Fox and Phoenix

by Beth Bernobich

  “How much?” Yún said.

  The man glanced at our paper and named a price so high, I squeaked.

  Yún shook her head. The man spat on the ground and lumbered on.

  The sun was slanting down toward the rooftops by the time we reached a pair of iron gates set into square stone pillars. Tall buildings built from smooth golden stonework loomed over the gate. Inside, dozens of young men and women dressed in scruffy trousers and tunics hurried back and forth with books under their arms. When we checked our map, the arrow vanished and we read the words, Destination Reached. Then the sheet went blank on both sides.

  We tried the gates, but they proved to be locked. I called out to a student inside. He only stared at me and kept going.

  “Maybe we need to summon her,” Yún said.

  She pointed to the stone pillar on our right. It had a small metal plaque pierced by dozens of holes, just like the speakers in the train’s vid-screen.

  I coughed and cleared my throat.

  “Identity, please,” said a man’s gruff voice.

  “My name is Kai Zōu and I—”

  “Identity, please,” the voice repeated.

  Yún motioned for me to let her try. “We are here to see Princess Lian Song Li.”

  The metal speaker clicked and buzzed a few moments. Then, “Invalid response. You have one more attempt. Thank you.”

  One more attempt? I opened my mouth to give my name, when Yún dragged me away. “What’s wrong?” I hissed.

  “I’m not sure, but I think if we make too many mistakes, they’ll send the watch after us.”

  “But we have to find Lian.”

  “I know. But we can’t find her if they arrest us.”

  I scowled. Inside my shirt, the griffin was poking me with his claws, clearly upset by our argument. I rubbed its head and tried to think. We had money—some—but no rooms. And the sun was setting. It occurred to me that we hadn’t needed to think about watch-demons since Lóng City. Who knew what kind of horrible patrols the emperor of the Phoenix Empire loosed to guard the streets of his capitol?

  Chen? I whispered, wondering if my spirit companion had returned.

  No reply.

  All of a sudden, the gates swung open and a crowd of students streamed out. Most of these were scruffy, too, but a few were dressed in elegant silks or woolen tunics and trousers, some of them with magic flux woven into the threads. One of them glanced at us, then whispered something to the girl next to him. They laughed.

  “Excuse me,” Yún said. “Excuse me, could you tell us where—”

  “Beggars’ Quarter is three districts over,” the first student said.

  My hand curled into a fist. Yún gripped my arm and yanked me behind her. “We’re looking for Princess Lian Song Li,” she said to the student. “Could you please help us find her?”

  He stared at her. His mouth twitched in amusement. Yún stared back. His glance slid away. “Come on,” he said to his friends. “Let’s get away from these slugs before we get slime on ourselves.”

  He and the girl minced away. Most of his companions followed, with only a few curious glances in our direction, but one young man remained behind. “You go on,” he said to the others. “I’ll walk home tonight.”

  The crowd drifted off. Our new friend (if you could call him that) studied us silently. I could tell he wasn’t impressed. We were scruffier than the scruffiest students, our clothes dusty and stained from camping in the mountains, and if we’d taken three baths each in that fancy wind-and-magic train, you sure couldn’t tell now.

  “You’re looking for Princess Lian from Lóng City,” he said finally. “Why?”

  “Why should you care?” I said.

  “Maybe I know her.”

  Yún returned his gaze calmly. “The princess is our friend. We bring her news from home.”

  “Anyone can bring news. Can you prove that you’re her friends?”

  His face was pleasant enough. Ordinary and maybe he knew how to laugh. But right now, his eyes were narrowed and he stood stiff and cautious. A worm of cold worry crawled up my spine.

  “What about you?” I said. “Why should we trust you?”

  Now he did laugh, but it was a short unhappy one. “You can’t. My apologies for my presumptions. If you will excuse me, I must hurry homeward. Twilight falls slowly in the southern plains, but it does fall. Don’t let it take you by surprise.”

  Already he was edging away from us.

  Then it came to me, a way to see if he really did know Lian.

  “Wait,” I called out. “Do you know the story of her heart’s desire?”

  The student spun around. Stared at us with an expression caught between curiosity and apprehension. “I do,” he said cautiously. “What of it?”

  “Then you know the names of her friends.”

  His expression eased, but only slightly. “Kai Zōu and Yún Chang.” He spoke softly, more to himself than to us. “Yes, I should have known. But what kind of news do you bring?”

  Yún shook her head. “It’s private.”

  Another sharp assessing glance. “I see. Well, you won’t find the princess in these dormitories. She used to have rooms nearby, but several months ago, the emperor invited her to live in the Imperial Palace. An honor that she could not refuse, you understand.”

  “And where is the palace?” Yún asked.

  “Too far away for you to reach before dark, I’m afraid.” He paused. “My rooms are poor, but I would be honored to have you both as my guests tonight. I live just a few districts over.”

  “With the beggars?”

  The young man flushed. “I apologize for my companions. But yes, I live with the beggars. It comes in handy for my work.”

  I didn’t understand, and I wanted to say so, but Yún was smiling the same way as when she’d figured out a really complicated equation. “Thank you,” she said. “We accept. Do you mind griffins, by the way?”

  His eyes widened. “Um, not at all.”

  “Good. Kai?”

  I glared at her. She glared back. “Very well,” I muttered.

  But as I trotted behind the pair, I found myself recalling Yún’s warning about coincidences. Sure, we’d been lucky to find a friend and shelter so easily. Someone who even knew Lian. But was it a coincidence, or something else?

  11

  OUR NEW FRIEND INTRODUCED HIMSELF AS QUAN Dei Tsang. He was a medical student, he said. Or rather he had been. Having taken his degree two years ago, he had applied for a research position to study diseases and their cures. While he waited for an appointment, he attended lectures and earned cash by tutoring students.

  “Do you really live in the Beggars’ Quarter?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “The rent is cheap. And I find it useful.” Useful?

  We reached the main boulevard, which was crowded with bicycles and carts and electric trams. All questions had to stop as we threaded our way through the chaos. Quan led us uptown a couple of blocks, then ducked into a narrow opening between two tall buildings. It was like a tiny slice of quiet in that noisy city. There was barely enough room to walk single-file. My boots made a soft padding noise that whispered from stone and brick walls.

  The passage opened into a wider lane edged by rows of tiny shops—butchers and candle makers, tailors and fishmongers, astrologers and scribes—all with brightly colored awnings stretched down to bamboo poles. The sharp scent of curries and peppers hung in the air. The neighborhood reminded me of the bazaars in Lóng City, especially the hawkers accosting passersby. There was even one old man guarding tanks of live fish and eels. I stopped by one and saw several ugly prickly creatures scuttling along the bottom.

  “You like magic crabs?” the man said.

  As I watched, one crab excreted a small pile of glowing . . . dung.

  “They look ugly,” I said.

  He nodded, as though pleased. “Very ugly. That means their magic is more powerful.”

  I shot him a suspicious glance,
but he seemed to believe what he said. I shifted my attention back to the tanks. One fish—a paper-thin, black and orange triangle—paused in front of me. The next moment, it had darted forward and snapped another fish in half. One piece disappeared into the larger fish’s gullet. The second floated down to the tank’s floor. A smaller crab scuttled from behind a pile of rocks. A bright glitter filled the tank. When the water cleared, the fish had vanished and so had the crab.

  “Was that magic?” I demanded.

  “Magic crabs make magic,” the old man said.

  Yún gestured for me to hurry up. Quan had already crossed the square to another narrow opening. Was that how districts divided themselves? No time to ask, because Quan was urging us through the alleyway, which emptied into a maze of backstreets.

  Once more the neighborhood had changed. Instead of shops, we saw rows and rows of tumbledown houses, with trash blowing over the mud-packed streets. Tired old men and women sprawled on the front porches. Some of them knitted or mended clothes as they chatted together. None of them looked anything like Quan’s rich friends from the university, but he didn’t seem to notice. Whenever someone accosted him, he stopped to ask about old grandmother’s cough, or the sores on uncle’s leg, or how many eggs they had left in their icebox.

  The sun had disappeared behind the rooftops by the time we halted in front of a narrow brick building. Steps led up to a wooden door with a metal box over the latch. Quan placed his palm against the box. Magic rippled through the air, then I heard a loud click. Yāo-guài chirped with excitement.

  Quan smiled at the griffin. “He likes magic.”

  “He’s just hungry,” I said. “The only meal he likes better than magic is fresh meat. Rich meat, if you know what I mean.”

  Quan’s smile turned extra bland. “I shall take care, then.”

  He ushered us into a shabby entry hall. The moment we entered, a trio of small glass globes flickered with pale light. Hü, motion detectors. I hadn’t expected to find those in a beggar’s district. The current was weak, however, and the lamps flickered annoyingly as we climbed up the four flights to Quan’s rooms. The smell of cooking curry, wet diapers, and the sharper stink of old urine filled the stairwell. The top landing, however, was painfully clean.

  Quan pressed his hand against another of those metal boxes. The air flickered with uncertain magic and the door swung open.

  “My home,” he said, standing to one side.

  Yún entered first, tall and straight and graceful, as if she had not been wandering Phoenix City with a backpack over her shoulder. I followed, weary and stumbling and not afraid to show it. We found ourselves in the middle of a plain entryway, with bare wooden floors and battered pieces of furniture.

  No, this was the main room. A small alcove off to one side served as a miniature kitchen, with one counter stacked high with cook pots and dishes, spice jars, and what looked like a mortar and pestle. Another alcove contained a washstand and pitcher. Bookshelves and cabinets lined the rest of the rooms, except for one door and a large window overlooking the alley below. I deposited the griffin on the nearest chair. He grumbled at being put down, then settled into the chair and began to pick at the loose threads with his beak.

  Quan came last and bolted the door behind us. “I apologize for my poor rooms. But they are more comfortable than the city’s free shelters.”

  “More comfortable than the dormitories?” Yún asked.

  “Cheaper,” I said.

  Quan flushed. “I have my reasons. If you will excuse me a moment.”

  He disappeared into what looked like a closet. No, that was his bedroom. I smirked. Yún smacked me on the shoulder. “Be nice,” she whispered.

  “Why? He’s a stuck-up rich man pretending he likes the poor.”

  “Maybe so. Be polite anyway, until we find out why he wants to help us.”

  Aha. Now I understood.

  Quan reappeared with cushions and blankets, which he stacked in one corner. “I don’t have much,” he said. “But I can offer you tea while I make dinner.”

  He took a square metal box from one of the cabinets. It turned out to be a burner powered by magic flux. Quan cleared off his desk, uncoiled the thick gray cord, and inserted the plug into a wall outlet. He filled the kettle, then set it on the burner, which hummed and fizzed with current. My skin prickled at the sight.

  Magical locks outside and in. Magical lamps in the corridor. Motion detectors and outlets. How did such a poor neighborhood rate the special connections you needed for the current? I glanced toward Yún and mouthed the words too much magic. She nodded but signaled for me keep quiet.

  “So,” she said, “how do you know Lian? Did our princess decide to study medicine?”

  Quan looked puzzled at first, then laughed. “Hardly. We met in lectures. Magical Philosophy and Ethical Applications. Would you like sugar for your tea?”

  Yún made a face. “Who puts sugar in their tea?”

  “Barbarians,” Quan said. “We had several exchange students from tribes in the far northeast. Interesting customs. One of my cousins lives in the outer provinces, and he tells me the most outrageous tales. Of course, he could be exaggerating.”

  As he talked, he measured tea into a small teapot decorated with dragons that intertwined into a pattern making an even larger dragon. Soon he was pouring tea into three cups that looked as though they’d been cracked and mended several times over. A poor man, but I recognized the dishes as coming from a once-rich household. And the tea itself turned out to be a rare and delicious blend from the southern coastal cities. It had a delicate smoky flavor that chased away all my miseries in spite of myself. Quan explained that another cousin who lived on the coast sent him regular shipments. Meanwhile, Yún continued to ask polite questions about Quan and his studies, which he just as politely deflected.

  She’s right, I thought. He’s hiding something.

  We finished our tea. Quan smiled, but I could tell he was embarrassed. “I promised you dinner. There is only one difficulty.” He paused, cleared his throat. “You see, I meant to visit the markets today, but—”

  “But you stopped to talk with us,” Yún finished for him. “Never mind. We have some leftovers from the train. Show me what you do have. Let’s see what we can cook up.”

  Quan supplied rice, eggs, fresh leeks, and one lonely onion. We supplied our cartons of twice-cooked beef. It wasn’t easy, cooking for three (plus one hungry griffin) in that makeshift kitchen, but one burner, three pots, and two skillets later, we had a heaping bowl of what the snobs would call an unclassifiable meal.

  As we cooked and ate, Quan told us funny stories about the university, his cousins (he had a hundred, at least), and Phoenix City itself. He never mentioned Lian again, nor did he talk about the emperor or his court. I expected Yún to ask more questions, but she didn’t. She laughed at Quan’s stupid jokes and convinced Yāo-guài to accept tidbits from our host’s fingers. Only when Quan happened to glance away did I catch the calculating look in her eyes, and I knew she had not forgotten her own warning.

  Once the meal was over, Quan nodded toward the stacks of pillows and blankets. “My bedroom is yours,” he told Yún over her protests. “I remade the bed with clean linens. Kai and I will be comfortable enough out here. The floor isn’t as hard as it looks.”

  Yún glanced at me. I rolled my eyes. Reluctantly, she withdrew with our griffin. Quan set to work, laying out the cushions and blankets. I scowled at him. Are we supposed to like you now?

  He glanced up and smiled pleasantly. “Doesn’t that hurt your face?”

  That only made me scowl harder. “Why are you being so nice to us?” I demanded. “We don’t have any money, and we aren’t powerful nobles back in Lóng City. Anyway, what were you doing with those snobs from the university?”

  “My father taught me to be helpful. It was a rule in our household. Besides, I remember when I first came to Phoenix City, years ago. Someone helped me then. It’s my turn now.”

/>   I opened my mouth, shut it. Maybe that was enough to explain his kindness to us. Maybe, I thought, there was such a thing as a good coincidence. Maybe I should just keep watching.

  IN SPITE OF everything, I slept like a twice-dead griffin. Once, close to dawn, I drifted up from muffled dreams to find Yāo-guài nestled under my chin, his feathers tickling my nose. His breath was warm upon my wrist, and I could feel a steady heartbeat against my chest. Dead or revived? But sleep rolled over me once more, and I sank back into never-dreams.

  Later, much later, I woke again to the murmuring of voices. Bright light slanted through the window shutters, and from far away came the familiar noises of early morning street traffic. Not yet, I mumbled.

  A heavy weight thudded on my back. The griffin gave a bone-shaking screech and pecked at the back of my head.

  “Time for breakfast, Kai,” Yún called out.

  Bleary-eyed, I sat up.

  Yún and Quan were both disgustingly wide awake. Yún was making tea, while Quan searched through the narrow closet that served as his pantry, muttering. “Rice, smoked fish, I thought I remembered buying more groceries last week. Ah, Kai, you’re awake. If you’d like a bath, you should hurry before the hot water runs out. The tub is just down the hall.”

  Yún tossed a towel at me. “Take Yāo-guài with you He’s stinky from yesterday. I think he’s molting, too. Here’s a comb.”

  “What about soap?”