by Jeff Wheeler
Although Budai’s dominion was not as vast as some of the other kings who ruled coastline towns, Wangfujing was not an easy prey, and Budai knew how to persuade people to serve his purposes. His power had grown. Greed drove him, but at least he was fair to them. Kunmia had worked for his father as well and was trusted in his court. Her integrity and sense of duty fetched a premium in her pay.
“Can we eat before we see Budai?” Marenqo asked innocently.
“You don’t think we’ll be feasted at the palace?” Mieshi asked, giving him a mocking smile.
“I’m counting on it. I’d hoped to eat twice as much.”
His quip earned him grins all around. It felt better to jest than to focus on what they’d endured to get there. The fisherman’s son, Quion, began to untie the ropes and brought down the sail slowly yet efficiently. Kunmia approached Bingmei’s seat and squatted near her.
“How are you feeling? Warmer?” she asked.
“I’m much better. The old clothes are still wet, but they’ll dry quickly enough in front of a fire.”
Kunmia nodded. “You will help the boy sell his fish,” she said. “See that he chooses an honest fishmonger. Then bring him to King Budai’s palace with you.”
Bingmei had looked forward to arriving in honor with Kunmia and the others. Her task was distasteful to her, but it was not her place to refuse it.
“Yes, Master,” she said, bowing her head.
Kunmia touched her knee in gratitude and then rose and conferred quietly with the young man. When they reached the wharf and tied off, they were thronged immediately by peddlers seeking news of the cargo of the ship. Kunmia passed them, saying nothing. Bingmei saw the Phoenix Blade had been wrapped in a cloak and tied to Kunmia’s pack, disguising it. She felt that queer craving in her belly upon seeing it. It was a valuable sword. No doubt the Qiangdao leader had killed someone to obtain it. The others followed the ensign master out of the boat, leaving Bingmei and Quion alone to face the crowd. The young man’s father had been buried at sea at the peak of noon with prayers to the Dragon of Dawn to safeguard part of his soul to the afterlife.
There were several fishmongers among the peddlers, and they barged forward to interrogate the young man. He looked overwhelmed by all the voices, some shouting prices at him, others declaring that his fish stank. An inexperienced barterer, then. Bingmei stepped forward and shrugged out of the fur blanket to help him.
“Be quiet, all of you!” she shouted as she stepped out onto the wharf. Although she was young, she used a commanding voice and adopted a posture of power. “Only those who can pay and take possession now, come forward. The rest, go back. Do not waste our time!”
Quion gave her a look of thanks. He went to his nets to fetch a sample.
“Quickly, quickly!” Bingmei said, gesturing to shoo away those who were merely gawkers. She walked down the line of men, inhaling their natural smells as well as the smells of their intentions. Some of their intentions were so awful it made her wince. They shouted at her, pressing in around her, trying to outbid each other right there on the dock. Some were lying outright, hoping their high price would scare off others from bidding, even though they were incapable of paying that amount. She knew many of their tricks, having been tutored by Marenqo, who was quite a barterer himself.
Only two of them had the smell of honest men. She went back to the boat and gestured for Quion to produce the samples from his nets. He joined her on the wharf, and the mongers crowded even closer. Some criticized the fish as paltry, too small. Quion opened his mouth to argue, but Bingmei elbowed him in the ribs to silence him and shook her head curtly.
She watched the crowd, listening to the offers, keeping her attention on the two honest men. When one of them backed away and left, she chose the other, which not only stunned him with surprise—his wasn’t the highest bid—but incensed the other fishmongers, who railed at her and called her foolish.
This infuriated Quion again.
“Don’t speak so rudely!” he blustered, his cheeks turning red.
She butted him again, giving him a scolding look, and concluded the deal with the fishmonger she’d chosen. Soon the others faded away, although some lingered in case the deal failed. She knew it wouldn’t. The honest one smelled not only of fish but of mint as well.
The buyer was permitted to board the boat and inspect the catch, which Bingmei saw more than pleased him. There was a reckoning with a local money changer, who accepted the oath of the monger and provided Quion with the agreed-upon cowry shells. Those shells couldn’t be spent in Wangfujing, but they could be traded there for bronze coins of higher value.
They had to wait in the boat for the monger’s servants to arrive to haul off their catch, which made Bingmei more and more impatient. She wanted to be at King Budai’s palace with the others, not stranded at the wharf. Once the deal was concluded, Quion dunked the nets in the river to clean them and then stuffed them in crates, which he secured with a rope lock. She watched in curiosity as his hands deftly tied the knots. He secured the sail the same way, tying off a strange knot with an intricate pattern. She’d not seen that kind of work before.
It was after dark by the time they finally left the boat and paid a guard at the dock a few shells to protect it. Quion had girded himself with a heavy travel pack, complete with small pots dangling from the straps. He would stand out as a foreigner walking through town with all his possessions clinging to his back. But she understood his reluctance to leave his things behind. Trust was a luxury very few could afford. As they approached the inner streets of Wangfujing, the warm light cast by the globe lanterns dangling from rooftops seemed to welcome them.
“Follow me,” Bingmei said.
He gazed at the town, staring up in wonder as they climbed the steep steps to cross the first bridge. The murky water below glimmered with the lantern light. They passed vendors with huge steaming skillets full of frogs or seaweed-wrapped delights. As Bingmei walked, she inhaled the savory scents, listening to the bustle and commotion of the street.
“Thank you,” Quion said to her, bumping her elbow with his. One of his pots clanked on his back.
She looked at him in confusion.
“For helping me sell my catch,” he said.
“I only did what my master commanded me,” she answered.
“I know, but I’m grateful. She said you had a way . . . that you knew if someone was dishonest?” He shook his head in confusion.
She wasn’t about to confide in him. “It’s one of my instincts. I just know. Most people are dishonest. That makes it easier to find those who aren’t. That cook, for example.” She nodded to a vendor across the way. “Never buy from him. He talks and boasts and seems friendly.” She shook her head. “But he robs those who buy his food.” There was a rotting odor to the man.
They had to pick their way through the crowded streets, which meant they were moving more slowly than Bingmei would have liked, but the city was beautiful at dusk—the drab gray walls of the buildings glowed with lantern light. As they walked, they passed an intricate wooden stage. People sat on the benches built around it, chatting and eating the food they’d chosen for dinner, but the stage was empty. There was no festival that night, no decrees to be announced. Along the way were shops with carved stone idols, shaped after animals both magical and mundane. Quion stared at everything, which made her grin in spite of herself.
She’d felt the same wonder on her first visit.
Suddenly, the fisherman’s son came to an abrupt stop, gazing in horror at a vendor selling scorpions wriggling on sticks.
“They . . . eat . . . those?” he whispered to her, his face showing his disgust.
“They’re a specialty here,” Bingmei said. “You must try them.”
“Never,” Quion said vehemently.
“We don’t eat them raw,” she said. She withdrew a small bronze coin from the purse hidden beneath her tunic, then tucked the pouch back out of sight. When she offered the coin to the vendor
, he took one of the many sticks of wriggling scorpions and dipped it into a vat of bubbling oil. Bingmei grinned at the queasy look on Quion’s face as he watched the vat.
A short while later, the cook withdrew the dripping stick from the vat and doused it with spices from a shaker. The scorpions had all perished, of course, and were brittle and still. Bingmei took the skewer and bit off the first one. It was crunchy and full of flavor.
“You try one,” she said, offering him the skewer. Another man shoved past them to buy some for himself. “They come by ship from the desert.”
Quion stared at her, then at the skewer, his nose twitching with discomfort.
“Why would you eat that?” he asked with a pained look.
“They’re good,” she said.
A few bystanders had caught on to his discomfort. Their pointing and laughter seemed to embarrass him, and he took the skewer from her, likely just to end the spectacle.
“Don’t think about it, just eat it,” she said coaxingly.
Quion took a few deep breaths. He was building up his courage. When she’d come to Wangfujing before, she’d seen Marenqo eat four or five of these skewers by himself. He loved the various local fares.
Timidly, Quion brought the skewer to his lips and, wincing, bit off one of the scorpions. He grimaced as he began to crunch into it, and then his eyes widened in surprise as the flavors from the spices delighted his mouth.
“See?” she said, snatching the skewer back from him and taking another.
He nodded vigorously. “That is . . . I’m glad you . . . I wouldn’t have thought . . .”
He stumbled over his words and then smiled as she handed him the last scorpion.
A sharp smell hit her, so intense it made her eyes water. The damp rot of dishonesty. A person stumbled and fell against her, knocking her down. He mumbled an apology, trying to help her stand, but he reeked of ill intent.
Bad smells abounded. Someone was pointing at her on the ground, laughing.
And then she saw a wiry man slip the bag of cowry shells out of Quion’s pocket while the fisherman’s son stared down at her worriedly. He smelled even worse than his friend.
“Get away from her!” Quion said to the first man, trying to wrench him away from Bingmei.
She got to her feet, anger surging inside her as the thief slipped off into the crowd.
“Thief,” she called out. She fixed Quion with a look. “Stay here.”
She charged into the crowd after the wiry man.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Smell of Greed
Even though Bingmei could not see the wiry man, she could smell him. Angry shouts and disgruntled looks met her as she carved a path through the pressing crowd, weaving around the slower walkers as she made her way down aisles of vendors selling carvings, trinkets, and local dishes. She collided once with a larger man, who scolded her as if she were a street waif. When he tried to grab her to scold her some more, she broke free and continued in her pursuit past ancient stone houses with slanted roofs.
Her quarry had reached another stone bridge that crossed the river, and she caught a glimpse of him before he slipped out of sight. She was tempted to reach into her pocket and invoke the wooden cricket, which would have enabled her to leap up to the top of the bridge and cut him off, but it was forbidden to invoke magic in any town. Although the cricket had never summoned a wisp of fog, using it within Wangfujing would be a greater crime than the theft of cowry shells.
Anger roiled inside her as she ran up the arch of the bridge in fast pursuit, and went down the other side. The thief’s scent was still strong. Following it, she went deeper into Wangfujing, with its assortment of scorpion sticks, frogs, and other delicacies. She was about to pass a stone carver, one who made animals out of marble, when she realized the scent disappeared into his little ramshackle booth. She marched past the owner, who had a sour smell all his own, ignoring his questions, and followed the smell of the thief through the back.
There weren’t any lanterns on this side, and the alley lay dark, full of shadow. Her nose told her which way he had gone. The street had broken, uneven slabs of stone, so she slowed her pace, knowing he would need to do the same. The guffaws and noise from the main street masked any noise the man might be making in his escape, and the smell of sewage in the alley made him harder to track. She frowned, judging her way carefully.
Reaching another crooked side street, she smelled him again, along with the scent of several other men. He wasn’t alone after all. Or this was where his gang hid in wait for him.
She turned the corner and started onto the smaller street. She heard a few guttural voices, the clink of shells coming from a little area farther ahead.
A voice came out of the dark.
“How did you find me?”
She couldn’t see the speaker, who sounded mystified, but she smelled he was near. It was the thief she’d hunted. The scuff of a shoe sounded nearby. A door creaked.
“You stole from someone under the protection of Kunmia Suun’s ensign,” Bingmei said.
A chuckle sounded. “That foolish boy?”
“Yes,” Bingmei answered, continuing to move forward. She didn’t have her grandfather’s saber anymore. She’d lost it to the killing fog. But she didn’t need weapons. She might look small, but her body was a weapon.
“You shouldn’t have come after it,” said the voice. “That was a mistake.”
A shoe scuff sounded behind her at the back of the alley. Then another. There were at least four, maybe five of them. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dark.
“You would fight me?” Bingmei said, her insides twisting with anticipation and eagerness as well as a little worry. “You should beg for forgiveness.”
“You think we’re afraid of a proud little girl?” said the voice.
“You should be,” Bingmei said, her tone seething.
She reached into her pocket and rubbed the wooden cricket. It was a risk, yes. But she knew the thieves wouldn’t dare report her to King Budai’s officers. What could they accuse her of when they themselves were criminals?
The magic swelled in her legs, and she jumped straight up, landing on the rooftop.
There was a grunt of confusion, then one of the roof tiles slid from under her foot and crashed down onto the street. She ran and jumped, and the magic ebbed as she landed, but her maneuver had put her behind the majority of the thieves. Their smell revealed their location, and she attacked swiftly, striking in a series of punches and kicks, feeling the bulk of skin, muscle, and bone quiver under her blows. Someone grabbed her from behind, but she smashed her elbow back into the man’s cheek, following it with a tornado kick that sent him to the ground.
A light blinded her. One of them had a shielded lantern, a thief’s tool that concentrated the light into sharp beams. She winced in pain but then ran toward the light, jumping into the air in a double kick that caught the man in the chest. He staggered backward, dropping the lantern. The bouncing beam caught on a dagger as it slashed toward her face. She backed away, caught the elbow of her attacker, and flipped the man into the street. The moment he landed, she kicked him hard in the kidney, causing him to wail in pain, then kicked him again before releasing his arm.
She whirled, sensing someone behind her. The spilled light from the lantern was level with her legs, but it opened up her vision to her attackers and theirs to her. She struck the thief once in the chest. He grimaced but grabbed her hair, starting in surprise when her wig came off in his hands. She frowned and kicked him in the groin, and as he doubled over, still gripping her wig in his hand, she sidestepped and did a hammer-fist strike with her fist against the side of his neck.
One more lunged at her. The wiry man. He caught her arm with one hand and smashed his fist into her ribs with the other. It should have hurt. He had hit her as hard as he could. But she was too wild with fury to feel pain. She fought back, hitting him again and again until he staggered back into the wall of a stone building. She struc
k him where it would hurt and bruise him. His face crumpled with pain, and he tried to pull away, but she continued to hit him until his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, face-first on the stone.
Bingmei, in a low cat stance, swiveled around, hands held in a knife-edge pose, searching for another attacker. Some of the thieves moaned in pain. One was trying to crawl away from her.
She found the pouch of cowry shells on the biggest man, the one who had pulled off her wig. He flinched when she touched him, quivering in fear.
“Who are you?” he whispered in dread.
She snatched the wig out of his hand and gave him a vicious kick. They’d unmasked her secret, her pale hair. That had made her especially angry and resentful.
She gave him no answer. He didn’t deserve one. Giving them all a withering look, the kind of sneer that Mieshi was so good at, she tucked the pouch into her pocket. Her knuckles were starting to throb, but it was a pleasant pain. She had trained for years to defend not only herself but those she was assigned to protect.
Even if he was just a fisherman’s son.
She found Quion wandering the streets, hopelessly lost. She sighed as she approached him, watching him ask strangers for help, something only an innocent fool would do in such a place. She walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. He spun around, looking at her in surprise, and she put the pouch in his hand—maybe a little roughly.
“I told you to wait back there for me,” she said, arching her eyebrows.
“I . . . I got worried. What if they outnumbered you?”
“They did,” Bingmei said. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. You were under our protection. They shouldn’t have stolen from you.”
He was staring at her again, his eyes looking slightly confused.
“What?” she said, feeling a little stab of self-consciousness in her heart.
