The Bandit's Robe
The Iron Teeth Mountains rose from the dawn haze like the jawbone of a buried god. Wei Chen pressed a damp cloth to his forehead and tried not to vomit.
Three days since the fever broke. Three days of Mo Yan watching him like a hawk watches a dying rabbit—waiting to see if it would run or collapse. Wei Chen had done neither, though the temptation to collapse had been strong. His curse still hummed beneath his skin, a low thrum that reminded him of the woman's scarf and the pulse he'd felt trapped inside it.
"The main road is faster," Wei Chen said, squinting at the map spread across his knees. "Three days through the pass, maybe four. The hidden path adds at least two more."
Mo Yan stood at the edge of their camp, staring at the mountains. His scarred profile caught the morning light, the burned skin pulling tight across his jaw. He hadn't spoken since they'd broken camp at dawn.
"Are you going to answer me, or are we playing a game where I guess your thoughts?"
"The main road is watched." Mo Yan's voice came rough, like he hadn't used it in hours. "Bandits use the high passes. They'll see us coming half a day before we reach them."
"And the hidden path isn't watched because bandits are famously blind to anything off the main road?"
Mo Yan turned. His good eye fixed on Wei Chen with an intensity that made the merchant's stomach clench. "I know the hidden path. I used it during the war."
The war. Of course. Mo Yan's past clung to him like smoke, impossible to scrub away. Wei Chen folded the map and tucked it into his sleeve. "Fine. The hidden path. But if we get lost and die of thirst in some forgotten ravine, I'm going to be very annoyed."
Mo Yan said nothing. He picked up his pack and started walking.
The hidden path was exactly what Wei Chen had expected—a goat track that wound through boulders and dry creek beds, forcing them to walk single file. The sun climbed higher, and the heat bounced off the stone walls until Wei Chen felt like a dumpling steaming in a bamboo basket. His curse prickled at the edges of his awareness, a constant reminder that somewhere nearby, silk was being woven, traded, worn.
He tried not to think about the woman's scarf. The pulse. The trapped heartbeat.
By midday, they reached a notch in the ridge where the path opened onto a small plateau. A ramshackle building squatted at the far end, its walls made of mud brick and salvaged timber. A faded sign hung above the door, the paint worn to illegibility.
"A tavern," Wei Chen said. "In the middle of nowhere."
"It's a waystation. Traders use it."
"Traders, or bandits pretending to be traders?"
Mo Yan's jaw tightened. "Both."
Wei Chen studied the building. Smoke rose from a chimney, and he could hear the murmur of voices inside. His curse stirred, restless. There was silk in there. Cursed silk.
"We need information," he said. "And I need to sit down before my legs fall off."
Mo Yan grabbed his arm before he could take a step. "We go in, we get supplies, we leave. No gambling."
"I wasn't going to gamble."
"You gambled at the last three stops."
"Those were strategic investments in local goodwill."
Mo Yan's grip tightened. "No gambling."
Wei Chen pulled his arm free. "Fine. No gambling. But if I see an opportunity to gather information, I'm going to take it. That's not gambling. That's intelligence gathering."
Mo Yan's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—a surrender, or maybe just exhaustion. He turned and walked toward the tavern.
The inside was dim and smelled of stale wine and unwashed bodies. A handful of men sat at rough tables, their eyes tracking Wei Chen and Mo Yan as they entered. The tavern keeper, a woman with gray-streaked hair and arms like corded rope, wiped a cup with a rag that had seen better decades.
"What'll it be?" she asked.
"Water," Mo Yan said. "And food."
"Water's free. Food costs."
Wei Chen stepped past Mo Yan and placed a copper coin on the counter. "Two bowls of whatever's hot, and a jug of your best wine for the table in the corner."
The woman's eyes flicked to the coin, then back to Wei Chen's face. "Fancy merchant like you, traveling with a scarred brute. You lost?"
"Just passing through." Wei Chen smiled, the easy, disarming smile he'd perfected over years of market haggling. "Heard the views from the pass are spectacular this time of year."
The woman snorted. "Views. Right." She took the coin and turned toward the kitchen.
They took a table near the back, where Wei Chen could watch the room and Mo Yan could watch the door. The other patrons had gone back to their drinks, but Wei Chen felt their attention like a weight on his shoulders. These weren't traders. The way they held themselves, the way their hands never strayed far from their belts—these were men who made their living taking things that didn't belong to them.
Mo Yan sat with his back to the wall, his hand resting on the knife at his hip. His good eye swept the room in a pattern that Wei Chen had come to recognize—checking exits, counting weapons, identifying threats.
"You're making them nervous," Wei Chen murmured.
"Good."
The food arrived—two bowls of greasy stew and a jug of wine that smelled more like vinegar. Wei Chen ate without tasting, his attention fixed on the table nearest the fire. Four men sat there, their voices low but carrying in the small space. One of them wore a silk robe, deep red with gold embroidery that caught the firelight.
Wei Chen's curse flared. The silk was wrong. He could feel it from across the room, a faint vibration like a plucked string.
"—south to Kumtag," one of the men was saying. "Lady Feng's paying double for quality goods."
"Double?" Another man laughed. "She's paying triple for anything that comes from the western looms. Heard she's got a special order."
The man in the silk robe shifted, and Wei Chen caught a glimpse of his face—hard, scarred, with eyes that had seen too much violence to hold any warmth. "She's paying for silence too. So keep your mouths shut."
Wei Chen's curse pulsed again, stronger this time. The robe was moving, the fabric rippling despite the lack of breeze. He blinked, and for a moment, he thought he saw faces in the folds—pale, distorted, mouths open in silent screams.
He stood up.
Mo Yan's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "Sit down."
"I need to get closer."
"You need to sit down."
"That robe—"
"I know." Mo Yan's voice was barely a whisper. "I can feel it too."
Wei Chen stared at him. "You can feel it?"
"The heat. The way it moves wrong." Mo Yan's grip tightened. "Sit. Down."
Wei Chen sat. But he couldn't look away from the robe. The man wearing it was laughing now, his companions slapping the table at some joke Wei Chen hadn't heard. The fabric rippled, and the faces in the folds twisted.
The tavern keeper brought another jug of wine to their table. "Compliments of the gentleman in the red robe."
Wei Chen looked up. The man in the silk robe was watching him, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He raised his cup in a mock toast.
"Tell him thank you," Wei Chen said.
The tavern keeper shrugged and walked away.
Mo Yan's hand had moved from his knife to something else—a small object hidden in his sleeve. "We need to leave."
"Not yet." Wei Chen picked up the wine jug and walked toward the bandit's table. He could feel Mo Yan's glare boring into his back, but he didn't stop.
The man in the silk robe watched him approach. His companions fell silent, their hands moving toward their weapons.
"Generous hospitality," Wei Chen said, setting the jug on their table. "I had to thank you in person."
The man's smile widened. "A merchant who knows his manners. Rare these days." He gestured to an empty stool. "Sit. Drink with us."
Wei Chen sat. The curse was screaming now, a high-pitched whine that only he could hear. The robe's fabric seemed to writhe, the gold embroidery shifting like snakes.
"I'm looking for information," Wei Chen said, keeping his voice light. "About the road to Kumtag. I hear it's dangerous."
"Dangerous for fools." The man leaned forward. "But a clever man, with the right protection, can travel safely."
"And where would a clever man find such protection?"
The man laughed. "You're looking at it." He tapped his chest. "I am the protection. For a price."
Wei Chen smiled. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement." He reached out, as if to shake the man's hand, but at the last moment, his fingers brushed the sleeve of the silk robe.
The vision hit him like a physical blow.
A loom, massive and ancient, its wooden frame carved with symbols that burned like fire. A woman with silver hair sat before it, her hands moving with impossible speed, weaving threads that glowed with their own light. Beside her, a child cried—a small boy with tear-streaked face and eyes that held no hope.
The woman turned. Her face was beautiful and terrible, her eyes the color of old blood. "Three threads," she whispered. "Three threads for three souls. The debt must be paid."
The child screamed.
Wei Chen jerked his hand back. The vision shattered, leaving him gasping. The bandit was staring at him, his smile gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.
"You felt that," the man said. It wasn't a question.
Wei Chen's curse was burning, the threads beneath his skin writhing like living things. He forced himself to smile, though his hands were shaking. "Felt what? The wine going to my head?"
The man's eyes narrowed. "You're one of them. One of the cursed."
The word hung in the air like a blade. The other bandits shifted, their hands moving to their weapons with practiced ease.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Wei Chen said.
"Yes, you do." The man stood, and the silk robe flowed around him like water. "Lady Feng pays well for cursed ones. She says their threads are the sweetest."
Wei Chen moved without thinking. He grabbed the wine jug and smashed it across the man's face. The bandit staggered back, roaring, and chaos erupted.
The tavern exploded into violence. Tables overturned, chairs shattered, and men were shouting and cursing. Wei Chen dove to the side as a knife whistled past his ear, embedding itself in the wall where his head had been.
Mo Yan was already moving. He met the first bandit with a blade to the throat, spinning past the second with a kick that sent him crashing into the fire pit. The man in the silk robe was on his feet again, blood streaming down his face, his hand reaching for something at his belt.
Wei Chen's curse screamed. The silk robe was alive, the fabric writhing and twisting, reaching for him with threads that moved like fingers. He scrambled backward, but the threads were faster—they wrapped around his ankle, pulling him toward the bandit.
"Little fish," the man snarled. "Caught in my net."
Mo Yan appeared beside him. His blade flashed, severing the threads, and the silk robe recoiled as if wounded. The bandit howled, clutching at his chest where the fabric had torn.
"Run," Mo Yan said.
They ran.
The tavern door burst open, and they spilled into the sunlight. Behind them, the bandits were shouting, gathering themselves for pursuit. Wei Chen's lungs burned as he ran, his curse still throbbing from the contact with the robe.
"The path," Mo Yan said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward a narrow gap between two boulders. "This way."
They ducked into the crevice, the stone walls scraping their shoulders. Behind them, the bandits' voices grew louder, then faded as the path twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the mountain's heart.
Wei Chen stumbled, his legs giving out. Mo Yan caught him, lowering him to the ground. The merchant's hands were shaking, his curse still humming with residual energy.
"The robe," Wei Chen gasped. "I saw—"
"I know." Mo Yan knelt beside him, his scarred face unreadable. "I saw your face when you touched it. What did you see?"
Wei Chen closed his eyes. The vision was burned into his mind—the loom, the silver-haired woman, the crying child. "A loom. A woman. She said something about three threads. Three souls."
Mo Yan went still. "Three threads?"
"You know what it means?"
The guard's silence was answer enough. Wei Chen opened his eyes and found Mo Yan staring at the ground, his jaw tight.
"It's the name of the pact," Mo Yan said finally. "The one I told you about. Three generals, three threads, one promise."
"And your general—Zhao—he was one of them."
"Yes."
Wei Chen's curse pulsed, and he saw again the child's face, the tears, the hopelessness. "The child in the vision. It was me."
Mo Yan looked up. "What?"
"I was the child. I don't know how, but I was there. At the loom. With the silver-haired woman." Wei Chen's voice cracked. "She said the debt must be paid. Three threads for three souls."
Mo Yan's hand found his, rough and calloused. "We'll find the answers. In Kumtag."
"And if the answers kill us?"
"Then we die knowing the truth." Mo Yan's grip tightened. "That's more than most people get."
Wei Chen laughed, a broken sound that echoed off the stone walls. "You're a terrible optimist."
"I'm a realist. The truth is all we have left."
They sat in the shadow of the mountain, the bandits' voices fading in the distance. Wei Chen's curse still hummed, but softer now, like a lullaby. He thought of the loom, the woman, the child who had been him.
Somewhere ahead, the threads of his fate were waiting to be woven.
Three days since the fever broke. Three days of Mo Yan watching him like a hawk watches a dying rabbit—waiting to see if it would run or collapse. Wei Chen had done neither, though the temptation to collapse had been strong. His curse still hummed beneath his skin, a low thrum that reminded him of the woman's scarf and the pulse he'd felt trapped inside it.
"The main road is faster," Wei Chen said, squinting at the map spread across his knees. "Three days through the pass, maybe four. The hidden path adds at least two more."
Mo Yan stood at the edge of their camp, staring at the mountains. His scarred profile caught the morning light, the burned skin pulling tight across his jaw. He hadn't spoken since they'd broken camp at dawn.
"Are you going to answer me, or are we playing a game where I guess your thoughts?"
"The main road is watched." Mo Yan's voice came rough, like he hadn't used it in hours. "Bandits use the high passes. They'll see us coming half a day before we reach them."
"And the hidden path isn't watched because bandits are famously blind to anything off the main road?"
Mo Yan turned. His good eye fixed on Wei Chen with an intensity that made the merchant's stomach clench. "I know the hidden path. I used it during the war."
The war. Of course. Mo Yan's past clung to him like smoke, impossible to scrub away. Wei Chen folded the map and tucked it into his sleeve. "Fine. The hidden path. But if we get lost and die of thirst in some forgotten ravine, I'm going to be very annoyed."
Mo Yan said nothing. He picked up his pack and started walking.
The hidden path was exactly what Wei Chen had expected—a goat track that wound through boulders and dry creek beds, forcing them to walk single file. The sun climbed higher, and the heat bounced off the stone walls until Wei Chen felt like a dumpling steaming in a bamboo basket. His curse prickled at the edges of his awareness, a constant reminder that somewhere nearby, silk was being woven, traded, worn.
He tried not to think about the woman's scarf. The pulse. The trapped heartbeat.
By midday, they reached a notch in the ridge where the path opened onto a small plateau. A ramshackle building squatted at the far end, its walls made of mud brick and salvaged timber. A faded sign hung above the door, the paint worn to illegibility.
"A tavern," Wei Chen said. "In the middle of nowhere."
"It's a waystation. Traders use it."
"Traders, or bandits pretending to be traders?"
Mo Yan's jaw tightened. "Both."
Wei Chen studied the building. Smoke rose from a chimney, and he could hear the murmur of voices inside. His curse stirred, restless. There was silk in there. Cursed silk.
"We need information," he said. "And I need to sit down before my legs fall off."
Mo Yan grabbed his arm before he could take a step. "We go in, we get supplies, we leave. No gambling."
"I wasn't going to gamble."
"You gambled at the last three stops."
"Those were strategic investments in local goodwill."
Mo Yan's grip tightened. "No gambling."
Wei Chen pulled his arm free. "Fine. No gambling. But if I see an opportunity to gather information, I'm going to take it. That's not gambling. That's intelligence gathering."
Mo Yan's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—a surrender, or maybe just exhaustion. He turned and walked toward the tavern.
The inside was dim and smelled of stale wine and unwashed bodies. A handful of men sat at rough tables, their eyes tracking Wei Chen and Mo Yan as they entered. The tavern keeper, a woman with gray-streaked hair and arms like corded rope, wiped a cup with a rag that had seen better decades.
"What'll it be?" she asked.
"Water," Mo Yan said. "And food."
"Water's free. Food costs."
Wei Chen stepped past Mo Yan and placed a copper coin on the counter. "Two bowls of whatever's hot, and a jug of your best wine for the table in the corner."
The woman's eyes flicked to the coin, then back to Wei Chen's face. "Fancy merchant like you, traveling with a scarred brute. You lost?"
"Just passing through." Wei Chen smiled, the easy, disarming smile he'd perfected over years of market haggling. "Heard the views from the pass are spectacular this time of year."
The woman snorted. "Views. Right." She took the coin and turned toward the kitchen.
They took a table near the back, where Wei Chen could watch the room and Mo Yan could watch the door. The other patrons had gone back to their drinks, but Wei Chen felt their attention like a weight on his shoulders. These weren't traders. The way they held themselves, the way their hands never strayed far from their belts—these were men who made their living taking things that didn't belong to them.
Mo Yan sat with his back to the wall, his hand resting on the knife at his hip. His good eye swept the room in a pattern that Wei Chen had come to recognize—checking exits, counting weapons, identifying threats.
"You're making them nervous," Wei Chen murmured.
"Good."
The food arrived—two bowls of greasy stew and a jug of wine that smelled more like vinegar. Wei Chen ate without tasting, his attention fixed on the table nearest the fire. Four men sat there, their voices low but carrying in the small space. One of them wore a silk robe, deep red with gold embroidery that caught the firelight.
Wei Chen's curse flared. The silk was wrong. He could feel it from across the room, a faint vibration like a plucked string.
"—south to Kumtag," one of the men was saying. "Lady Feng's paying double for quality goods."
"Double?" Another man laughed. "She's paying triple for anything that comes from the western looms. Heard she's got a special order."
The man in the silk robe shifted, and Wei Chen caught a glimpse of his face—hard, scarred, with eyes that had seen too much violence to hold any warmth. "She's paying for silence too. So keep your mouths shut."
Wei Chen's curse pulsed again, stronger this time. The robe was moving, the fabric rippling despite the lack of breeze. He blinked, and for a moment, he thought he saw faces in the folds—pale, distorted, mouths open in silent screams.
He stood up.
Mo Yan's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "Sit down."
"I need to get closer."
"You need to sit down."
"That robe—"
"I know." Mo Yan's voice was barely a whisper. "I can feel it too."
Wei Chen stared at him. "You can feel it?"
"The heat. The way it moves wrong." Mo Yan's grip tightened. "Sit. Down."
Wei Chen sat. But he couldn't look away from the robe. The man wearing it was laughing now, his companions slapping the table at some joke Wei Chen hadn't heard. The fabric rippled, and the faces in the folds twisted.
The tavern keeper brought another jug of wine to their table. "Compliments of the gentleman in the red robe."
Wei Chen looked up. The man in the silk robe was watching him, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He raised his cup in a mock toast.
"Tell him thank you," Wei Chen said.
The tavern keeper shrugged and walked away.
Mo Yan's hand had moved from his knife to something else—a small object hidden in his sleeve. "We need to leave."
"Not yet." Wei Chen picked up the wine jug and walked toward the bandit's table. He could feel Mo Yan's glare boring into his back, but he didn't stop.
The man in the silk robe watched him approach. His companions fell silent, their hands moving toward their weapons.
"Generous hospitality," Wei Chen said, setting the jug on their table. "I had to thank you in person."
The man's smile widened. "A merchant who knows his manners. Rare these days." He gestured to an empty stool. "Sit. Drink with us."
Wei Chen sat. The curse was screaming now, a high-pitched whine that only he could hear. The robe's fabric seemed to writhe, the gold embroidery shifting like snakes.
"I'm looking for information," Wei Chen said, keeping his voice light. "About the road to Kumtag. I hear it's dangerous."
"Dangerous for fools." The man leaned forward. "But a clever man, with the right protection, can travel safely."
"And where would a clever man find such protection?"
The man laughed. "You're looking at it." He tapped his chest. "I am the protection. For a price."
Wei Chen smiled. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement." He reached out, as if to shake the man's hand, but at the last moment, his fingers brushed the sleeve of the silk robe.
The vision hit him like a physical blow.
A loom, massive and ancient, its wooden frame carved with symbols that burned like fire. A woman with silver hair sat before it, her hands moving with impossible speed, weaving threads that glowed with their own light. Beside her, a child cried—a small boy with tear-streaked face and eyes that held no hope.
The woman turned. Her face was beautiful and terrible, her eyes the color of old blood. "Three threads," she whispered. "Three threads for three souls. The debt must be paid."
The child screamed.
Wei Chen jerked his hand back. The vision shattered, leaving him gasping. The bandit was staring at him, his smile gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.
"You felt that," the man said. It wasn't a question.
Wei Chen's curse was burning, the threads beneath his skin writhing like living things. He forced himself to smile, though his hands were shaking. "Felt what? The wine going to my head?"
The man's eyes narrowed. "You're one of them. One of the cursed."
The word hung in the air like a blade. The other bandits shifted, their hands moving to their weapons with practiced ease.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Wei Chen said.
"Yes, you do." The man stood, and the silk robe flowed around him like water. "Lady Feng pays well for cursed ones. She says their threads are the sweetest."
Wei Chen moved without thinking. He grabbed the wine jug and smashed it across the man's face. The bandit staggered back, roaring, and chaos erupted.
The tavern exploded into violence. Tables overturned, chairs shattered, and men were shouting and cursing. Wei Chen dove to the side as a knife whistled past his ear, embedding itself in the wall where his head had been.
Mo Yan was already moving. He met the first bandit with a blade to the throat, spinning past the second with a kick that sent him crashing into the fire pit. The man in the silk robe was on his feet again, blood streaming down his face, his hand reaching for something at his belt.
Wei Chen's curse screamed. The silk robe was alive, the fabric writhing and twisting, reaching for him with threads that moved like fingers. He scrambled backward, but the threads were faster—they wrapped around his ankle, pulling him toward the bandit.
"Little fish," the man snarled. "Caught in my net."
Mo Yan appeared beside him. His blade flashed, severing the threads, and the silk robe recoiled as if wounded. The bandit howled, clutching at his chest where the fabric had torn.
"Run," Mo Yan said.
They ran.
The tavern door burst open, and they spilled into the sunlight. Behind them, the bandits were shouting, gathering themselves for pursuit. Wei Chen's lungs burned as he ran, his curse still throbbing from the contact with the robe.
"The path," Mo Yan said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward a narrow gap between two boulders. "This way."
They ducked into the crevice, the stone walls scraping their shoulders. Behind them, the bandits' voices grew louder, then faded as the path twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the mountain's heart.
Wei Chen stumbled, his legs giving out. Mo Yan caught him, lowering him to the ground. The merchant's hands were shaking, his curse still humming with residual energy.
"The robe," Wei Chen gasped. "I saw—"
"I know." Mo Yan knelt beside him, his scarred face unreadable. "I saw your face when you touched it. What did you see?"
Wei Chen closed his eyes. The vision was burned into his mind—the loom, the silver-haired woman, the crying child. "A loom. A woman. She said something about three threads. Three souls."
Mo Yan went still. "Three threads?"
"You know what it means?"
The guard's silence was answer enough. Wei Chen opened his eyes and found Mo Yan staring at the ground, his jaw tight.
"It's the name of the pact," Mo Yan said finally. "The one I told you about. Three generals, three threads, one promise."
"And your general—Zhao—he was one of them."
"Yes."
Wei Chen's curse pulsed, and he saw again the child's face, the tears, the hopelessness. "The child in the vision. It was me."
Mo Yan looked up. "What?"
"I was the child. I don't know how, but I was there. At the loom. With the silver-haired woman." Wei Chen's voice cracked. "She said the debt must be paid. Three threads for three souls."
Mo Yan's hand found his, rough and calloused. "We'll find the answers. In Kumtag."
"And if the answers kill us?"
"Then we die knowing the truth." Mo Yan's grip tightened. "That's more than most people get."
Wei Chen laughed, a broken sound that echoed off the stone walls. "You're a terrible optimist."
"I'm a realist. The truth is all we have left."
They sat in the shadow of the mountain, the bandits' voices fading in the distance. Wei Chen's curse still hummed, but softer now, like a lullaby. He thought of the loom, the woman, the child who had been him.
Somewhere ahead, the threads of his fate were waiting to be woven.