Father, Sons, and Brothers

Damian walked deeper into the market.

Past the crooked palm tree at the end of Orange Street, the road suddenly narrowed. The two-story brick-and-wood buildings on either side gave way to old single-story wooden huts. Signs became sparse; some shops had none at all, only a plank set outside with scrawled chalk words like "Buying Dried Fish" and "Wholesale Rope."

There were fewer people here than on Orange Street, and it was quieter too.

Damian stopped at a dried fish stall. The owner was an old man in his fifties, the sea wind having carved deep, dense wrinkles into his face. He was taking strings of dried fish down from a wooden rack and stacking them into bamboo baskets.

"Sir." Damian crouched and picked up a string of dried fish, turning it over in his hands.

"How was this year's catch?"

The old man glanced up at him. A young man in his early twenties, broad-shouldered and dressed in coarse cloth—not some rich young master.

He continued stacking the fish. "Manageable. The catch was smaller this year, but prices went up a little. Didn't do much good, though. Whatever extra we made went to someone else."

"To whom?"

The old man's hands paused. He looked left and right, then lowered his head and resumed stacking the fish. "You're new here, aren't you?"

"I docked yesterday."

"Then don't ask. Newcomers shouldn't pry into Orange Town's affairs. Pry too much, and the bottom of your boat might spring a leak."

The old man stuffed the last string of fish into the basket and rubbed his nose with his sleeve. He said nothing more.

Damian stood and continued onward.

Over the next stretch of time, he chatted with four stall owners.

One sold rope, one sold fruit, one sold cloth, and another was an old cobbler repairing shoes at the mouth of an alley. No one mentioned the name "Edwin" outright, but the same shadow lay behind every word. The person taking a cut was none other than the mayor himself.

Damian crouched before the cobbler's stall and turned over his shoe for the old man to inspect. "Master, can this sole still be patched?"

The old cobbler took the shoe and pushed up his reading glasses. "It can. Fifty Beli."

"I asked at the shop by the street entrance just now. He wanted a hundred."

The old cobbler snorted. "That shop has to hand Morris twenty percent of its monthly revenue. How's he supposed to survive without raising prices?"

"Morris is the mayor's son?"

"The second son." The cobbler drove an awl into the sole and twisted his wrist. The hemp thread slid through the leather with a creak.

"The eldest son used to run things. Decent young man. In the two years he managed the market, the number of shops went up by twenty percent. Then the second son took over, and the shops dwindled again. Outside merchants couldn't bear the cuts and more than half of them left. Now only locals like us are left. We can't leave, and we don't want to."

He pulled out the awl. "Life goes on somehow."

"Where did the eldest son go?"

The cobbler's awl froze in midair. "I heard he had a fight with his old man and got locked up at home."

He drove the awl back into the sole. "His father said the policies and plans he proposed were 'thankless work.' The young man slapped the table and said his old man did nothing but take cuts, and that Orange Town would be drained dry sooner or later."

"And then?"

"The next day, someone else was put in charge of the market." The old cobbler handed over the repaired shoe.

"Fifty Beli."

Damian paid, put on his shoe, and stood. Dust clung to his knees, but he did not brush it off. He headed toward the town hall.

The town hall stood at the northern end of Orange Street, a two-story brick building with a wooden plaque over the entrance reading, "Town Hall."

The main doors were shut. Two men sat on the steps outside.

One leaned against a pillar, dozing with his hat over his face. The other sat cross-legged, holding a deck of cards and playing by himself.

Damian walked up the steps. The cross-legged man lifted his eyelids and glanced at him.

"The mayor isn't seeing visitors today."

"I have business with the mayor."

"Everyone has business with the mayor." The man lowered his head and continued shuffling. "Come back tomorrow. Or the day after. Any day is fine, just not today. Today is the mayor's day off."

He flipped over a card, looked at it, then tossed it aside. "It's my day off too. Get lost."

Damian stood on the steps, staring at the tightly shut doors. A sliver of light shone through the crack, dust floating within it.

He turned and walked down the steps without looking back.

Edwin's address was not hard to find. Anyone on Orange Street could tell him. The only estate in town was less than half an hour's walk from the market.

At the end of Orange Street lay a dirt road winding up the hillside. The estate stood on the slope, backed by a sparse pine grove. It was not large, but in a place like Orange Town, it was an ostentatious sight: white courtyard walls enclosing a two-story brick house, its windows fitted with iron bars still coated in fresh paint.

Damian reached the iron gate, lifted the knocker, and struck it three times.

After quite a while, a small window in the gate opened. A gray-haired butler looked out. "Who are you looking for?"

"Edwin's eldest son."

"Mr. Edwin has ordered that the eldest young master is unwell and receiving no visitors."

The butler was about to close the small window when Damian pressed his hand against its shutter. The butler tugged twice from inside, but could not move it.

"I mean no harm."

"If you don't leave, I'll call someone."

Damian lowered his hand and took a step back. The butler glanced at him, then shut the window.

Damian turned and walked along the courtyard wall toward the hillside. At the rear of the estate, the wall bent around a corner. A crooked pine tree stood there, its trunk slanting from outside the wall into the estate, leaving a gap just above the wall.

He stepped onto the trunk, braced a hand against the top of the wall, and vaulted over.

No one was in the garden. The lawn had been trimmed unevenly, several bushes had grown wild, and fallen leaves still littered the stone path. Clearly, the butler did not tend to this place often.

Damian crossed the garden and reached the villa's back door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and walked inside.

At the end of the corridor was a half-open door with lamplight spilling through the gap. He walked over and knocked.

There was no response, so he knocked twice more.

"Come in." A man's voice answered, low and slightly hoarse.

Damian pushed open the door. It was a small study, every wall lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves stuffed with books and scrolls.

Books were piled across the desk as well. A lamp stood at one corner, its dark green shade concentrating the light into a small circle, leaving everything beyond it in shadow.

Someone sat behind the desk. He looked seven or eight years older than Damian, with a broad forehead, square jaw, and silver-rimmed glasses.

His hair was combed neatly back, though several strands at his temples had turned white. His hands were folded atop the desk, the lamp casting rings of shadow over his knuckles.

"You're the first person to climb over the wall and get in."

The corner of his mouth twitched as he spoke, but it was not a smile.

"The butler has turned away plenty of people at the gate, but you're the first to make it into this study. Sit."

Damian sat across from him.

"Who are you?"

"Uchiha Damian."

The man behind the desk pushed up his glasses. "Uchiha? I've never seen that surname before. Where are you from?"

Damian did not answer. He looked at the scroll spread across the desk. It was a development plan for the Orange Town market, densely marked with red notes. The handwriting was small and meticulous.

"I asked around about you. The merchants in the market said that during the two years you took over, business was good, and the number of outside merchants doubled."

He lifted his gaze from the plan. "They also said you slapped your father's table."

The man behind the desk fell silent. He set down the pen in his hand and leaned back in his chair. The green lamplight split his face into light and shadow.

"What are you trying to do by asking about all this?"

"Do you want to be mayor?"

The study fell quiet. The flame inside the lamp shade flickered almost imperceptibly.

"What do you mean?"

"I simply think you are better suited to be mayor."

"From what I've learned, your father and your brother are completely unfit to be administrators. Orange Town is not badly located. Its harbor can berth large ships, its market can distribute cargo, and it sits near the Konomi Archipelago and the Goa Kingdom. A place like this should not be reduced to this."

The man behind the desk unfolded his clasped hands.

"You've met Morris?"

"No."

"Then you've met Edwin?"

"No."

"Then how do you know they're incompetent?"

Damian lowered his hand from the desk. "Not a single merchant in the market failed to shake his head when Morris was mentioned. But when they mentioned you..." He met the other man's gaze. "They said, 'He's a good young man.'"

The eyes behind the lenses shifted. The man behind the desk removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with the hem of his clothes.

"My name is Ando. Edwin is my father." He looked at the market plan on the desk. "Those plans you mentioned, the things meant to promote commerce... I haven't touched them in years."

"Why not?"

"Because I cannot even leave this study."

Ando lightly tapped his fingers against the armrest.

"After my father handed the market over to Morris, I was locked in here. The excuse was that I was recuperating, but I am not sick."

He lowered his hand from the armrest. "Orange Town's problem is not Morris. Morris is merely greedy. He takes cuts from the market, and while they are heavy, the stall owners can still grit their teeth and endure them."

"The real problem is my father. He turns a blind eye to certain things because someone is helping him keep Orange Town functioning at a basic level. That person is neither my father nor Morris."

Damian waited a beat.

"Melton."

Ando rolled up the plan and placed it at the corner of the desk.

"No one knows when Melton came to Orange Town. The black market used to belong to him alone. Later, it became something he shared with the mayor."

"My father tolerates his existence and takes a share from the black market. Morris buys goods from him. What does he deal in? Slaves, embargoed goods, illegal drugs. Every business in Orange Town that cannot stand the light belongs to him."

His voice lowered. "My father knows exactly what Melton does. But the 'tax' Melton pays the town hall every year supports everyone in that building. You went to the town hall just now. What did you see?"

"A bunch of people wasting their lives."

"They can keep wasting their lives because someone else does the work they should be doing. Melton 'manages' the black market for them, and Morris 'manages' the market for them. My father manages everything, yet manages nothing."

Damian stood and walked to the study window.

"Where are they now?"

Ando's gaze fell within the circle of lamplight. "They should be enjoying themselves at one of Melton's places. Morris goes there every few days. My father goes occasionally too."

He pulled a sheet of paper from the corner of the desk, flattened it with his fingers, and pushed it to the edge. "This is the address. It's the largest underground casino in town. Above ground, it is a ship equipment shop. The entrance below is in the back alley behind the warehouse."

Damian picked up the slip of paper. It was small, its edges unevenly cut. The handwriting was as fine and neat as the notes on the plan.

"Aren't you afraid I'm one of Melton's men?"

"Melton's men would not climb over the wall. Before entering this study, they would first have to get past my father."

Ando removed his glasses and set them on the desk. "You found me, asked all these questions... what exactly does that mean?"

Damian folded the slip of paper and tucked it into his clothes.

He walked to the doorway, resting a hand on the frame without turning back.

"It means Orange Town will not remain like this forever."

He walked out of the study and pulled the door shut behind him.