Fonda Lee - Jade War

When Anden landed in Janloon International Airport, a car and driver were waiting for him. Crossing the Way Away Bridge into morning traffic, Anden stared at the skyline of the city he’d left three and a half years ago. The view was deeply familiar yet different; there were buildings that had been there as long as he could remember and new ones that he did not recognize. Construction cranes balanced like orange storks along the waterfront, stretching their arms toward Summer Harbor. Anden rolled down the window and breathed in the heat and smell of Janloon, letting the urban music of car horns and shouted Kekonese wash over him. The car carried him past the dense tenements of Coinwash and Fishtown, the condo buildings and upscale shops of North Sotto, the urban parks and trendy eateries between Green Plain and Yoyoyi, the manicured estate fronts of Palace Hill. He saw trees broken from recent typhoon damage, newspaper stands proclaiming the end of the Oortokon War, red Autumn Festival lamps and grass streamers adorning eaves and street posts. Green and white paper lanterns hung from storefront windows in their respective districts.

A nameless and profound ache gathered in Anden’s chest. Janloon was warm and dangerous, it throbbed with life and hot-blooded movement, it knew that it was special, that there was no other place like it in the world. Other places deceived; in other places, people hid their jade, they exchanged money under the table, and they killed in the dark. Janloon wore its savagery on its sleeve; it was a proud Fist among nations, it did not hide what it was. Janloon was honest.

When he arrived at the Kaul house, Anden took his suitcase out of the trunk, careful not to jar his splinted fingers. Two men were walking down the driveway on their way out, perhaps having concluded a meeting with the Pillar. It had been so long since Anden had seen jade worn openly that his eyes were drawn to the green around their wrists and necks even before he recognized their faces. Juen Nu and Lott Jin paused when they saw him. “Emery Anden,” Lott said after a moment. “Welcome back.”

Lott looked older; he was dressed in a collared shirt and smoke-gray jacket, talon knife sheathed at the hip, wavy hair cut short to show off the jade pierced through the tops of his ears. He didn’t smile, but the adolescent sulkiness that used to hang around his bow-shaped mouth was gone; he spoke slower and more seriously. Unmistakable as a Fist of No Peak.

“Juen-jen. Lott-jen.” Anden touched his forehead and inclined in salute. He took his suitcase and went into the house.

Like Janloon itself, the Kaul family home overwhelmed Anden with its familiarity and yet there were signs that things had changed. Some of the furniture was new and old pieces were rearranged. Anden glanced into the study and did not recognize Lan’s old space. The desk was cluttered, there were more chairs, family photos on the walls, a television playing on mute. Most striking of all were the signs that this was a house with small children: a playpen in one corner of the family room, a half-assembled train set on the floor, a stack of children’s books on the coffee table, pairs of small shoes near the door. For a long minute, Anden stood in the foyer, unable to move, until Kyanla came through the kitchen with a joyful shout and ran to greet him. “Anden-se, finally you’ve come home!” She’d aged visibly; her hair was gray now, her soft face wrinkled.

Anden went out to find the Pillar sitting in the courtyard. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of one hand, but he did not seem to be smoking it. Hilo’s gaze was distant and tired, and there were circles as dark as bruises under his eyes. Anden approached and stopped in front of his cousin, but he didn’t sit down in the seat opposite him at the patio table. Hilo looked up at Anden as if rousing to the realization that he was there, even though Anden knew he must’ve Perceived him arriving several minutes ago. Neither of them spoke at first; they took each other in silently.

At last Anden said, “How’s Wen?”

Hilo stubbed out his unsmoked cigarette. “She’s recovering in Marenia. Dr. Truw says it could take a long time, because of the brain damage. She’s partly paralyzed on the right side of her body. She can understand what people are saying, but has trouble talking.” Hilo’s voice was factual and expressionless, his sunken gaze nowhere nearby. Quietly, “She’s alive, at least. It could’ve been worse.”

Wen had been flown home from Port Massy as soon as she was able to be transported. Hami Tumashon, working under Shae’s orders, had swiftly made a number of discreet but persuasive and costly arrangements on behalf of the Weather Man’s office. The staff at the Crestwood Hotel conveniently failed to remember seeing anyone go up to Zapunyo’s hotel room. The police report concluded that the smuggler had been assassinated by bodyguards in his own inner circle during a shootout that left everyone in the room dead. Several members of the Kekonese community testified that Wen was Anden’s cousin and Rohn Toro’s recent girlfriend from Janloon, which was why the three of them were together on the night of the brutal revenge killing by Willum Reams’s reestablished Southside Crew. Wen, who was in no state to answer any questions from local authorities, was medically evacuated to Janloon within forty-eight hours. It took another week and a half for Hami and the clan’s lawyers to extract Anden—long enough for him to recover in the Dauks’ house under Sana’s care. Exhausted and shaken, he’d slept for days, huddled under blankets and fed bone broth like an invalid, but he wasn’t as sick as he’d been the last time he’d handled too much jade.

At Rohn Toro’s funeral, he’d folded the Green Bone’s black gloves and laid them in the man’s casket. He wished he could’ve saved Rohn as well on that terrible day. He’d tried, but Rohn’s throat had been crushed in his violent final struggles and too much time had passed; by the time Anden crawled over to him, the life energy was gone from his body. He wondered if the Dauks blamed him for failing, but when he tried to apologize, Dauk Losun only shook his head and put a heavy hand on Anden’s shoulder. “A man as green as Rohn Toro, he wasn’t fated to leave this world peacefully,” Dauk said sorrowfully. “Let the gods recognize him.” Anden had always thought of Rohn Toro as the most Kekonese man in all of Southtrap, and yet he’d been as much a part of Port Massy as the Iron Eye Bridge. Without him, Espenia once again seemed like a foreign place to Anden, one that he was relieved to say goodbye to. Even bowed down with grief, the Dauks were there at the airport along with Mr. and Mrs. Hian to see Anden off on the day of his departure.

Cory was not there; he’d come into town to attend Rohn’s funeral but stayed only for the day before returning to Adamont Capita. Although the circumstances were tragic, Anden was grateful for the chance to see his friend one more time. And to apologize in person.

“When you said you were busy with clan things, you didn’t mention it might get you killed.” Cory looked unusually somber in a black suit and tie, his eyes fixed on Rohn’s casket. He rubbed a hand over his face and turned to Anden slowly. “My da always says you’re green in the soul, as if that’s a good thing to be. It’s not, crumb.”

“Did you get my letter?” Anden forced himself to raise his eyes from the yellowing grass at his feet. “I meant everything I wrote.”

Cory’s long expression was not warm, but had enough familiar softness to make Anden’s chest hurt. “I haven’t forgiven you, or my da,” Cory said. “But I’m glad you’re all right, and I’m glad you’re going home. I know it’s what you wanted.”