Fox and Phoenix

by Beth Bernobich

  I poked my head into the kitchen. “Mā mī?”

  No one there.

  My heart thumping double-time, I ran up the stairs to the second floor, where my mother had a private workroom. No one answered my knock. I pressed the latch down, sure it would be locked.

  It wasn’t. The door swung open onto a dark and empty room.

  All Mā mī’s dire warnings echoed through my brain as I stepped inside. No trespassing, Kai-my-son. Unless you like a three-year itch.

  No itch. No spells at all, so far as I could tell. Just a shadow-dark room made strange with abandoned vials and beakers and the white-dusted coals of a dying fire. That pricked my curiosity. Why did Mā mī need a fire so early in autumn? I lit a candle and scanned for more clues.

  The vials were all empty. The beakers were coated with a thin silvery residue that emanated magic, both potential and unleashed. Now I knew where all those special ingredients had gone. Dozens of empty boxes and canisters and stoppered vials littered her desk. Among them, I found stacks of scribbled sheets and astrology readings, but none of them made sense.

  By now I was scared. Sure, my mā mī was stronger and fiercer than any human I’d known. Maybe even fiercer than a watch-demon or two. But never, ever, had she failed to come home at night, without leaving word.

  Vanished. Just like Lian.

  I hurried from the workroom, across the landing, to her small bedroom. It was empty, too.

  A nudge at my arm recalled me. The griffin hovered in midair, its golden wings glittering in the faint light from the hallway. When it saw it had my attention, it leapt on my shoulder.

  “How did you get up here?” I asked.

  It gave an odd keening sound and butted my head.

  “Go on. You’re dead.”

  The griffin nibbled at my ear. Just as you might expect for a pet chosen by my mother, it was not gentle.

  “Ow! Okay, not quite dead.”

  It butted me again and keened. Cautiously, I scratched the griffin behind its ears. It gave a rough trill that sounded like a purr.

  “What’s the matter?” I said. “You miss her?”

  The griffin tucked itself under my ear, its tail curled around my neck. Its feathers were cold and stiff, its tiny paws hot. I could feel its nervous heartbeat against my skin. For a dead thing, it was acting very much alive.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered to the griffin. “She’s just visiting a friend. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

  I could only hope I wasn’t lying.

  3

  MONSTERS SWARMED THROUGH MY DREAMS THAT night, making me twitch and shiver and sometimes bolt upright, positive that something was eating the flesh from my bones. Each time I woke up, I heard the whispery tolling of the temple bells. Softer still came an eerie, slithering noise, like fine, metallic chains being drawn over stones—the watch-demons making their rounds.

  I had finally fallen into a blank, dreamless sleep when Old Man Kang’s rooster sang out its morning cry. I buried my head under my pillow and groaned. The next minute, a weight thudded onto my back, driving the breath from my body. Four sharp points dug into my back.

  Chen . . .

  Chen jabbed me underneath my right arm—hard.

  I yelped and twitched away. “Stop that! I’m not in the mood for any jokes.”

  A sharp jab in the sole of my left foot jerked me awake.

  Chen, you stupid—

  I threw off my bedclothes and sat up.

  Chen crouched in the far corner of my bedroom, between the open door and my washstand. His spines were slanted back, his bristles, too, and he had an odd expression on his piggy face—as though he wanted to laugh but didn’t know how, and besides he wasn’t really in the mood. When he caught my eye, he tilted his head and stared pointedly at the foot of my bed.

  There sat the griffin, chewing holes in the blanket.

  “You,” I growled. “Look, I told you—she’s not here.”

  It shot me a disbelieving glare, then fastened its beak on a loose thread and yanked.

  “Stop that!” I tried shooing it away.

  It snapped at me and hissed. I flung my pillow. With a shrill cry, the griffin launched into flight, scattering feathers and dander and bits of blanket all over the room. It circled twice around, just missing my head, then soared out the open door.

  I swiped the feathers and dirt from my face. My head felt thick, and my mouth tasted like old vinegar. My room smelled musty. I couldn’t tell if that was the griffin or the clothes I’d dropped on the floor yesterday, before dropping myself into bed.

  You look awful, Chen remarked.

  Yeah, and I feel awful. I stumbled from the bed to my washbasin and splashed water over my head. Rinsed my mouth and spat out dust and feathers. I wondered if the griffin had been swimming in my washbasin. On second thought, I didn’t want to know.

  Is she back? I whispered to Chen.

  No.

  What about—

  Gone. Then he added, I checked everywhere. Nuó is gone, too.

  Nuó was Mā mī’s companion spirit, a smoke-gray mountain cat. Nuó scared me even more than Mā mī did. She scared Chen, too. That Chen had deliberately gone looking for her meant he was truly worried by Mā mī’s disappearance.

  I pulled on last night’s shirt and trousers and pounded down to Mā mī’s bedroom. It was empty, of course. I’d known it would be, but scanning the room, swept clean just yesterday, and the blankets neatly tucked around the bed, I felt a pain tugging at my gut.

  I told you she wasn’t back. Yet.

  I know. I just—

  I swallowed hard. Chen made soft snuffling noises in my ear, as though I were a baby piglet that needed comforting.

  Go away, I said. I’m fine.

  I checked the workroom again. No change there either.

  I hate nightmares that don’t stop when you wake up.

  In the kitchen, the sight of last night’s dirty dishes (one plate, one teacup, not two) checked me harder than my mother’s deserted workroom or bedroom. I spun around, ready to run and run until fright and anger bled away.

  Chen blocked my path.

  Eat first, he said. Then we make plans.

  I’m not hungry.

  He lowered his head and presented his tusks. You will be.

  With Chen prodding and poking me along, I stacked the dirty dishes in the wash basin and filled the teakettle from the courtyard well. While I waited for that to boil, I fed the shop cats and cleaned out their sandboxes. The sun was well up before I finished. I brewed a full pot of tea and chewed on some leftover dried fish cakes from the pantry. There wasn’t much else. Other than a few more packets of salted fish, our pantry was nearly empty. I’d have to visit the farmer’s markets soon, however, or I’d be eating dust.

  (Only if my mother doesn’t come back.)

  (She will.)

  (But when?)

  A small hard skull butted my hand. The griffin.

  The flat stone eyes gleamed black, and its metallic feathers glittered in the thin yellow light. When it saw it had my attention, it opened its beak and keened. All the cats scattered at the noise.

  “You can’t be hungry,” I said.

  With a quick dart, it nipped my thumb.

  “Ow!” I sucked at the bite and tasted blood. Were there such things as vampire griffins?

  The griffin keened again. I tossed a spare fish cake in its direction. It pounced and tore the cake into bits with its beak. Being dead and stuffed didn’t seem to stop it from wanting meals. Or attention or comfort, I mentally added, when it butted my hand again, demanding a scratch behind its feathered ears. I wondered what kind of magic Mā mī had worked upon it.

  Thinking of my mother made my stomach churn. I tossed the griffin my last fish cake and bolted up the stairs to my room. There I picked up the leather scroll case with my special certificate, proclaiming me to be a prince of the streets. On second thought, I stopped long enough to scribble down a note for Yún, explaining that Mā
mī had cancelled our classes for the day. She and I would be at the special import markets to order the exotic goods from Yún’s list. Yún was to spend her free hours alone in the nearest temple, practicing meditation.

  A faint odor warned me that Chen watched over my shoulder.

  You should tell Yún, he said. Or she’ll worry.

  She’d worry more if I told her the truth.

  She is your friend. Friends tell each other the truth.

  Easy for him to say. Yún would only have questions. So did I. I wanted to ask mine first.

  I galloped back down the stairs and flipped around the sign that said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. PRESS RED BUTTON TO LEAVE A VOICE MESSAGE FOR EMERGENCIES. Then I locked all the doors and windows, dumped the new dirty dishes into the washbasin, and poured the remaining hot water over them. Outside, I sealed Yún’s message into an envelope labeled YÚN: READ ME and stuffed it into a crack where she would find it.

  Make another sweep for Nuó, I told Chen.

  Where are you going? Chen’s tone sounded more anxious than usual.

  To the palace.

  “PLEASE LET YOUR Highness be assured we shall exert ourselves mightily . . .”

  The bland young officer sitting across from me was using all the pretty phrases he must have learned in bureaucrat school. More, I thought, because I’d come waving around my special certificate. In spite of the official seals, and the fancy wires and circuits embedded in the scroll’s leather container, the business of me being a prince was all a big ugly lie, and we both knew it, but the young man was good at his job, so he didn’t say anything.

  And that’s the problem, I thought, scowling at him. He wasn’t saying anything, just the same-old same-old excuses.

  His name was Meng Li Guo, and he was the tenth official I’d visited today. Like all the others, he was dressed in sober gray, with the screaming dragon insignia embroidered over his heart, and except for an honorific here and there, his speech sounded the same as all his brother officials. I’d noticed that each time one handed me off to the next, it was always to a smaller room, with chairs more uncomfortable than the last. Now I perched on a rickety wooden stool in a cramped cubicle, on the second basement level of the palace wing dedicated to police and royal security. Meng Li Guo’s eyes were an ordinary black, nothing like the mechanical eyes with wires and connectors you saw in the senior guards. That alone told me no one was taking me seriously.

  I scowled and thumped a fist on his desk. “Right. Thank you. Very well. You would make every effort. Oh, except my mother is an ordinary old woman, and not some important noble in His Royal Majesty’s court, so I should not express great surprise if you are unable to spare the guards or wizards to search for her.”

  The guard allowed himself a brief glare. However, he was an experienced diplomat, despite his youth, so he suppressed whatever curses rose into his throat. Instead, he coughed politely and referred to the papers on his desk. “You say you last spoke with your mother, the widow Shen Zōu, yesterday at twelve o’clock. You left her shop in the West Moon Wind District and spent several hours—”

  “Two hours,” I said, testily.

  He smiled. Scribbled a notation on the paper. “Two hours with various acquaintances, whose names are listed below . . .”

  On he went, describing my pitiful morning and afternoon in more detail than I wanted to hear. But I listened hard, nevertheless, to make certain he had not omitted, or worse, altered, any details. Of course, I had not mentioned Danzu’s possible connection with smugglers, nor the speculations I shared with my friends about the king’s health and doings at court. Those didn’t matter. What mattered was that my mother had walked out one fine bright autumn afternoon and never returned.

  “. . . and the second apprentice, one Yún Chang, informed you upon your return that your mother had departed at two o’clock, with the intention of visiting certain markets where one might obtain herbal and magical ingredients . . .”

  I wanted to choke him, to make him talk faster, to find my mā mī that instant, but I knew throwing a temper tantrum wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  So I squashed my impatience, and listened to the miserable toad assigned to handle my complaint. After ten hours of waiting in antechambers and shuffling through the palace corridors, I’d heard enough to realize the chief wizards and ministers were more concerned with troubles in court. Oh, I didn’t hear anything outright, just whispered innuendoes, and the names they used were all nicknames, which only insiders could recognize. Still, I knew the smell of rumors, and these all stank of intrigue.

  At last, the young man finished off his report, signed it, and placed it under a coiled gray lamp. He pressed a button. Blue light flared, making me blink.

  “Done,” he said. “That will transmit the report to our outer guard posts. If you wish for regular updates on our progress, you will need to submit form number 34A-732, with appropriate identification and signatures, to the district oversight department.” He eyed me with some doubt. “Or not. However, please be aware we have fulfilled our usual obligations for such a case. Extraordinary measures . . .”

  “. . . would require extraordinary commands.” A phrase Princess Lian often quoted with a scowl. “Yes, I understand. Thank you.”

  Outside the palace, I released a long unhappy breath.

  You were nice.

  Chen, invisible, but very present.

  I didn’t want to be, I told him. I wanted to throw bricks at his ugly face.

  But you did not.

  I blew out another breath, no better, no easier than the first. It wouldn’t do Mā mī any good. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow. Be like water on stone.

  Chen grunted an indecipherable comment that had to be rude, or it wouldn’t be Chen. Ignoring him, I trudged across the square to the nearest fountain and splashed handfuls of water over my hot and dusty face. All those hours in the palace had left me feeling dried up, like a withered prune, and it wasn’t until I dunked my whole head in the fountain that I felt human again. A breeze made my wet skin prickle. It carried hints of wood smoke and pork roasting in a nearby kitchen. The stronger scent of pine and old frozen snow from the mountain tops. A hint of wet chill that spoke of the coming autumn rains.

  I wiped the water from my eyes, only to get an unhappy surprise.

  The public square in front of the palace was always crowded, but in the few moments I’d taken to wash, it had emptied out. Sunset burned bright red across the gray and white peaks above the city. Shadows flickered through the narrow streets. Night was fast approaching.

  Hurry. I hear the demons are hungry these days, Chen said, before winking away himself.

  I shook the water from my hair and jogged to the closest wind-and-magic lift. Just as I reached the counter, the temple bells rang out the hour. Immediately, the old hag behind the counter slammed down the shutter. At the same time, the warning whistle screeched, the gates snapped together, and the lift shot upward.

  I cursed.

  No reply from behind the shutter except a wheezing laugh. Well, she might have a room nearby, but I didn’t. And I didn’t care to spend the night in a cramped (and expensive) dark-time shelter. Without wasting any more curses on counter clerks, I jogged even faster toward the next covered passageway. Those wouldn’t keep me safe from watch-demons either, but they did lead to the nearest entry into Lóng City’s Hundred Sewers. Most people stayed out of the sewers, and not just for the usual reasons, but I had special privileges, courtesy of my adventures with Lian.

  You just like the muck, Chen said.

  Ignoring him, I levered the metal plate off to one side, then scrambled down the metal ladder.

  Magic lamps clicked on as I landed on the stone platform at the bottom. Their light reflected off the damp brick walls, casting a sheen over the thick oily stream running down the center of the tunnel. My eyes watered from the stink. The old kings had built these sewers as escape routes, but that didn’t stop them from being used for all the
usual reasons, too.

  A narrow ledge ran alongside the stream. I held my nose and set off at a trot, watching where I set my feet.

  Once, I hadn’t cared.

  Once, I was a street rat.

  Maybe not anymore.

  On I jogged, my thoughts jumping between the old days and the new, how Jing-mei and Gan had changed, how Danzu hadn’t, how I had been sent to younger and younger guards, in smaller and smaller rooms, as though they were trying to wear me out, or maybe they were distracted by all the plots and schemes inside the palace. Lian had told me that every glance meant six or ten or even a hundred different things. There were probably a gajillion hints I’d missed during those tedious interviews....

  A hiss, like a teakettle starting to boil, yanked me away from my thoughts. I stopped. My throat squeezed shut, as I remembered the last time I’d heard this same noise.

  An enormous ghost dragon materialized in the tunnel. Its length coiled above and around and to either side, making the sewer walls appear wrapped in fog—a silvery fog patterned in scales, from the huge ones for belly and tail to thumb-size ones that lapped the dragon’s narrow snout.

  It wasn’t just any ghost dragon. This was the king of ghost dragons, who ruled over his own subjects in a realm that existed alongside our human one of Lóng City. I had met him a year ago, when Lian and Yún and I were running from watch-demons and palace guards. He had granted me free passage throughout the Hundred Sewers, a rare favor, but seeing his great head a few feet from mine made my mouth paper dry.

  “Your Majesty?” My voice came out in a whisper. I licked my lips and tried again. “Your Majesty?”

  My friend is ill. He needs his daughter.

  “Friend?” I croaked.

  The ghost dragon’s eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded me coldly. Have you forgotten your king so quickly?

  My skin crawled at his otherworldly voice. I opened my mouth, but my voice refused more than a squeak.

  Still glaring at me with those cold silvery eyes, the king ghost dragon uncurled one forepaw, pad upward. A seemingly innocuous gesture, but the ghost dragon’s claws were longer than any executioner’s sword. In terror, I flinched and started to babble like an idiot. “No, sir. Your Majesty. I haven’t—I didn’t—”