?”

  The laugh lines fanning from Gilgamesh’s green eyes deepened. “There are enough restaurants in this neighborhood to feed an army of dragons—assuming those dragons have the cash and their flashy scales aren’t just for show.”

  Bai reared. The spirit of his dragon tail flicked in indignation. He wasn’t like his tutor Lao. He always paid his tab!

  Gilgamesh chuckled and ducked behind the bar. Hidden from his human customers and other potential troublemakers, he moved slowly, almost stiffly. The watery light streaming from the glass panels set above the front doors—a refinement as rare and outlandish as Arabian coffee, Frankish wine, or porridge-like Sumerian beer—emphasized the gauntness of his features. Exhaustion shadowed his eyes. Six months of single-handedly running the bar’s public room from dawn until the second hour after midnight taxed even a demigod’s vigor. But it appeared no restaurant worker in town wanted to work for a foreigner. Gilgamesh’s former cook was the only one willing to give him a chance, and now he was gone.

  This troubled Bai. He wasn’t just the bar’s best customer. Led by his dragon nose for magic, he had been the first person to cross the threshold. In the beginning, he had taken pains to ingratiate himself solely in the hope of discovering something to break Lao’s spell. But over time, he had grown fond of the immortal himself. It was rare for the young dragon to meet anyone who viewed him as something more than a superfluous junior heir, a recalcitrant student, or the sum of his saleable parts. Instead, Gilgamesh acted the part of an indulgent uncle—often amused, occasionally exasperated, but never denying his hospitality. As far as Bai knew, the immortal never denied anyone his hospitality. It was wrong for people to take advantage of his generosity, then declare him unworthy of service because he was born elsewhere.

  “The bar—and you—can survive the loss of a cook,” Gilgamesh continued. He drew a sheet of yellow paper from under the counter and slid it across the age-darkened surface. “This, on the other hand …”

  Bai approached the bar. The paper was crumpled and smudged by shoe prints. But it was unquestionably the same shade and weight as the paper used for official government documents. The precisely drawn script accused the proprietor(s) of the premises at the bar’s current address of failing to pay their taxes for six consecutive quarters. To retain the license, and forestall confiscation of the property and its contents, the proprietor(s) of said property was/were hereby ordered to personally deliver the full amount due to the Nanjing Directorate of Entertainment Licenses and Revenue no later than the last day of Seventh Month—tomorrow. Bai glanced at Gilgamesh.

  Instead of reaching for the small spirit lamp used to prepare coffee, the demigod set a thin, kettle-shaped, porcelain wine pot and two matching cups on the counter. The glittering crystal liquid he poured from the pot’s narrow spout infused the closed air with the razor tang of lightning. It was baijiu—hard white liquor—and more potent than most.

  Gilgamesh tossed back the contents of his cup. “I found the notice under the door when I opened this morning. I don’t understand. The bar always takes care of these things. The day after I arrived, the Director of Licenses showed up with his secretary. I paid a year’s taxes in advance and thanked them for their trouble with a few jars of my best wine. I thought they were happy. The director and some of his friends even dropped by after work a few times. No one mentioned any problems, much less that I owed taxes for a year before the bar opened.”

  “It’s probably an error,” Bai said. “The city revenue clerks are only human. They must make plenty of mistakes.”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s an error or not. The problem is visiting the office to put things right. My curse won’t let me leave the bar.”

  The ghost of Bai’s dragon ears perked like a cat’s at the squeak of a mouse. Only instead of a rodent, he heard an opportunity. Dragons were the best shapeshifters under heaven. “Maybe I can help.”

  The demigod’s smile returned. “Thanks for the offer, but no one could mistake us for twins.”

  “They might,” Bai purred silkily.

  Bai’s long, straight hair liberated itself from its bun. It contracted and curled beneath his soft-sided black hat before pinning itself close to his scalp in accordance with the dictates of court protocol. His smooth, youthful features rearranged themselves into the weathered, olive-tinted crags of Gilgamesh’s face. Drawing on the spectral mass of his true form, Bai’s muscles thickened until they assumed the broad, hard contours of a veteran soldier. His fashionable silk and linen garments transformed themselves into the mirror of Gilgamesh’s baggy trousers and belted wool tunic, which proved surprisingly comfortable despite the warmth of the day. His beard, on the other hand, was a trial. Bai’s cheeks, neck, and the top of his chest felt like they were being smothered under a blanket of ants. But he could hardly impersonate Gilgamesh without it.

  New respect gleamed in the demigod’s eyes. “I stand corrected—and in your debt.”

  That was exactly what Bai had in mind. He offered a brief prayer to Caishen, the god of fortune, whom even dragons worshipped. If Caishen smiled upon him, Gilgamesh would grant him the favor of revealing his treasures. Then Bai would get to work on breaking Lao’s infernal spell.

  * * *

  The director’s secretary kept the ersatz Gilgamesh waiting precisely long enough to demonstrate his employer’s consequence without causing offense. Once the pecking order was established, he escorted Bai to a pleasant, white-washed office with a garden view.

  The director, a heavy-set man with an oblong face and a prominent nose, greeted his visitor with the bow reserved for equals. He invited Bai to share fragrant oolong tea at the small table next to the window. As Bai eased Gilgamesh’s bulk into one of the round-backed chairs flanking the table he tried to reconcile his reception with the harsh tone of the
tax notice. The director seemed to be extending an unusual level of courtesy to someone who was, to all human appearances, an ordinary barman. Did the director share the Yongle Emperor’s high regard for Arab scholars and merchants, or did he merely wish to give that impression to a possible associate of the emperor’s Moslem favorites? There was only one way to learn the truth. With more delicacy than the rough-hewn westerner would have employed, Bai broached the reason for his visit.

  The director’s elegant silver nail guards clicked softly as he steepled them in front of his well-groomed goatee. “I wouldn’t call the notice a mistake.” Mildly spoken, it was still an order. “My secretary informs me it is indeed legitimate. But it was sent to the former proprietors: Cheng, Feng, and Cheng.”

  He made a noise in the back of his throat, which in a less august gentleman would have been taken for a growl. “Good-for-nothing morons. Cheng’s was an institution. The bar was owned by the family for over four hundred years. It survived the Song Dynasty. It survived the Mongol Horde. But it couldn’t survive them. Less than two years after those stooges got their hands on it, the city was forced to confiscate the property for non-payment of taxes.”

  He took a deep breath, then smiled apologetically. “Forgive me. This is no reflection on you. You’re a man who respects tradition. You even left the Widow Cheng’s famous counterfeit pot in its place of honor behind the bar. I only wish her heirs had shown the same consideration.”

  Counterfeit? Hiding his disappointment, Bai asked in his best imitation of Gilgamesh’s resonant bass, “Can you think of anyone who might benefit from sending me their bill?”

  “If the bill was for supplies or services rendered, I could name a dozen. But taxes?” He waved the question away with a graceful fan of silver-sheathed nails. “Put it out of your mind. People are always finding odd bits of paper in abandoned properties. You never know what might turn up.”

  He hesitated. The stubby wings of his round-topped official’s hat seemed to quiver. The movement echoed the flutter in his pulse detected by Bai’s inhumanly acute hearing. His equally sensitive nose caught the subtle shift in the scent he associated with human unease.

  “I don’t suppose you found anything else?” the director asked.

  What was he afraid Gilgamesh might find, and how was it connected to the note—the note whose sole purpose appeared to have been luring the demigod from the bar? Was the sender after something the former owners left behind? Did they, like Bai, covet one of the bar’s more esoteric artifacts? Gilgamesh would hardly reward the dragon for dealing with a tax hoax if something worse happened while he was gone.

  Bai needed to return to the bar quickly, even if it meant postponing lunch.

  * * *

  Bai rushed past the red banners and brightly painted signs lining Eight Treasures Avenue. He steeled himself against the ringing blandishments of the avenue’s restauranteurs, shopkeepers, and peddlers. He refused to be distracted by the savory aromas blooming in the clement, turquoise-capped afternoon. He resisted the urge to fly to Gilgamesh’s rescue in dragon form. It would have been faster and more impressive, but he couldn’t risk shifting in a crowd. A dragon, living or dead, would fetch more on the Middle Kingdom’s magical black market than any treasure secreted in the bar.

  A top-heavy, two-wheeled pull cart drew up beside him with a clatter of pounding feet and grumbling wheels. Without warning, the driver swerved. Bai barely jumped back in time. The driver bolted down the high-walled alley to his left and parked next to the kitchen entrance of the restaurant on the corner.

  Steam hissed from the sides of Bai’s mouth. His foot could have been crushed, an injury which would have lamed him in dragon form as well. Regardless of the urgency of his mission, he could not allow this affront to his person to go unpunished. He needed to put the fear of fire into the offender. It would only take a moment. He stormed into the alley.

  Somewhere in heaven, Caishen was laughing. The first thing Bai saw after his eyes adjusted to the dimness was the logo of Hu’s Pastries emblazoned on the side of the cart. Hu’s—the peerless, Old Town confectionary located on First Street. It was said the Jianwen emperor refused to flee his burning palace without a dozen of Hu’s cream buns for the road. Though how the fugitive royal could forgo Hu’s crunchy sesame seed balls, their almond biscuits and water chestnut squares, their autumn mooncakes, their …

  The driver unlatched the backboard of the wagon and used it as a ramp to reach the tall, fabric-draped box which filled most of the cart. He flipped back the cover to reveal a tower of four open bamboo shelves. Fitted into each rack was a large basket packed with an assortment of Hu’s celestial pastries. The driver balanced the topmost basket on his right shoulder and trotted toward the kitchen door. A red-faced man in a cook’s cap and stained white apron hurried him inside. The door slammed behind them, propelling the aroma of stir-fried garlic shoots and seared meat in Bai’s direction.

  The fragrant cloud washed over him. Bai moaned. His human toes curled inside Gilgamesh’s outlandish socks. It wasn’t fair. He’d been so good. He’d steadfastly ignored every gustatory temptation set in his path and what did it get him? A near maiming, a restaurant close enough to smell, a truck of Hu’s pastries close enough to touch, and he was starving. He’d only eaten two breakfasts all day.

  No. He could eat his fill after he checked on Gilgamesh. The bar was only a few blocks away. He could have marched halfway there in the time he’s spent transfixed by baked goods. He should leave. But his feet refused to move.

  Shouts from the thoroughfare behind him broke his trance. He emerged from the alley in time to see two burly men in aprons and cooks’ caps eject two smaller, grubbier men dressed like day laborers from the noodle shop across the avenue. The larger cook bellowed, “And if I ever see you hanging around my place again, I’ll call the City Guard!”

  The pair scurried across the street, precipitating several near collisions, including a three-way between an ox cart, a water seller, and a sedan chair. They ducked into the alley and huddled next to the wall opposite the restaurant. The man closest to the avenue sported the shaved head of a Buddhist monk over a round cherubic face and even rounder belly. His companion was thinner, with a narrow face and beaky nose. He owned enough hair to gather into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, but his crown was bald and shiny with perspiration. Chests heaving from exertion and possibly fear, they peered into the avenue, ignoring the six-foot-plus foreigner standing less than six feet away.

  Bai’s eyebrows drew together over his nose. They seemed remarkably oblivious, even by human standards. Then again, they had no reason to be afraid of him … unless they caused him to miss lunch and dinner. The tubby one’s funk carried a delectable whiff of piglet in the sty. A groan of longing rolled up Bai’s throat. He moistened lips suddenly gone dry.

  The characters of the spell imprinted on his back flared to life. They itched worse than Gilgamesh’s beard. Lao claimed the spell’s only purpose was to protect him from Bai’s pique. But the damn thing was turning into a surrogate conscience, pricking him at the most inconvenient times. Bai needed to leave now, and not just to help Gilgamesh. If he grew any hungrier and started thinking—quite innocently, without ever dreaming of acting on the thought—how splendid humans could taste, he might scratch off his skin. It would be worth it if he could scratch off the spell in the process, but he knew from experience he couldn’t. So he searched for an opening in the crowd.

  The chubby guy huffed in a high, unlikely tenor: “The nerve of that guy, Jingxi. Imagine, kicking us out of his shop just because we hadn’t ordered in three hours.”

  “Yeah, and we didn’t see Gilgamesh, either,” his companion, aka Jingxi, replied in a hoarse, nasal voice. “You don’t suppose we missed him, do you?”

  Bai froze mid-step. They couldn’t mean … But as far as Bai knew, there was only one Gilgamesh in Nanjing. Bai lowered his foot and approached the pair. He stopped less than an arm’s length from both men. Still, neith
er one turned in his direction.

  “We’d’ve seen him,” Chubby averred. “The guy’s a giant with a bushy beard and hair out to here.” He spread his hands in front of his shoulders.

  “I dunno, Juanqu,” Jingxi, fretted. “He should’ve passed by ages ago. Every time I paid the bar tax, the clerks gave me the bum’s rush.”

  The two clowns knew about the bar tax. They must have sent the notice—or knew who did. In a growl worthy of his dragon form, Bai demanded, “What do you want with Gilgamesh?”

  “Nothing,” Juanqu chirped. “We just need to keep him busy until Ma gets Auntie Cheng’s pot back.”

  That pot again. Maybe the director was wrong. Maybe it was genuine after all. The thought flashed through Bai’s mind as Juanqu finally, finally, turned to face him.

  “Nyah-ah-ah!” Juanqu squealed. “Hey, Jingxi, over here!”

  “Quiet, Juanqu. I’m concentrating.”

  “Well, concentrate over here!”

  Face twisted in an exaggerated show of annoyance, Jingxi made a production of turning around. His eyes widened, but his gaze was fixed on the avenue, not the dragon version of Gilgamesh. He flattened himself against the wall. “Oh no! Ma!”

  Before Bai could ask why Jingxi was scared of his mother, a third man burst into the alley, panting hard and ripe with primate sweat. As short as the other two, he vaguely resembled Juanqu. But the likeness was obscured by his fierce scowl and the kerchief tied pugnaciously low over his forehead. Surpassing even the mind-boggling obliviousness of his confederates, he stomped past Bai, caught Jingxi by the hair, Juanqu by the ear, and cracked their heads together.

  “What’s the big idea letting Gilgamesh beat me to the bar?” he snarled in a voice harsher and lower than those belonging to his associates.

  “But Ma,” Jingxi and Juanqu protested in unison.

  Ma slapped them quiet with a single swipe of his hand. “No buts. I escaped the bar by the skin of my teeth. Then Mother Pan Pan’s boys caught up with me. It took me an hour to give them the slip. Now we gotta come up with a new way to get Gilgamesh out of the bar and I’m all out of tax notices.”