Free Taming Poison Dragons by Tim Murgatroyd

spoilt and vain, clung to his mother in ways which made me wonder about their relations. He was short and wiry as a fox, and quite as dainty. Then there was Cousin Yi-Yi, a strapping, amiable fellow, but one that would normally be classified as an idiot. Finally, Cousin Hong, the first-born, and Uncle’s heir.
    Honoured Aunty ruled the family through force and guile. Her eyebrows were exceptionally long and curved, betraying an angry temperament. A short, dumpy woman, she had married Uncle when he was still poor, and hawked his wares on the street until freed by prosperity.
    Her clothes, though of the finest – and I soon became aware she took professional advice on matters of style –never seemed to quite fit. Her favourite haunt was a gilded, ivory chair decorated with carved dragons. She had ordered a similar throne for Uncle, though I never saw him use it. Around this cardinal point the servants scurried. Others came on business, including a sorcerer who had daily converse with demons. I was terrified of this old man, with his spells and brazier for burning animals’ tender organs. One day he winked at me suggestively and said (he was inebriated at the time): ‘I hope my mistress’s enemies don’t hear about the curses I place on them. They might wonder why they are always in good health.’ After this I avoided him even more. His taste for young boys was notorious in the household, and Honoured Aunty sometimes insisted the prettiest of the apprentices satisfy it.
    As for her attitude to me, I was grateful for indifference.
    Cousin Zhi was her obsession, leaving no energy for anyone else. Despite the edict that every son should follow the profession of his father, she had consulted the most expensive astrologers in the city, and determined he would pass the examination to become an official and gain the highest honours. Needless to say, Cousin Zhi was in complete agreement with this destiny.
    I recall one interview with Honoured Aunty, a week after my arrival. She summoned me before her splendid chair and set about me with a bamboo-stick of questions.
    I knelt before her, head bowed.
    ‘How many silk dresses does your mother own?’
    ‘I do not know, Honoured Aunty. Forgive me.’
    ‘How many servants do your parents have?’
    ‘A dozen in the house. Then there is the whole village.’
    This answer displeased her.
    ‘What title does my husband’s brother use?’
    ‘Lord,’ I said, simply.
    ‘You seem very sure of yourself. Remember you are in my house now.’
    Her tone frightened me. My position was precarious, without a single friend in a limitless, strange city. I remembered my mother’s warning to never offend her.
    ‘If I am at fault, Honoured Aunty, I beg a thousand pardons,’ I said.
    ‘How many pigs are there in your father’s sty? I take it he eats meat once a week, or does he find it too expensive?’
    And so it went on.
    ‘Does your father travel by litter or walk everywhere?
    No doubt he cannot afford a horse.’
    I forget the other questions. There were many. Finally she touched upon her true fears.
    ‘They say you write good poems and this is why your father thinks you will succeed in the examination. Is this true?’
    I shrugged modestly. Yet a note of defiance touched my voice, the tiniest trace, for I sensed her iron, vengeful nature. I sensed, too, she respected strength.
    ‘In the City of Heaven,’ I began, then fell silent.
    ‘What? Speak louder!’
    I recited a poem composed to impress my new teachers at the Academy. A formal, tiresome piece, yet exceptional from one so young. I have it still on a yellowed sheet of paper, my brush-strokes crude and earnest. It provoked amazement when I showed it to my teachers, for I had mimicked the court style of the Early Tang perfectly, through complex internal rhymes and an elaborate pattern of tones.
    In the City of Heaven a thousand voices.
    Urgent fluttering wings of cicadas.
    Crickets sing until daybreak.
    I must heed when teachers