Fox and Phoenix

by Beth Bernobich

  Glumly, I stared at the piles of fragrant, no doubt tasty food. “I wish Chen were here.”

  “And I wish Qi were here,” Yún said. “I thought they’d catch up with us by now, but—”

  “Maybe they’re hunting clues and got sidetracked. Chen does that sometimes.”

  “Maybe.” But Yún didn’t look any more convinced than I felt.

  She picked up a chopstick and poked at one of the pastries without any enthusiasm.

  I sighed and poured myself a cup of tea (which reminded me uncomfortably of Quan’s exquisite smoky tea).

  We had all changed forever. Me, Yún, and Lian. All the rest of my gang. Which wasn’t my gang anymore. Briefly I wished I could recite a magic spell and transport us all back to a time when all we cared about were running pranks and tricks in the Pots-and-Kettles Bazaar. But my mother was right. I wasn’t a child any longer. Even the most complicated magical spell in the world couldn’t change that.

  I miss you, Mā mī

  “Kai, what’s wrong?”

  Yún watched me with those large dark eyes.

  “Besides the obvious?” I asked, then flipped my hand to one side. “Sorry. I’m just worried about Chen and Qi.”

  I poked at a pyramid of steamed dumplings. No good. My appetite had vanished. Restless, I let my feet carry me into another room off the bedchamber. It was a sitting room, decorated with paintings. They were all pictures of Lóng City, I realized. There was the Golden Market on a feast day; there the main temples and the monks parading in crimson robes; there a view from the high walls, with the whole city poured over the mountainside.

  (She misses home.)

  (Of course, idiot. So do you.)

  (Well, I didn’t ask to leave. She did.)

  (You aren’t going to be king of Lóng City. Just a make-believe Prince of the Streets.)

  Dismissing my loathsome inner critic, I passed by the rest of the landscapes and cityscapes to a small group of portraits. The center one was a square of painted silk that shimmered with magic. It was a portrait of Lian’s father, Wencheng Li, just as I remembered him from last year. Thin gray hair drawn back into a tight queue. Weary eyes, but not so weary that you missed their intelligence. As I watched, I saw those eyes flicker toward me, then above my shoulder, as though he’d noticed something. He smiled. Maybe Lian had come to watch her father sit. Maybe he was smiling at her.

  I jerked back.

  That’s what I get for snooping. I see too much inside my friends.

  I plopped onto the nearest bench. From time to time, a servant glided silently through the room on errands. Next door, Yāo-guài warbled in excitement while Yún spoke to the beast in low soothing tones. Everyone had a task or obligation here except me. “I wish I had something to do,” I muttered.

  A faint whirring sounded from the floor. I jumped up, startled.

  A small square table, the size of a handkerchief, rose from the floor. More gadgets. The table paused. Cautiously, I sat down again. The table continued to rise. As soon as it reached the level of my arm, it stopped again. On top of the table stood an even smaller square box. As I watched, wide-eyed, the box flipped open to display an even smaller vid-screen, the color of creamy new parchment.

  Mrrrp, said the vid-screen.

  Magic flux rippled through the air as the vid-screen came to life. A thin keyboard unrolled itself from underneath the box and prodded my arm.

  There’s too much magic in this palace, I thought.

  The metal box vibrated. Intrigued, I ran my fingers over the keyboard. The vid-screen shimmered. A stream of images flickered past—so quickly they were more like dots of color and light. I tapped a few more keys. The images slowed, then froze with another tap.

  I saw a thousand upturned faces, like a sea of brown dots against an emerald green expanse. I saw a great phoenix worked in gold, suspended from the ceiling. I saw a chamber so vast, it made the palace in Lóng City look like a mousetrap. In spite of the tiny vid-screen, I felt as though I had tumbled directly into another world.

  The focus changed; the dots changed to courtiers, guards, and commoners, the camera pausing here and there. It was a silent scene. I saw one courtier lean toward another, but their conversation was inaudible to me. Before I could figure out how to change the volume, the camera zoomed away from them and locked on one man’s face.

  Kaishan Zhu. The emperor.

  The smooth, pale features filled the screen, the eyes bright and intent, the skin like fine silk drawn tight over his bones. An old man—this I could see—but alive with the knowledge of his power.

  He was speaking to someone close by. Again, the scene played silently. I fiddled with the controls, but nothing worked. I tapped harder. The calculor buzzed, and the screen flashed the words “Audio Options Not Available.”

  I clicked off the vid-screen and headed out the nearest door. Right away, a liveried servant popped into view—a stout, muscled woman, who looked as though she didn’t want to hear any nonsense.

  “Princess Lian,” I said before she could speak. “She is currently in the emperor’s audience chamber. Please direct me to the nearest lift.”

  The woman hesitated. Her lips moved silently through a few replies, but then she smiled broadly. “Of course, young sir. Please continue left along this gallery to the next green tapestry. You will see a small service corridor on your left. Take the lift at the end.” She rattled off the buttons to push for the emperor’s audience chamber.

  The lift was right where she said it would be. I slapped my palm against the glowing yellow panel to open the door. Inside, I tapped out the buttons. Just as the doors clicked shut, I heard Yún’s voice, calling out to me.

  Magic flux filled the compartment. The lift ascended, as smooth as oil rolling over water. As slow as smoke rising on a windless day.

  Then slower. And slower.

  The floor beneath me gave a funny lurch. I gripped the handy railing—just in time. The magical lift abruptly zipped along sideways, so fast it made my eyes roll backward.

  Thump.

  That was the sound of my head hitting the walls. I lost my grip and landed on the floor with a second thump. Magic still hummed around me, thick and sharp and smelling strong. It took me at least a minute before I accepted I hadn’t died. Another couple of minutes before I could tell the lift no longer moved, up, down, or sideways.

  Right about the time I decided to stand up, the lift shuddered. I heard a horrible squealing. The floor opened up; its two halves tilted down and dropped me onto a thickly carpeted hallway. Mission accomplished, they snapped shut. The magical lift zoomed away, leaving me gaping and sick to my stomach.

  I was right back where I had started, outside Princess Lian’s suite of rooms.

  Yún sat next to me. Her face was gray. Her expression jumped between scared and furious. The griffin had disappeared.

  Finally, Yún swallowed. The furious expression leaked away, and she just looked ill. “Magic,” she said, then swallowed again. “Protection spells.”

  “I guessed that.”

  She frowned. “Your fault, Kai. What—”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said and rolled over to throw up everything I’d eaten.

  Yún shouted for help. Above the pounding in my skull, I heard an even louder thunder of footsteps. Doors opened from fifty different directions, and a whole battalion of servants exploded into view. When they saw us, they all sneered in unison and turned to go, but Yún was having none of that. She shouted some more, ordering them around as if she were a princess herself. In two minutes they’d mopped up the mess, and I was sitting over in one corner, dressed in a fresh tunic and with my face scrubbed clean, while Yún fussed over me.

  I swatted her away. “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

  “What did you think you were doing? Running around the palace without an escort?”

  “I-I wanted to see the emperor. That’s all. And don’t tell me how stupid that was. I know.”

  “Not stupid,” sh
e said. “Impulsive.”

  I glanced up to see her smiling at me. The first real smile since that night when she caught up with me in the mountains. We were alone. The servants had all disappeared into their hidey-holes, even the ones who usually loitered around waiting for orders. All I could think about was how much I wanted to kiss her.

  Voices—way too close—made us both jump back. The next minute, Lian came striding toward her rooms, trailed by a retinue of courtiers and palace servants. Her eyes gleamed like a mountain eagle’s.

  Uh-oh.

  Lian halted in front of us. The tide of followers crashed into an invisible barrier behind her.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Taking a tour,” I said weakly.

  Her gaze flicked from me to Yún and back. “Ah, yes. I should have told you. It’s dangerous to wander around the palace without permission.”

  “So we found out,” Yún said. “What happened to you?”

  Lian flushed. “Not here,” she said in a low voice.

  She stalked through the doors. Her followers poured inside. Just as quickly they poured back out and scattered in all directions. Some glared at us as they passed. The rest wore those blank expressions you see in Courtier Catalog.

  Yún watched them depart, smiling faintly. “Our princess is in a rage.”

  She stood and held out a hand. Too miserable to argue, I let her pull me to standing. “Thanks,” I said gruffly.

  “It was my turn to help you,” she said. “Come on. We’d better find out what happened with our friend.”

  Lian waited for us in a parlor. She stood by the window overlooking an exquisite courtyard filled with trees covered with emerald-bright leaves. A narrow patch of cloud-smeared sky showed between the golden towers and spires that reached upward from all around. I caught a whiff of Jun’s musky scent, but the fox-spirit remained invisible. Just as well. Jun made me nervous.

  Yún and I sat. Lian remained standing, staring down at the trees below, but her expression was remote, as though she were watching a far different scene.

  I stirred. “What—”

  “Nothing,” Lian snapped.

  I glanced at Yún, who was studying Lian with a curious expression.

  “You met Quan again, didn’t you?” she said.

  Lian spun around. Stopped. Sank into the nearest chair. “Yes.”

  We were all quiet a few moments.

  “Tell us what happened,” Yún said at last. “Not with the emperor. With Quan.”

  Lian jerked her chin away. I was certain she was about to indulge in a flaming rage, but she only let out a long, unhappy sigh, and all the royal stiffness melted away from her face.

  “We met last year in a lecture class, not long after I arrived,” she said slowly. “He invited me to join his study group. After that . . . he showed me around the city. When the emperor summoned me to court, Quan could help me there, too. His father had served the emperor, so Quan’s family had lived in the palace until he was fourteen. That was when the emperor dismissed Quan’s father and sent him to a posting far away. He only allowed Quan to remain behind so he could study at the university. It was easy to talk to him,” she added, half to herself. “About studies. Politics. So many things. I . . . I liked his company.”

  Her gaze dropped to her hands, which lay knotted together in her lap. “But then I discovered his friendship was a pretense. He even—” She broke off and slowly unraveled her fingers from each other. “He asked me for money.”

  My mouth fell open. “What?”

  “He did. He was quite forthright. He asked for money and named the sum.”

  That didn’t sound right. Sure, I thought Quan was a tilt-nosed snob. Okay, not tilt-nosed, and not a snob exactly. Just too smooth and smart for me to trust him. Even so, I found it hard to believe he would do or say anything that rude.

  Yún appeared just as surprised. “Did he say why?”

  “I don’t need to hear his reasons. There are opportunists in my father’s court. I learned about such parasites before I turned four years old. I—” Lian shook her head. “I’m sorry. I am more disappointed than I expected.”

  Another serving of silence followed, this one even more uncomfortable than the last one.

  I coughed. “And, um, the emperor. What did he say?”

  Lian tilted a hand to one side, as though emperors and their decisions were less than important to her at the moment. “He granted me permission to leave whenever I wish. I must obtain the proper travel documents for all of us. That is, if you wish to return with me.”

  “Of course we do,” Yún said. “But—”

  Lian jumped to her feet. “No more talk, please. If you will excuse me, there is much I must oversee if we are to have everything ready by tomorrow.”

  With a swirl of robes, she was gone from the room.

  I whistled softly. “I wonder what really happened?”

  Yún’s mouth twisted into a pensive smile. “Oh, I can guess. Parts of it, at least.”

  She hurried from the room to join Lian.

  Something sharp and small poked at my arm. Yāo-guài clutched at my sleeve and keened. Grateful for the distraction, I broke a piece of flatbread into small bits and fed him.

  At least one of us was easy to please.

  13

  LIAN HAD NOT EXAGGERATED WHEN SHE SAID A royal princess could not take leave of the emperor’s court without many formalities. Not only did she need special travel permits for herself and her entourage (us?), but court etiquette required her to send out dozens of letters of farewell to the emperor, his chief councilors, and all the high-ranking nobles of the court, as well as her professors and advisors at the university. It would take all day, I thought gloomily, as I sat in Lian’s study, watching Yún wear a circle into the carpet with her pacing. Maybe longer.

  A small, round-shouldered man, who reminded me of a mouse with his sleek brown face, presented himself to us with a bow. “The princess extends her apologies. She finds she will be occupied for many hours,” he said. “The senior palace steward has appointed you both suitable chambers. I will show you to them, if you wish. If there is anything else you require, you have only to send a runner to notify me.”

  What I wanted was a midnight train to the border. I knew better than to say that.

  Yún was better at make-polite than I was. She smiled. “Rooms would be most welcome, thank you. We are weary after our long journey.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Sleek bowed and motioned for us to follow him. He didn’t even flinch when Yún whistled and Yāo-guài popped into sight on her shoulder. Mentally, I placed a bet that Mr. Sleek would be Mr. Senior Sleek pretty soon.

  Our rooms, it turned out, were in the next wing, down a winding open staircase, then through a dark tunnel. The tunnel brought us into another airy space, this one with doors leading off in six different directions. Six. They liked that number, I thought, gazing around, as the steward’s minion explained how to use the palace’s internal talk-phone and calculor system.

  He indicated the door to our left. “Yours, young sir. And yours”—he gestured to another opposite—“young lady. The door at the end is a fully-appointed bathing room, and this one for dining. You have only to speak to lock or open the doors.”

  Our tour guide excused himself, reminding us again that we had but to ring the summons bell if we required more. Yún and I each disappeared into our separate rooms.

  I dumped my backpack onto my new bed. The room was tiny, but stuffed full of gadgets. One handle swung out to reveal a basin with sweetly scented running water. Another door hid a small cabinet with a vid-screen and calculor tucked away as neatly as a cat. More fancy devices crowded the shelves and the bedside table, which was no bigger than a handprint. Jing-mei would like these, I thought, turning over a glass cube that showed different videos on each of its faces.

  Thinking of magic and gadgets, I made another, more careful inspection. Inside a handful of moments, I uncovered six s
ecret microphones. No doubt there were a dozen more.

  I blew out a breath. Not that I was surprised. Lian had told me about the hidden cameras in Lóng City’s palace. It was something royals and nobles did. The important thing was the emperor didn’t trust me or Yún. Which meant he didn’t trust Lian.

  She probably knows that already. Strike that. She definitely knows.

  A soft chiming sound echoed from beside my bed. “Kai? Kai, are you there?”

  Yún. She must have figured out the talk-system already. “Yes?”

  “I’m tired. I think I’ll take a nap. Call you when it’s time for dinner.”

  “Okay, but what about—”

  A click told me she’d cut the connection.

  I blew out a breath. What was that about?

  (She doesn’t want to see you, bright boy.)

  (Or maybe that wasn’t a real truce and she’s still mad at me for no reason.)

  Or maybe she just wanted to be alone. After all, we’d spent the past month and more together. Even spirit companions didn’t spend every single hour with their humans. They popped in and out of the magical plane. There were times when I had accused Chen of holding secret parties with the other spirits.

  Hardly daring to hope, I sent out a whisper-soft call to Chen.

  Nothing.

  Damn you, Chen. Show yourself!

  No answer.

  I ran a trembling hand over my face. It had been four days since Qi and Chen left on their search for whatever. They never had explained; they had both simply vanished. I hadn’t worried too much at first. After all, Chen liked adventures. That’s why we fit together so well.

  (If he won’t come to you, maybe you should look for him.)

  (As if I could.)

  (You could, if you remembered your meditation lessons.) Only one way to find out about anything.

  I settled onto my bed and closed my eyes. My heart fluttered uncomfortably as I took my first breath. Mā mī said that lighting a fire was harder than feeding one. The second breath came more easily; with the third, my thoughts spiraled down inside myself. I was floating between the spirit plane and the outer world.