Descendant of the Crane

by Joan He

  Her hand fluttered to her left shoulder. “She grabbed my shoulder and tore my dress.”

  “Just condemn her already, dianxia!” called one of the viscounts. “She’s the murderer!”

  Sanjing touched a hand to the hilt of his liuyedao; Hesina yanked it away.

  Akira scanned the witness stand. He beckoned for the page again and whispered something into his ear. “I’d like to see the ruined dress,” he said as the page hurried off.

  The ruqun, torn at the left shoulder as described, was delivered to him on a gilded tray.

  Akira lifted it. “Is this silk?”

  “Yes. What do you wear?” jibed a baron. “Cotton?”

  It was almost comical, how many officials Xia Zhong and the director had so obviously paid off. But Hesina was not amused.

  The page Akira had sent off returned with someone in tow. It was none other than the imperial tailor. The cross collar of his hanfu gaped open, and his long locks flowed free. “Did you really have to enter without knocking?” He sighed as the page pushed him up the dais. “I hate leaving a partner unsatisfied.”

  “Discussing his own sexual prowess in court?” muttered Lilian. “What a pretentious ass.”

  The tailor’s sexual prowess was the last thing on Hesina’s mind when Akira held out the torn ruqun. “Lend me your eye on this one matter: which direction was the pull in the torn weaving?”

  The tailor examined the gash. “This is no pull. Something sharp cut it.”

  “How certain are you of that?”

  “Everyone knows the silk looms weave one way.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Double stitching, of course!” cried the tailor, brushing lint off his shoulder. “Only through double stitching can Yan silk live up to its lifetime guarantee. So it’s not going to simply tear without creating pulls in others parts of the fabric. An apprentice of mine could tell you that. Now, I’d really appreciate it if you never interrupted—”

  “Thank you,” cut in Akira. “You’re free to leave.”

  Still muttering, the tailor descended the dais, blowing kisses at the noblemen and women at each step. Lilian sighed, but all Hesina could hear was Akira as he spoke to the maid.

  “You say she tore your gown, but you didn’t say it was with something sharp…a sword, for example.”

  “I—I was surprised.” The maid sounded on the verge of tears. Hesina’s wrath toward Xia Zhong and the director bubbled. They bent these girls like saplings to a trellis.

  “Yet you still managed to deliver the tray in one piece,” observed Akira.

  “We’re trained never to drop things.”

  “Fair enough. So you didn’t hear the unsheathing of the sword beforehand?”

  “N-no.”

  “So she unsheathed at the last possible moment and cut your gown in the same stroke. A quick draw.”

  “If you’re going to talk about swords,” the director interjected, “then I have just the witness for you.”

  A maid brought forward another gilded tray, draped with a sword belt fashioned from black brocade.

  “This was found on the floor outside the king’s study,” said the director. He summoned a middle-aged woman wearing a brown hanfu cinched by an iron girdle. With a start, Hesina recognized her as the imperial blacksmith.

  “Did you fashion this for the swordswoman?” asked the director, waving the tray over to the blacksmith.

  The blacksmith ran her hands over the proffered sword belt. “Yes, I did. I carved these markings myself.”

  Hesina’s heart plummeted.

  “Then it’s settled. The evidence undeniably—”

  “Wait.” Akira gestured for the sword belt. He gave it one glance and said to the blacksmith, “A traditional belt has the scabbard sling on the left, but this one is on the right.”

  “The traditional design is meant for a right-handed swordsman or woman.”

  “So the suspect wasn’t right-handed,” said Akira.

  “Correct,” said the blacksmith. “She was left-handed.”

  “And that’s why the sling is on right.”

  “Correct.”

  “And can you confirm that the left-handed wielder reaches to the right side when unsheathing into a quick draw?”

  “Yes, that is the correct method.”

  Akira thanked the blacksmith and turned back to the maid. “You claimed she grabbed your shoulder.”

  “Y…No.”

  “Right. Because you then claimed she didn’t grab your shoulder but instead cut you with her sword.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Akira.

  “I-it all happened too quickly.”

  “Why do you think a member of the imperial militia decided to slash you? To poison the king’s cup? But why would she do so if that meant killing you on the spot and then disposing of your body? When it would be easier to poison the cup in the kitchens? Forgive me, I’m getting carried away. Ah, where were we? Yes, she slashed you. Are you still not sure?”

  The maid wet her lips and glanced toward the ministers. Without looking, Hesina could guess which one. “I’m sure now.”

  “Then let’s have a demonstration.” Akira gestured for a page.

  “I never expected you to take me seriously,” said the same marquis who’d invoked the imperial troupe.

  Akira scratched his head. “Would you prefer to be taken as a joke next time?”

  The man went red.

  “Stand in front of me,” Akira directed the page. “Yes, like that. Now start walking.” Akira grabbed at his right side with his left hand and unsheathed. The imaginary blade flashed upward in a distinct bottom-right to upper-left movement.

  “An excellent draw,” appraised Sanjing. Then he stiffened. His mouth parted. Comprehension lanced Hesina a second later, and voices gusted through the court as Akira displayed the tear. Half the nobles, all trained in swordsmanship, nodded in affirmation.

  The tear spanned from bottom left to upper right. It was the undeniable cut of a right-handed wielder.

  But Mei was left-handed.

  Hesina sagged like a flameless lantern. It was over. It was finally over. Everyone else seemed to think so too. All throughout the ranks, people were rising, muttering. Another case, debunked by Akira. But then:

  “Enough!” boomed the director. “We’ve been strung along by this jester for far too long! Guards!”

  Startled, Hesina rose as members of the imperial guard streamed through the doors and down the walk. They seized Mei by the arms, and the unit leader at their head approached with a dagger.

  In a flash, Sanjing launched himself over the imperial box. He tucked and rolled as he hit the floor, then shoved to a sprint. Hesina performed the maneuver less gracefully and ran after her brother. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but there shouldn’t have been this many guards, or a dagger, a dagger that sliced into Mei’s arm just as Sanjing reached the dais.

  A roar of rage, a swish of a blade, a piggish squeal—the last sound that registered for Hesina before shouts overtook the court. The clamor of the ranks only faded to the background when Hesina reached the dais herself—in time to see Akira seize some noble’s ivory cane. He raised it not a heartbeat too soon; Sanjing’s liuyedao clanged off the ivory.

  Sanjing. Akira. Fighting.

  Why?

  “Stand aside,” Sanjing snarled. Belatedly, Hesina noticed the director cowering behind Akira’s legs. He squealed as Sanjing broke away and bore down again. “Don’t think I’ll spare him…or you.”

  Akira met the blow, and the next. “You might regret this.”

  “I’ve never regretted anything less.”

  “If you kill him, he’ll have won.”

  The word kill revitalized the director. He clutched at Akira’s ankle. “Guards!”

  Sanjing let out a cruel, low laugh. “I don’t think that’s his idea of winning.”

  Then he slid into the deadly quick-draw stance he wa
s known for.

  The sight shunted Hesina’s spirit back into her; she grabbed her brother’s saber by its base. The blade was dulled there, but still sharp. Warmth welled in her palm. “Step aside, Jing.”

  The pain in her hand couldn’t compare to the pain of betrayal in her brother’s eyes. For a split second, it didn’t look like he’d spare her either. Then his face crumpled. “You’re always protecting the wrong people.”

  His liuyedao fell to the ground.

  The court breathed a collective sigh of relief—until Hesina picked the saber back up. The director scrambled away, but she swept right by him and strode to the guards.

  “Stand aside.”

  “It’s dangerous, dianxia.”

  “As is this,” she said, pointing the blade, still red with her blood.

  Slowly, the guards parted like reeds, revealing Mei.

  The swordswoman clutched at her arm, her eyes fixed on the dagger, lying where it’d fallen, the blood on its blade already dry. Her gaze flickered to Hesina’s. The russet of her eyes was fierce yet frightened, unapologetic yet guilty.

  “Protect them,” Mei whispered, right before the blade burst into blue fire.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THEY WERE IN A POSITION OF POWER. THEY COULD HAVE SERVED THE PEOPLE. INSTEAD, THEY SERVED THE EMPEROR.

  ONE OF THE ELEVEN ON SOOTHSAYERS

  I’M WILLING TO GIVE THEM A SECOND CHANCE IF THEY JOIN US.

  TWO OF THE ELEVEN ON SOOTHSAYERS

  The court plunged into pandemonium. Nobles fled from the upper half, commoners from the bottom. Those sitting closest to the suspended aisle made leaps for it. Crowds ran, pushed, hobbled for the great doors only to collide with the director’s reinforcements.

  In the thick of it, the guards grabbed Hesina by the arms. She dug in her heels, screaming and biting as they pulled her away from Mei. Mistaking her ire for fear, the guards tried to reassure her: the sooth was in chains and would be executed by the coming dawn. Their words only incensed Hesina, and by the time they’d made it into the Hall of Everlasting Harmony, she’d punched one guard and clawed another. They were all too happy to pass her on to the maids.

  The maids, too, tried to placate Hesina, but their eyes showed fear. Was her carefully pinned chignon coming apart, her powdered mask streaking? Had they finally seen the truth of her, and was it too ugly to behold?

  So be it if it is.

  Hesina flung off their hands and ran back toward the court, stopping when she physically couldn’t break through the human river. Fleeing people streamed past her. She was their queen, but in this moment, she was nothing more than a pebble in their current, destined to be eroded by forces larger and older than herself.

  This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She lurched to the throne hall, down the enamel walk and through the faux gateways, up the dais and into the cold throne with the soapstone reredos at her back. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

  The caisson ceiling overhead had been commissioned by emperors regarded as gods. Hesina was far from one. The throne hall was a temple. She was unworthy of worship. When she closed her eyes to it, she saw Mei’s face. Heard her voice. Remembered all the times they’d spoken.

  Realized all the things she had missed.

  You’re a sympathizer.

  I’m not the only one.

  How had she not put the pieces together?

  Worse—why hadn’t Sanjing told her?

  She found her brother in his rooms, bent over his desk, the drawers pulled out and sifted through. He turned when she passed through the open doors, his lips parting, but she grabbed him by the collar before he could speak.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Push me off, she willed him. Shout at me.

  But all he did was stare, eyes empty and dull.

  “What would it have changed?” he croaked. “What would it have changed?” he repeated, as if he actually wanted an answer. “We could have had the strongest case, the weakest case, and it’d all be the same. She was guilty. In their eyes, she was guilty from the moment of her birth.”

  Hesina couldn’t accept this. She wouldn’t accept this, truth be damned. “You could have said something to Akira.”

  “I didn’t know if you trusted him.”

  “I said I did!”

  “You hesitated.”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “I didn’t know if I trusted you.”

  Hesina released Sanjing. Staggered back. Her blood had roared thick and furious only seconds ago, but just like that, his words drained her dry. “I never said I hated the soothsayers.”

  “You never said you didn’t.”

  “I—” I used one. I wept over her death. It still haunts me to this day. The words caught in her chest, so used to being suppressed.

  A snick came from behind. Slowly, Hesina turned.

  Everyone was here. Lilian. Caiyan. Akira. Even Rou. They stood in the doorway, watching her come apart, their thoughts loud in the silence, crashing over her.

  “Na-Na?” Lilian was the first to close the distance. She wrapped her arms around Hesina.

  Hesina broke free. She wanted to storm the dungeons. Rescue Mei. She needed to, or she’d never free her conscience.

  But Mei hadn’t asked to be saved.

  Her final request was protect them.

  Hesina spun on Sanjing. “Does she have family?”

  “Yes,” he answered, still looking dazed.

  “Take me to them.”

  His eyes cleared, and he nodded.

  Hesina glanced out his windows, to the sun hung like a silver disk in the sky. The taste of ashes returned to her tongue. They had to act quickly. If the people had gutted the Silver Iris because they’d heard about a vanishing village, they would do much, much worse now that hundreds of eyes had confirmed a sooth’s existence in the imperial court.

  “Now,” she ordered Sanjing, a plan coming together.

  He’d already advanced to the door. “Step aside,” he barked at the others, fingers wrapping around his hilt.

  No one moved.

  “We’re coming with you,” said Caiyan.

  Sanjing started to unsheathe. Hesina stopped him. “It’s not safe,” she said to the others.

  “You can come with us,” Sanjing said to Akira. “As for the rest of you, give me a good reason why I should trust you. Then prove to me you won’t slow us down.”

  “We care about your sister as much as you do,” said Caiyan. A vein twitched in Sanjing’s neck, and Hesina clutched his arm tighter despite her stinging palms. “And you may need more than two people. Abandon us, if we slow you down.”

  “Fine,” Hesina said. It was decided. Sanjing might not have trusted them, but she could—with the one exception.

  She turned on Rou. “Why are you here?”

  “B-because—”

  “Are you a sympathizer?” Sanjing pressed.

  Rou swallowed and nodded. “My mother always says we fear what we don’t know. She says it’s why people stay away from her and spread rumors about her face. I…I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand what it’s like for the sooths, but I can understand a little.”

  Hesina exchanged a glance with Sanjing. Rou was right. They feared the things they didn’t know. They made them less than human.

  And Caiyan was right too. Time was of the essence. They would need all the help they could get.

  “Change your robes,” Sanjing finally said to Rou. “I can spot that color from a li away.”

  They emerged from the secret passageway and into the abandoned tavern, then stepped straight into the midday hustle. Wheelbarrows and sedans clogged the limestone alleyways ribbed with vendors and their stands. A number of young men and women milled through the streets with rucksacks and bedrolls strapped to their shoulders. The first wave of civil service examinees. They were both a blessing and a curse, stopping every few steps to admire some cultural relic, but also helping Hesina’s group blend in.
r />   That didn’t deter the vendors from foisting their wares onto them.

  “Bream!” cried a man, shoving a fistful of the iridescent fish into Rou’s terrified face. “Fresh bream!”

  “Hongmu coffins! Genuine redwood! Buy one for your aging parents today!”

  Hesina took their harassment as a good sign. No one would be hawking coffins or fish if news of today’s court had reached them. They had to find Mei’s parents before the mob did.

  Sanjing led the way to an apothecary on the far edge of the western market sector, squashed between an antique shop and a wine seller. A man stood behind the medicine counter, weighing piles of dried herbs and fanning the knob-handled shaguo on the burner beside him.

  “Good afternoon,” he said as they entered. “Are you looking for a preprepared decoction, or…”

  His voice trailed off as Hesina lowered her hood. His eyes widened to the whites, and before she could stop him, he thumped to his knees and flattened into koutou. “Dianxia!”

  “What’s going on?” A woman emerged from the back cellar with a clay jar under her arm. Strands of gray hair escaped the wrap of her linen kerchief. Her russet eyes shot to her husband, prostrate on the ground.

  “You fool! Have you forgotten about your arthritis?”

  “T-ting…” Trembling, the man inclined his head in Hesina’s direction, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered.

  The woman looked directly at her. “What do you want?”

  Hesina hadn’t thought of what she’d say. How did she break it to them that their daughter was to die at sunrise by a thousand cuts?

  Directly, perhaps, as Caiyan did. “Your daughter bled in front of the court.”

  The father fainted.

  The mother stood, still as a figurine. Then, with a crack, the jar under her arm split into a dozen hovering shards as if it’d been smashed. She seized one of the pieces and dropped by her husband, lifting him by the hair, exposing his throat, slashing toward it with that winking ceramic lip—

  The shard struck the wood of Akira’s rod.

  He wrenched it away and swept the rest of the shards out of reach. “Let’s not be so hasty,” he said as Hesina struggled to make sense of what she’d seen.