by Paul Krueger
The Iron Prince’s expression clouded. “What are you talking about?”
“A whole contingent of Shang soldiers, slaughtered where they sat,” Xiulan said, “their deaths clearly the work of shades charged with murderous intent. And when one knows the Republic of Sanbu doesn’t have any outposts stationed so far inland, the culprit becomes all too easy to deduce.”
Prince Jimuro paled. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Did you see who did it?”
“Deduction is its own manner of seeing,” Xiulan recited. One of Bai Junjie’s catchphrases, but she doubted the Iron Prince would recognize it.
“No, you don’t understand,” Prince Jimuro said. Xiulan was taken aback by how urgent he’d become, and how suddenly he’d become it. “On the voyage here, we were attacked by a man who broke the laws of magic. A man who chewed through my entire complement of Sanbuna protectors, save for one. A man whom I’d hoped with all my heart was dead. If he’s nearby, we’re all in danger.”
Xiulan cocked her head. Everything he said sounded too outlandish to believe. And yet…the manner in which he said it. The ease with which he called up details, rather than taking the time to concoct them. Those lent credence to the idea that he just might be telling the truth.
But then her heart hardened. What was she doing? He was the Iron Prince of Tomoda. There was nothing he wouldn’t say to get himself out of this situation. “If what you say is true,” she said, “then you really should come with me at the next—”
The door slid open, and she jammed her mask back onto her face just as Kurihara Kosuke swept into the room. Xiulan suppressed a squawk of surprise. It had been Lee’s job to waylay him and the other Cicadas in the back of the train. Why hadn’t she succeeded? Had the worst happened to her partner?
No, she thought, with a quick glance at Kurihara. His clothes were in good order and he wasn’t out of breath, so he hadn’t been in a fight. There had been no noises from the adjoining train car, either. Suffice it to say, she told herself with some relief, she could assume Lee was still safe and actively in operation. This was a minor setback, but one they could work around.
“Food is on its way,” Kurihara said, bowing from his waist, then straightening up once he noticed Xiulan. “Who the hell are you?”
Xiulan leveled a meaningful stare at Prince Jimuro.
For a long moment, the Iron Prince said nothing.
Xiulan tensed. If he didn’t play along, she would have to act quickly. Kou’s name hung heavy on her tongue, a drop of dew waiting to fall.
“She can stay, Kosuke,” said the prince eventually. “I was…rather enjoying her company.”
Kurihara blinked. “Your Brilliance…?”
“If you insist, my liege,” Xiulan said brightly, though inside her mind spun like a machine. She was trying her best not to get swallowed by her prodigious imagination as it considered every worst-case scenario she could be stuck in. But then, she considered what Lee would do in her shoes. She thought of her partner’s easy smile. Her loose, confident stride. Her unshakable confidence that no matter how high the world stacked things against her, she would always be good enough to jump higher.
She sucked in a breath.
She exhaled blue smoke.
She could do this.
She had no other choice.
She reached for the bottle of sake on the table. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would do for now. “May I humbly request the honor of filling your cups, my lords?”
Outside, the Iron Prince was calm and collected.
Inside, he screamed.
He slipped his hands below the table before clenching them as hard as he could. He felt his own fingernails dig into the sweaty palms of his hands, but he squeezed anyway. There were too many variables at play. He was certain this princess had a shade, but he had no idea what shape it would take, or if she would even need to summon it. For all he knew, it was already prowling the train, menacing his subjects and waiting for the order to make good on her threats. And even if it was yet to be summoned, he didn’t like his and Kosuke’s odds against a bloodthirsty, semi-immortal beast when they had a single gun between them.
He glanced out the window of the compartment, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he’d hoped to see some kind of inspiration lurking there in the rainy dark. Maybe he’d feared he would see the man in the purple coat, who was closer at hand than anyone else realized.
All that stared back at him was the dark.
“Your Brilliance.” Kosuke cut into his thoughts by offering a cup of warm sake. Jimuro considered taking it and hurling that sake in the Shang woman’s eye, but that wouldn’t freeze her tongue. No, as tempting as it was to seize an opportunity, he had to accept that he had no opportunity to seize. He had to be as the mountain, and sit with patience.
Kosuke tapped his own cup to the table, then drained it and slammed it back down. He ran his fingers through his hair and gave Xiulan a distracted, thoughtful look. “I must confess, I’m not familiar with you.”
Jimuro’s heart leapt into his throat. He resisted the urge to pump his fist. Of course Kosuke would notice something was off right away. All Jimuro needed to do was wait for him to work it out for himself.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be, my lord,” said Princess Xiulan with a modest bow. “I was a household servant for Lord Iida. After his children both fell in the defense of our homeland, I wished nothing more than to avenge them. That was why I joined the Cicadas’ cause.”
Jimuro had to admit: For a non-Tomodanese, her performance was impeccable. She spoke with perfect grammar and adjusted her tenses with native fluency. She’d localized her accent, but with the kind of stiffness that could be explained away as servant-class awkwardness. She bowed when she was supposed to, and to the exact degree that custom called. Whatever else she was, she was at the very least a good student.
“I see,” Kosuke said. He scratched his head again. “So that means you’ve had the privilege of fighting alongside my old friend Komachi Tsubame?”
Jimuro studied his old friend, looking for any kind of tell. Was he just making small talk? Was he suspicious, and probing their new companion?
Princess Xiulan let out a sigh. “Not since she died last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jimuro said. “How did she die?” No reason not to speed things up, he figured.
Princess Xiulan turned to look at him full-on. Her one eye not obscured by her hair glinted with a sinister intelligence. “Childbirth.”
From Kosuke’s reaction, that was apparently the correct response. Jimuro barely resisted the urge to curse aloud. How could she have possibly known that?
“Apologies for the dressing-down,” Kosuke said, accepting another pour of sake from Xiulan. “Nothing matters more than His Brilliance’s safety.”
“Oh, I quite agree,” said Princess Xiulan.
Jimuro bit down to stop his teeth from gnashing into stumps.
Beneath the table, his fists trembled against his thighs.
Kosuke tapped his cup against the table, then drank again. He squinted at Princess Xiulan’s face. “What are you doing, still wearing your mask? We’re all patriots here. Take it off, take it off.”
Within the depths of that mask, Jimuro saw that one eye glint again. The princess’s entire posture stiffened ever so slightly within her coat, so acutely that Jimuro never would’ve noticed if he weren’t looking for it.
“She can keep it on,” Jimuro said, gamely attempting a genial tone. “Clearly, she’s more comfortable with it on.” Coward, he told himself.
“Thank you, Your Brilliance,” Princess Xiulan said, topped off with another immaculately performed bow. “I’m self-conscious of my face, especially in the presence of our Iron Prince. I know, it’s awfully silly of me…”
Kosuke shrugged. “What’d you say your name was?”
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“Oh, I didn’t,” Xiulan said. She’d pitched her voice up, the way one was supposed to when conversing with one’s elders. Of course she’d think to do that, Jimuro thought; Shang was a tonal language. If anyone was going to have an ear for intonation, he supposed it would be a woman whose language was named for her own family. “My name is Hayama Izumi, though the name’s not much worth knowing.” She poured another round of sake: one for Kosuke, and one for Jimuro himself. “Though I suppose for now, I can at least be known as the one with the sake…”
This was absurd, Jimuro thought. Tomodanese culture was a collection of customs, each embedded with micro-customs. There were a dozen points in even the most mundane conversation where a masquerading foreigner should have tripped up. How could this princess possibly be so good at it?
He caught Kosuke’s eye and, in his desperation, willed Kosuke to see what he saw. He strained his mind, trying to broadcast thoughts that would shout to his friend the true nature of what was happening. Surprise was the only way they would get the upper hand on her.
Kosuke frowned at him: What?
Jimuro tried to indicate Xiulan with a flicker of his eyes, and hoped Kosuke would understand him as he thought, She’s an enemy foreign agent holding me hostage.
Kosuke squinted: You’re not making any sense.
“May you reign ten thousand years,” Princess Xiulan cut in, bowing to him.
“Ten thousand years,” Kosuke echoed. Jimuro had no choice but to clink cups with him, then rap his cup against the table before downing it. The smooth burn of sake, normally such a comfort to him, now just made him aware of how the stuff curdled and roiled in the pit of his nervous stomach.
It’s a shame we’re not having tea, Jimuro thought. The Tomodanese tea ceremony was as tedious and complicated as anything in their entire culture. If ever there were a way to expose an outlander, watching them attempt teatime would be second only to watching them attempt to navigate Hagane’s subway system.
You’re an idiot, he thought. Tala would’ve found a way out by now. Of course, there was a good chance Tala’s way would be reaching across the table and throttling Xiulan.
That’s the difference between you and the savage sergeant, his mother’s voice hissed to him. Whatever you threaten, my sweet son, she has the spine to see through.
“Your Brilliance?” said Kosuke. “Your Brilliance, what’s the matter?”
With a start, Jimuro became aware of his own face. His eyes were wide, his mouth drooped open. Even his glasses had slid down his slight nose, and they were what he adjusted first.
“Nothing,” he said gruffly, with a passing glance at Xiulan to warn her not to act up just yet. “Just…Steel Lord things.” His gaze drifted away from the masked interloper in front of him, away from his friend to his right, to the lacquered bottle of sake in the center of the table.
He blinked, as a thought occurred to him.
“Friends,” he said, “I’d like to propose a toast.”
Xiulan smiled when the prince raised the bottle. She’d made it plain that she was not a foe who could be outwitted, so she’d left him with only a single option: help her get Kurihara so stinking drunk he could barely stand, let alone stop them from leaving.
“We’ll need another cup,” Kurihara said, frowning. Xiulan studied him a moment. It was surprising to be in such casual company with so vicious a criminal, and in another time and place she would’ve been all too glad to exercise her powers as an agent of the law. Even adjusting for the exuberance of the Shang propaganda machine, Kurihara still had a lot of dead Shang to answer for.
The prince laid a hand on his shoulder. “No,” he said. He picked up the bottle. “When I was a young boy, my mother, Steel Lord Yoshiko, told me that rather than rule her people, it was the Steel Lord’s job to serve them.” He flashed his teeth. “Let…Izumi, was it?”
Xiulan gave him a tight nod to encourage him to move it along already.
“The lady can drink from my cup,” Prince Jimuro said, filling it and sliding it toward her. “I will drink from the bottle. Hardly polite, but I suppose royalty has its privileges, doesn’t it?”
Kurihara grunted in assent. “I’m sure this is just a game you’re running so you can get more sake,” he said with a grin. “But I’ll always turn a blind eye for you, my liege.”
Xiulan saw the creases on the shoulder of Kurihara’s kimono deepen as Prince Jimuro gave him an affectionate squeeze. In her brain, the puzzle pieces slotted neatly together. So it was romantic, then, this bond between prince and terrorist. It explained perfectly why he would abandon his Sanbuna guards, if he knew this option was waiting for him once he reached home.
Already, the story in her head was revising itself. He’d tricked Erega into this plan, knowing full well he would have the Cicadas to find him when he returned home. She wasn’t sure when the prince would have had time to arrange things with Kurihara, but Erega’s regime no doubt had its share of leaks and spies. After all, hadn’t that been what had driven Erega into this mad plan in the first place?
Her mind whirred as she twisted every disparate thread into a thick cord of narrative worthy of Bai Junjie. Perhaps someday, she thought, she’d even write a book and tell this story herself.
“What would you like us to toast to, Your Brilliance?” she said, careful to hold her cup the formal way: right hand grasping, left hand supporting from beneath. Kurihara held his similarly, both vessels prodded toward Prince Jimuro like offerings.
Prince Jimuro studied the bottle of sake in his hand pensively for a moment. “We’re a culture of small things,” he said eventually. “We are a people who always seek the good in the granular. That is the Tomodanese way.
“Everything has a spirit,” he continued, gesturing to the room around them. “Every floorboard that was a tree, every mushroom that once grew wild, every grain of dirt lying beneath the rails. With everything we do, we seek to pay tribute to them. It’s in the precision of our rituals, and in the eloquence of our language, and in…” Inspiration seemed to strike him. “…in the very food we eat.”
Xiulan glanced at Kurihara. He seemed to be hanging on to every word, albeit with some small measure of confusion. Likely, he was wondering why the prince was lecturing on the basics of Tomodanese philosophy and values. And to be fair to him, Xiulan was starting to wonder that herself.
She leveled her eye at him and jerked her head softly, but with a clear meaning: Wrap this up.
“When Sanbu first took me, I refused to eat their food,” he said. “They’re a loud people who have no patience for the delicate umami of a perfectly fried tempura, or the depths that can be found in even a shallow bowl of udon. They just drown everything in vinegar, and salt, and pepper sauce…most of the time, all at once. I even know one dish they have where they stew the flesh of a pig in its own blood.”
Kurihara pulled a face, and Xiulan made sure to copy him. In truth, she was actually rather fond of the taste of blood.
“So I insisted that I would only eat food prepared in the Tomodanese style. For three days, I starved myself, until General Erega relented and instructed her cooks to serve me civilized meals. And when she wasn’t fighting on the front, Erega would make a point of joining me at mealtimes: me with my food, and she with hers.”
Xiulan tapped her finger against the table three times to indicate urgency. She hadn’t signed on for a whole speech. She studied Kurihara again, watching for signs that there was some sort of code embedded in this diatribe. But Kurihara continued to listen with polite confusion, so Xiulan saw no need to speak up just yet.
“Most times, we merely discussed matters of state. I asked her for news from the front, and she obliged me. She would gripe to me about the headaches of establishing a new republic, and I obliged her. But no matter the topic of our conversation, it would always play against the backdrop of whatever pungent thing
she’d deigned to eat that day. She never said anything about it. I…may have been less than gracious once or twice, but for the most part I comported myself like a prince. One day, though, my curiosity got the better of me, and I asked her what she was eating.”
A faraway smile dawned on the prince’s face. The genuineness of it made Xiulan tense up just a hair. If he was this comfortable in a standoff, then she had to be that much more vigilant.
“I wish either of you could have seen the way her eye lit up,” he said. “She told me it was called bistek, and that it was made by stewing cow flesh in calamansi juice and soy sauce. She asked me if I wished to taste it. When I told her I couldn’t, she told me she would instruct her cooks to create a batch made with mushrooms instead of cow, and that we would share it at dinner. And come dinnertime, she arrived with two bowls of bistek. Then she set mine in front of me, and waited for me to take my first bite.”
The sake was beginning to cool in Xiulan’s grip. She kept up her polite, attentive smile, but inside she roiled. She’d never encountered anything about this in her readings. Was this how long all Tomodanese toasts went on? Was he baiting her, hoping she would panic and make a mistake in her impatience?
“The bistek was…” Prince Jimuro closed his eyes, remembering. “Earthy. But it was salty, and sweet, and sour, all at once. I’d thought it would just taste like a bowlful of noise, but the flavors…they were bigger. Certainly, they were noisier. And yet, somehow, they were balanced. The elements were, against all odds, a harmonious whole.”
“So the barbarians are wasteful and loud where we’re understated and elegant?” Kurihara chuckled. “Illuminating, but hardly news.”
Prince Jimuro shook his head. “Not quite, I’m afraid. I confess, the flavors were rather strong for my refined palate. I couldn’t finish the bowl in front of me.”
Xiulan suppressed a smug smile. She’d heard similar things about the Tomodanese and their inability to handle the powerful flavors of Shang cooking.
