Lian listened intently as I reported everything about my meeting with Quan. And I mean everything. What he said, how he said it. What he left out or tried to skip over. When I mentioned the part about the money, she flinched. When I got to the part about why he wanted the money, she sat as still as any mountain.
Finally, I ran out of report. My throat was parched from dust and worry. Yún handed me a flask of water, and I drank. Lian said nothing.
“Do you trust him?” Yún asked after a moment.
The silence went on for almost forever. “I believe him,” Lian said at last.
Not an answer to the question, but an answer.
15
LIAN SENT OFF A NOTE TO HER ADVISOR, REQUESTING an interview the following morning. She explained about her father and wished to discuss how she might continue her studies over the winter. She expected to return next spring, and hoped to attend her regular classes once more.
“Very nice,” Yún commented. “Very . . . sincere.”
“My studies in political rhetoric were useful, then,” Lian said drily.
She summoned a runner and gave him the message and directions for its delivery. The runner, an older man in palace livery, promised to return with the reply before sunset.
“Twenty yuan says the emperor hears of my plans within the hour,” Lian murmured.
A sucker bet. Yún and I just shook our heads.
The reply came back from Lian’s advisor long before sunset. Ten o’clock, the professor wrote. Please to bring notes and drafts for any current research papers, as well as a list of materials available for her studies in Lóng City. His tone made it clear he thought the list would be a short one. Lian’s lips curled. “Alas, he would be correct. Our libraries are nothing like the libraries in Phoenix City.”
“Are you sorry to leave?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I am only sorry that my father is ill.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that one. We ate an early dinner together, mostly to satisfy the spies and vid-cameras, then went to our separate rooms and to tense, scattered slumber with ominous shadow dreams.
AT SIX O’CLOCK, the brass clock chimed its alarm. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Swearing, I fired a pillow at the cursed thing. The clock chirped louder. Then something bounced off the bed with a rattle of wings. The next minute, there was a horrible crunching noise.
Oops.
I lurched into a sitting position. Screws and broken glass littered the floor. A puddle of dark gooey liquid was spreading over the carpet. It looked like blood; it smelled like oil. Across the room, the griffin clutched a jumble of wires and shiny metal between its front claws. Yāo-guài shot me a triumphant glare, then bit into the clock’s remains. I swear the little monster was chortling.
“Remind me to feed you more often,” I said.
Still chortling, Yāo-guài set to munching his kill.
At least I’d be long gone before the steward could charge me for damages.
Remembering the spy cameras, I tried to act like this was a regular day. I scrubbed my face, cleaned my teeth. I dressed in my thinnest cotton tunic and trousers, as though I expected to spend all day in the palace, instead of escaping to the northern mountains.
It took some skill (and blood) to separate the griffin from the clock. Yāo-guài hissed and growled, but in the end allowed me to carry him away. As we left the room, I glimpsed the magical tea tray, crouched just inside its slot in the wall. Quickly it ducked out of sight.
Yún waited outside. She gave me a nervous smile.
“Let’s go,” I murmured.
“Well put,” she murmured back.
Lian waited for us in the same small parlor from two days before. Jewels winked from her raven-black hair, and more lights—magical ones—glinted on her dark blue formal robes, which swept in a long train behind her. She looked like a star-filled midnight sky. But when she turned around, I could see the tight set of her jaw.
“Please sit,” she said, gesturing to the chairs. To a hovering maid, she said, “You may bring the tea now.”
She was silent until the tea service arrived and the maids withdrew. Then she laid an exquisite perfumed scroll on the table. “Read it,” she said softly.
Yún and I glanced at each other. “Bad news?” Yún whispered.
“Read it,” Lian repeated.
I took the scroll first. It was made from heavy parchment, embossed with the imperial seal of a phoenix wreathed in flames. A faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood wafted upward as I unrolled the sheet.
To Her Royal Highness, Princess Lian Song Li . . .
It was an invitation to a formal banquet that same morning. More like a summons, I thought, as I untangled the thick layers of prepositions and subjunctives. That wasn’t too bad. We couldn’t meet with Quan today, but surely he’d hear through his cousins what happened. We could catch up with him tomorrow . . .
Crap.
. . . further delays to your departure from Our Presence, which are understandably unfortunate for you, but fortunate for us, in that the gods continue bless us with the delight of your presence. Until these matters are resolved, we extend to you an invitation to a hunting excursion at our winter palace . . .
“Hunting?” I whispered.
Lian nodded. “Of a different kind,” she whispered back.
I blew out a breath. Obviously, the emperor suspected something. I scanned the rest of the invitation. The emperor expected his entourage (meaning her, plus whatever other unlucky souls he picked) to depart the following morning. The invitation didn’t say how long the excursion would last, but those kinds of affairs might last a week or even a month. If Lian’s father wasn’t already dead, he would be soon, and the kingdom would fall into chaos.
That might be part of his plan, I thought. He might want to force Lian to accept his help.
I gave the scroll to Yún, who read through it, frowning the whole time. She handed the scroll back to Lian. “A very great honor,” she said carefully.
“One I must not refuse,” Lian said. She leaned close and swiftly whispered. “Jun went to find your spirit companions last night. She never returned.”
Before either of us could react, she stood. “If you will excuse me, I must go at once to the banquet. I’ve instructed my servants to bring you breakfast here. Afterward, we shall discuss whether you plan to return to Lóng City, or accompany me to the emperor’s estates as my companions.”
It had to be a trick that nobles learned, I thought. How to speak smoothly when the whole world is shaking itself into dust around you. But we’d been friends long enough that I could hear the small catch in her voice when she said Lóng City, and how her eyes brightened with anger, when she spoke of the emperor.
(Could the emperor’s spy gadgets see and hear what I did?)
(Shut up. Smile at your friend. She needs you to be brave.)
No sooner had Lian gone than servants appeared with dozens of covered platters, carafes of fragrant tea, and even a small dish for Yāo-guài’s meal. With a bone-screeching cry, our little monster pounced upon the nearest metal dome, scratching at it with his claws.
“You ate already,” I told it.
“The clock?” Yún murmured.
We both managed weak smiles. It wasn’t enough to restore our appetites, however. Jun vanished. Chen and Qi missing for days. The emperor tying silken ribbons of politeness around Lian to keep her prisoner. For once I was glad our pesky griffin demanded so much attention at meals. We took turns feeding him bits of magical crab and roasted pork, until he toppled over with a burp.
I wished I could do the same.
Without Yāo-guài to distract her, Yún wandered over to the calculor. She flicked through a dozen channels, before settling on a news vid-cast with several split viewports. I could tell she wasn’t really watching, but I could also tell she didn’t want to talk.
Restless, I wandered through the suite. Except for Lian’s study and the rooms immediately around her bedchamb
er, it was stripped bare. One small library had a few books on its shelves, but the rest were gone, most likely packed into crates and loaded onto wagons by the Zhang-Yin Freight and Transport Company. Most of the servants had gone, too. Only a couple of maids remained. They were chatting over a pot of tea while they mended what looked like palace uniforms.
In a tiny room I came across an ancient vid-screen and calculor on an overturned packing crate. I dropped onto the floor and tilted the screen down. Flicked on a switch. Magic flux crackled, and the screen wavered queasily before it snapped into focus. Wrinkling my nose against the metallic stink, I scrolled through the programming menu, but my mind wasn’t on cartoons or medieval documentaries.
How do we get out? How?
We had to get out and soon. Lian’s father was sick. Dying.
(Or dead.)
I cursed Kaishan Zhu and all his ancestors. Cursed the gods. Cursed my own bad luck. If we’d only stayed away from Lian, Quan might have smuggled a letter into the palace. Lian might have smuggled herself away from the palace. Quan himself could have helped us escape . . .
Quan. He had escaped the palace, the day before.
I flicked off the vid-screen. Stopped myself just in time. Those spy cameras would notice if I went racing back to Yún and told her about any secret passages. I stood up lazily, stretched and yawned, then sauntered to Lian’s study.
Yún had shut off the calculor and was staring at the empty walls. She looked tired and frustrated.
“Hai, Yún,” I said. “Got a question for you, Hotshot Girl.”
Her eyes widened slightly. Her eyebrows lifted in curiosity.
“Those scrolls,” I said. “I mean books. The ones Princess Lian wanted returned to the library. Didya do that yet?”
Enlightenment showed in Yún’s expression. “Ah, yes. Those books. The ones she told you to return. You forgot them?”
“C’mon, Yún.” I let my voice slide into a whine. “Remember how she sent me out to that stupid transport company, all for nothing?”
“And what does that have to do with anything? Idiot,” she hissed. “Here, here are the books. And while you are mucking and loitering about the palace, here is a list of the scrolls she wishes to study tonight. If,” she added, “you can remember to fetch them.”
“I’ll remember,” I snarled.
I snagged three books from Lian’s study—ones with cracked covers and stamped with the Phoenix Empire seal—and trotted through the palace labyrinth to the small library. Right away the chief librarian stopped me at the entry door.
“Books,” I said, holding them up carelessly. “My royal princess asked me to return these. And she wants me to fetch some different ones. It’s for her research paper.”
A pained expression crossed the old man’s face. “Give me those before you damage them. Yes, the Essays of Suyin Wei. Philological Observations from the First Empire. Poetry of Cheng-hao Li. Hmmmm. That last does not appear to be a standard text for the university.” He glanced up, still somewhat distracted. “No matter. You say the princess wished to borrow other books in return?”
“These,” I said breezily, waving the list. And as the chief librarian scanned the paper, muttering to himself, I added, “She mentioned one or two others. Don’t know if she really wants them or not. Said they were in that room we visited yesterday. Do you mind if I look?”
The chief librarian glanced up, and now his eyes narrowed. “What kind of books? Oh, never mind. Go, do what you must. But do not remove any scrolls or books without showing them to me or my chief assistant first. We keep records, you understand.”
I poked around the room Lian and Yún and I had first visited. The ghost dragons stirred upon my entrance—I heard a hissing above, like the first faint whistle from a steam kettle—but none of them tried to stop me as I pulled out books, or wiggled the shelves, or kicked the base of the bookcases. More important, none of them gave any alarm.
Much good it did me. The shelves were nothing but wood. And kicking the bookcases only gave me a sore foot.
After fifteen minutes, I sat down on a bench and massaged my toes, cursing. Quan had come from somewhere. But which direction?
I closed my eyes and tried to remember every moment exactly.
I remembered us sitting around the same square table, all of us bent forward and the griffin gripping my shoulder with his claws and listening intently. Quan had appeared in the doorway to my left. Either he’d followed us from outside, or he’d waited in one of the many side chambers we’d passed.
(Didn’t matter where he came from. What’s important is where he went.)
Okay. Pretend that you’re watching an old-time vid, clicking through a single frame at a time. Go back to yesterday again. Lian had declared she would walk home if necessary. You were thinking she looked like a hawk, an eagle, bright-eyed and fierce. Slower. Next picture. Quan shows up and speaks. Lian bolts to her feet. More talkety-talk. (Careful. Slow down.) Angry Lian. Quan desperate. He reached out and pulled Lian into that astonishing forever kiss. Both stare at the other. Click to next. Quan’s speaking. Now, he tells Lian. She strikes. Quan darts through the farther door . . .
I hurried through the farther door, following memory.
A corridor continued a short distance, ending in a blank wall. Doors and openings led off to either side. Quan had disappeared right away. He must have, or else the chief librarian’s minions would have caught up with him. That meant he’d turned almost immediately into a side chamber.
I made a careful search of the next alcove on my right. A pair of cranky ghost dragons glared at me as I quickly ran my fingers over the bookshelves, then along the cracks between the various cases. No luck. No exits.
To the left, then.
They say you make your own good fortune. Disbelieve in yourself, and the world does, too. Yún and I had proved that last year when we gave the princess her heart’s desire, but this was a much harder task. An almost impossible one. For all I knew, Quan had used a secret nobles-only spell, one they hadn’t bothered to share with Lian.
I scanned the chamber with fingers and eyes. No luck here, either. I turned to go, trying to quash my doubts. A puff of air brushed my cheek as I crossed the tiny chamber. It took me two more steps before I registered the clues. Breeze. Basement. No windows or doors. Where had that breeze come from?
I backpedaled like a slow-motion monkey until I felt the breeze again. It came from the right-hand set of shelves. Now I could see the narrow gap between two tall stacks. It ran from floor to ceiling.
I pressed my eye to the opening. Shadows flickered in the darkness beyond, and the breeze carried the unmistakable scent of damp earth and magic flux. From farther off I heard dripping water. Yes. Here was Quan’s secret passageway.
“A SECRET PASSAGE?” Yún said.
“How else could he get out?”
We’d returned to the library. Yún had told the chief librarian that I had failed to obtain the correct scrolls. If he would permit, she would carry out the princess’s orders. She had come equipped with writing materials and, she added, a better understanding of her mistress’s requirements than her unfortunate companion, who had been dropped into a gargoyle pit when a young child. To my disgust and relief, the chief librarian believed her.
Now Yún examined the almost-invisible division between two bookshelves. She laid a hand over the gap and whispered a spell.
The magic flux chuckled. Nothing else happened.
“I wish Qi were here.” She sighed.
“I wish we weren’t,” I said.
Yún didn’t bother to answer Mr. Obvious. She tried a few more spells, but nothing worked. Meanwhile, Yāo-guài was chittering and chattering emphatically. I hushed him. He snapped at me. I tried to grab his beak, but he escaped and leapt at the bookshelves, trilling loudly. Yún tried to pull him away—he’d latched onto a stack of old papers and bits flew everywhere—but he only snapped and trilled louder.
“Yāo-guài,” she hissed. �
�Stop making so much noise—”
Yāo-guài opened his beak wide and a note rang out.
My ears popped. My insides lurched. It was like standing on the edge of a very tall precipice.
Yún didn’t look much better. She clutched her stomach, and her face turned the color of a pasty, pale dumpling. Yāo-guài hummed. A sour stink filled the air, as though a wild animal had passed close by. Just when I thought I would throw up, the humming stopped suddenly and the tension vanished.
Click.
One bookcase slid backward three feet. With a happy cry, the griffin launched himself into flight and soared through the gap. Yún and I darted after him.
And stopped.
We stood in a dim, shadowed corridor. Dust coated the stone-paved walls and floor. Spiderwebs hung from the ceiling in a thick veil to our left. From far off, I heard the sound of water dripping and the clickety-clack of beetles scuttling away. Yāo-guài had vanished.
“Now what?” I said.
“We follow those footprints,” Yún said, pointing at the fresh tracks in the dust that led off to the right, through the fluttering shreds of more cobwebs.
We followed them through two double bends and left at another intersection. There the corridor continued in a straight line, but the tracks stopped at a hatch set in the middle of the floor. We undid the bolts and eased the hatch open. Yāo-guài reappeared on Yún’s shoulder, chittering, then dove into the tunnel. We scrambled down the metal ladder after him.
Magical lamps flickered on as soon as we hit the ground. In some ways, it reminded me of Lóng City’s sewers. Well, except these underground passages didn’t stink of dung and garbage.
Fox and Phoenix Page 17
