Fox and Phoenix

by Beth Bernobich

“Escape route,” Yún said.

  “For nobles.”

  “Definitely. That explains how Quan escaped. He used to live in the palace, after all. And now . . .” She glanced away from me, and fussed over the griffin. Her lips were pressed together, and she had that stubborn I know better than you look. Uh-oh.

  “Yún—”

  “No. Listen to me, Kai. I have to go after Quan myself. You have to stay here. Think about it. The chief librarian knows I’m studying for my conjuration license. He won’t wonder if I spend hours in the library.” She smiled weakly. “They might not believe the same about you. So here’s my plan. I’ll find Quan and explain what happened—”

  “You don’t know these tunnels, Yún. You could get lost....”

  “These tunnels are meant for scared and stupid nobles, Kai. Besides, Yāo-guài can help me. Don’t worry about me. The moment Lian comes back from that thrice-cursed banquet, you and she escape through this passageway. Meet me and Quan at the university kitchens. If you don’t show by sunset, we’ll try again tomorrow morning. After that...”

  It wasn’t necessary for her to spell out more. If we hadn’t met up by tomorrow morning, the emperor would have discovered our secret plans, taken Lian prisoner outright, and probably set my sorry, ugly head on display outside the palace walls.

  I wanted to argue. I wanted to tie her up with ropes and find Quan myself. Except her plan made too much sense, no matter how much I hated it. I scowled at her. “Bossy girl.”

  She scowled back at me. “Does that mean you’ll do as I ask?”

  “You never ask,” I muttered, but before she could launch into an argument I held up my hand. “Okay. Just so you know, I hate this. All of it. But I’m not sure we have a better choice.”

  Yún let her breath trickle out. “Until tonight, then.”

  She hesitated a moment, then leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. The next moment she had disappeared into the gloom.

  I rubbed my hand over my mouth. My lips tingled, and my whole body felt as though I were floating in a sea of magic flux.

  (I liked that. I hope she does it again.)

  Only one way to make sure. I shook myself back to the present, and the knowledge I had to fool the chief librarian and his assistants long enough to sneak Lian through the tunnels. I climbed back to the dusty corridor and slid through the gap into the library.

  Once there, I wrote out an account of what Yún and I had discovered. I also wrote a bunch of nonsense notes—just in case. When I finished, I tucked the papers into my shirt and glanced at the bookcase, with its still-open entryway into the mysterious corridor beyond. I had no idea how to close it. And no idea how to open it back up. I just have to hope no one comes back here. It was a risk I had to take.

  I sauntered out. The chief librarian was not around, just one of the clerks. “Hi,” I said. “Just going to fetch some more ink for my friend.”

  No one stopped me. Whistling, I strolled out of the library and back to Lian’s rooms.

  Over the next few hours, I made three more trips between Lian’s suite and the library, pretending to fetch and carry writing materials, more books, and even a pot of tea (which the clerk turned away, saying that liquids were not permitted in the library). When that got old, I set to pacing around Lian’s private study.

  I was cursing the emperor and his never-ending banquets when Lian reappeared, trailed by three servants. She took one look at me and dismissed them. “You have something for me?” she said, all imperial.

  “Notes from Yún.” I handed her the sheaf of papers. “She wants to know if she forgot anything.”

  Lian scanned the first page and frowned. She shuffled through the sheets until she found my account. Her eyes widened and she glanced at me. “Interesting. I find that neither one of you truly understands the research I do here. Wait for me. I shall fetch a few items to bring with me to the library.”

  In moments, she had changed from her formal silk robes into plain woolen ones. She handed me a heavy bag, which clinked as I took it. Money and jewels, I guessed. I slid the bag inside my shirt and we hurried back to the library.

  Only to find out the bookcases had slid closed.

  I muttered a string of bad words.

  Lian laid a hand over the shelves where the gap should have been. Her breath hissed in surprise. “Very strong guards. But ... yes, it’s an emergency spell. It’s keyed to respond to those in great need, but only someone of the palace. Not outsiders. That doesn’t explain why ...”

  She murmured a few spells. Nothing happened. Lian cursed and spoke a few words in what sounded like the ghost dragon’s language. Still nothing. “That’s odd. I would think the spells would respond to their tongue. Perhaps it’s keyed to voices or identity, to people who are official members of the court.”

  Six or seven more spells did nothing. I was ready to pound on the shelves and smash my way through, when a loud click made me jump back.

  Very slowly, with a faint wheezing noise, one bookcase receded from the other. A plain young man, his hair tousled and a wild look in his eyes, burst through the opening. Quan.

  “How did you—”

  “Yún told me about the emperor—”

  He and Lian both stopped and stared at each other.

  “Yún told me what happened,” Quan said. “I ran—I came back at once. The passageway doesn’t—”

  “—stay open for very long,” Lian said.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  Quan reached for Lian’s hands. She clasped his tightly. Both of them let out a long sigh of relief. Then they seemed to remember that we were trying to escape from a very angry emperor. We sidled through the gap and ran down the corridor to the ladder. From afar, I heard a distinct click as the gap closed once more.

  Our tunnel went arrow-straight for a li or more. We passed one ladder and half a dozen side tunnels, but Quan ignored them. “Different route,” he wheezed. “Longer. Just. In. Case.”

  In case the emperor sent his soldiers into the streets to fetch Lian back to the palace. Best to keep underground until we got closer to the Beggars’ District.

  Lian’s mouth was set in a grim line. She understood, too. We jogged in silence, while Quan counted under his breath. After six or seven intersections, Quan veered to the left. Things got complicated for a while. A couple more li, and we stopped at another metal ladder.

  The hatch opened into a private yard with a dirt floor. We were somewhere close to a blacksmith, I guessed, hearing the clang of a hammer on metal. Quan motioned for us to hurry. We followed back alleys into another district, then boarded a rickety tram that dropped us near the Beggars’ Quarter. By the time we entered the shadowy lane behind the university kitchens, the sun was slanting toward late afternoon.

  The lane was empty. The scent of moldering leaves hung heavy in the cool, damp air. My heart shrank. Then a shadow moved. Yún emerged from a doorway, carrying the griffin in her arms. Her gaze zapped to mine. She smiled faintly, and the terrible tightness in my throat eased.

  More men and women appeared from behind half-closed doors. Quan’s smugglers. Several carried bulky packs slung over their shoulders. One, a lean and weathered older woman, studied us. Her gaze flickered over me, then settled on Lian.

  Lian held out her hand. “Thank you for helping us.”

  The woman’s teeth showed in a thin smile. “I did it for him.” She tilted her head toward Quan. “He’s tended our sick when no one else cared. We cannot delay,” she said to Quan. “It’s best if you’re outside the city before twilight.”

  Quan nodded. “We go at once. Lead on, Feng.”

  Feng took the lead with another woman. Both of them were armed with knives and spiked clubs. So were all the other smugglers. Two of them, short, ugly men as stout as bears, guarded our rear as we traversed a maze of lanes from one part of the university to another.

  In the middle of a lonely alley, the whole crew stopped while the bear-men levered a metal grate from the road. More s
ewers, I thought. Down we scrambled, into a gray-lit tunnel. A few moments to replace the grating and we took off at a run.

  Feng took the lead. Evidently she knew the way by heart, because she never paused at any intersection. Left and right and left and left. The tunnel took a sudden slant down at one point. We splashed through muck and mud and worse, but instead of slowing down, Feng urged us to run faster. The bricks vanished. Now the walls were nothing more than hard-packed dirt. I smelled a watery scent, unlike the stink I’d been breathing the past hour. Feng slowed, then motioned for us to stop.

  A faint gray circle of light showed ahead. The two largest smugglers squeezed past us to deal with the next grate. Feng motioned for us to keep quiet as her minions clambered out. We all waited several tense moments before the younger one poked his head into the tunnel.

  “All clear,” he whispered.

  “Right enough,” Feng said. “Now—”

  “One moment.” Quan turned to Feng. “You remember our agreement.”

  She shook her head. “You have given us enough already. You are the reason my granddaughter lived through the sweating sickness, and why old Guang over there survived last winter. Go in peace, you and your friends, and may the gods of your ancestors watch over you.”

  Quan ran his fingers through his hair. He looked like he wanted to argue, but he also knew we didn’t have time for that. “Very well. But remember, if you need care—”

  “—we go to Xin Tao and his clinic. Yes, we know. Now hurry.”

  One by one, we crawled through the narrow opening. The smugglers handed over the bulky packs. One went to each of us—the gear and provisions Quan had promised to provide. I shifted mine to a more comfortable position and tightened the straps around my waist. We were well outside the city gates—at least four or five li away. The skies were purpling, smudged with inky clouds. The air smelled of wet dirt and imminent rain. Nearby I heard the rill of a stream. In the distance, I saw the brilliant lights of Phoenix City.

  Quan touched my arm. “Come quickly. We should reach a good shelter before full dark.”

  16

  WITH TWILIGHT DRIFTING OVER THE COUNTRYSIDE, we followed the stream until we came to a wooden footbridge and a dirt road heading north. “Open roads are dangerous,” Quan said, “but we’ll make better time.”

  “Where are we going?” Yún asked.

  “A village,” he answered. “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”

  Hü, I thought. I found that hard to believe, but with the emperor sure to send trackers and soldiers after Lian, we had no time to argue. So I jogged onward, stumbling now and then, because the road had turned into a treacherous blank. Yún jogged ahead of me, the griffin clinging to her shoulder. At first I could see them outlined in faint light, then in shadows. Now they were invisible. I could only tell their presence by Yún’s labored breathing, a rustling from the griffin’s wings, and the faint movement of dark against dark.

  An hour. Two hours. Rain spattered us, stopped, and spattered again. A stitch caught in my side, and I staggered.

  Lian caught my arm. “Quan,” she called out softly, “we can’t go on. It’s too dark.”

  “Half a li farther,” came his answer. “We can’t stop here.”

  Thunder grumbled overhead. The clouds spit more rain all over us. Quan moved cautiously, sending back whispered warnings about the footing. Soon we turned off the road onto a side track, which led between tumbled-down walls, into an empty square. I stared around at the circle of looming shapes. Then my foot kicked against something. I bent down and found a broken rake, half buried in weeds and dirt. We had reached a deserted village.

  “We can rest until moonrise,” Quan said.

  “No fire?” Lian asked. “A cup of tea would be welcome right about now.”

  Quan hesitated. “Too risky. Unless . . .”

  “. . . we make our camp inside a house,” Yún said. “That would hide our fire, and the smoke won’t be visible at night.”

  “Unless the soldiers get close enough to smell it,” I added.

  Lian shuddered. “Then we make fire just for cooking and douse it right away.”

  After some searching, we found a house that was nearly whole. We slipped inside one by one, all of us with our knives ready, just in case. Inside, broken furniture and bird nests littered the floor. A mouse skittered away at our approach and, from the smell, more were about. Still, we had four walls and most of a roof.

  “Why doesn’t anyone live here?” Yún asked. “There’s fresh water and the land looks right for good farming—”

  “No young people,” Quan said shortly. “They all migrated into the city. After a while, the older ones died, or joined their children.” He smiled bitterly. “It’s the same-old same-old, only it happened faster because of all that magical flux. After all, who wants to stay in a dirty country village when you can choose the emperor’s own city a few li away?”

  I would, I thought.

  But then, I was just a mountain boy.

  We cleared the rubbish from the kitchen and swept the floor with a broom Lian discovered. Quan unpacked several blankets and laid them over the floor. He also shared out warmer clothing—knitted hats and gloves, a thicker cloak for Lian. It was quiet here. The rain had died off. Far away, a fox yipped. For the first time in days, I found myself breathing easily.

  Yún gathered deadwood. Lian came back with a bucket of water from the village well. Together we built a small fire and set water to boil for tea, while Quan dug out two woven containers from his pack. One held packets of loose tea, the other a quantity of cold rice and dried fish. He had even brought strips of dried beef for Yāo-guài, who tore into them with a happy cry. We bolted down our meal, hardly better than the griffin. The tea had a bitter flavor from the tin mugs, but I didn’t care. It sucked away the chill in my bones and helped me pretend I was dry and warm.

  After we brewed a second pot of tea, we doused the fire. Quan stood and drew a knife from his belt. “I’ll take first watch.”

  No one even pretended to argue. Yún rolled up in her blanket close to the fire. Yāo-guài curled next to her. Lian poured herself another cup of tea and stared out the window, sipping from time to time. A handful of stars speckled the night sky, shedding a faint light through a single round window set high in the dirt wall. Her face was invisible to me, but I could make out the tense lift of her chin. I wondered what she was thinking now.

  After a few moments, she sighed and set the cup aside. “You should sleep, Kai.”

  “So should you.”

  She gave a breathy laugh. “I will soon enough.”

  In other words, stop snooping.

  I yawned and lay down under my own blanket. Closed my eyes and waited.

  Ten, twenty, fifty. I’d reached nearly a hundred before Lian stirred. Her clothes whispered as she stood and glided out the doorway. Moments later, the leather hinges of the front door creaked loudly.

  Nothing else happened for a while. Just as I decided it really was time for me to sleep, I heard a rustling in the long dried grass outside the window. Quan or Lian? A stranger? That side of the house looked over the fields. Cautiously, I rolled over and rose into a crouch. My knife slid into my hand and I listened hard. The best gift I had for my enemy was surprise.

  More soft-footed rustling that approached our window and stopped.

  I was about to wake Yún when a young woman’s voice floated through the night air.

  “Quan.”

  Grass crunched as Quan spun around. His tongue must have tripped once or twice, because it took him a couple tries before he said back, “Princess.”

  A very long pause came next.

  “I’m sorry,” Lian said softly. “I was wrong. I misjudged you—without any cause. I thought—Well, I made clear what I thought. I wish I could erase those words.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” Quan said very quickly. “Or explain.”

  “I do. I wronged you, Quan. I knew your character. I had
no excuse. I—” Her voice broke off with a catch and quaver. In a lower voice, she continued, “Kai told me why you wanted the money. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. To me. And I hope it matters to you that I’m listening now.”

  A silence. A soft breath of exclamation.

  That’s when I really knew I had to stop listening. I coughed. Two thumps sounded on the dirt. Then the noise of rustling grass as two lovers hurried away. The nasty part of me cursed them. Why couldn’t they wait until we reached Lóng City? Even better, why hadn’t they smooched and made love speeches back in Phoenix City?

  (You’re just jealous.)

  (Of course I am.)

  I sighed and rolled over, trying to find a comfortable position on that lumpy dirt floor.

  Only to see a gleam from Yún’s open eyes.

  “He’s a good man,” she whispered.

  “He’s an idiot,” I said gruffly. “So is Lian.”

  Yún shut her eyes. It was like the moon dropping from the midnight sky, leaving me in darkness.

  (Okay, bright boy. Now what?)

  (Apologize.)

  (Too easy. What about that kiss in the secret passageway?)

  My pulse was dancing around. I ordered it to calm down.

  “Yún?”

  No response.

  The griffin fluffed out his feathers and made soft complaining noises, as if something had disturbed his rest. Gathering up the scattered bits of my courage, I levered myself onto my hands and knees and circled the dead fire to Yún’s side. She lay so still, as still as a mountain in winter, I knew she was awake and listening hard.

  (Make it good. You won’t have another chance.)

  I blew out a breath. This was like Chen’s laundry spell. Mess up the syllables and rhythm, and things explode.

  “Yún . . . I’m sorry. I thought last year that everything had changed between us. And it had, but I spoiled it by being such an idiot. I flirted with that girl from the teahouse. I pretended I didn’t care. I stopped talking to you and that might be the worst and stupidest thing, because friends should always talk to each other.”