On another stall there were bowls of organs bathed in blood—kidneys, hearts, lengths of gut. There were snake skins, bears’ ears and jars containing teeth, claws and eyes. The woman who was selling these things mistook Ping’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare for interest in her wares.
“Tiger liver and bats’ blood,” she called out. “Fresh today.”
The woman was a foreigner. Her hair was the same colour as the fox tails she was selling. Her skin was pale and her clothes glittered with spangles.
A man wearing wide trousers gathered at the ankles bought a few shu of monkey brain, then started bargaining with the stall keeper over some lumps of dried organs that Ping couldn’t identify.
“It’s the first dragon heart I’ve had for five years,” the stallholder argued. “I couldn’t possibly let you have it for less than five jin.” She held out a piece of the shrivelled flesh.
Ping felt the dragon next to her stiffen. No doubt his thoughts were the same as hers. Was it a piece of Lu Yu, Danzi’s mate, hacked from her dead body by Lan? Had it found its way to Wucheng?
She moved on quickly only to be confronted by a stallholder who sold live animals. He had a snake wound around his neck. In cages there were toads, a sad-eyed monkey and a yellow bird with three legs. The man wore a purple gown painted with strange symbols.
“You’re too young to be an alchemist or a sorceress,” he said. He was looking at a spot on the ground, but Ping knew he was talking to her. “You must be a seer. Every seer needs an animal companion.”
Ping tried to walk away but he stepped in front of her. He had a dark, almost black face, white eyes and wore a bamboo hat even though it was night. Ping realised he was blind.
“I have just the thing for you—light to carry, easy to train, non-venomous.” He held up a mewing kitten by the scruff of its neck.
“I already have a pet,” Ping said, pulling Hua from the folds of her gown.
The man felt the rat’s sleek fur and let her pass.
Ping was aware that someone was watching from the shadows. She could see a face with a short, thick beard and a dark birthmark on one cheek. Ornaments hung from his ears. He was wearing a cloak, but beneath it she glimpsed another garment which shimmered. Whether he was staring at her or Hua or the blind man she wasn’t sure.
Ping quickly stuffed the rat back into her gown. A faint whimpering sound, almost beyond the range of her hearing, was troubling her. She’d been hearing it ever since they’d entered the town. There was no point in asking the dragon. He wouldn’t be able to hear it. She walked back to the man who was selling rocks.
“I’m looking for a large purple stone,” she said. “Shaped like a melon and with a smooth surface. Have you seen such a stone?”
The man tilted his head to one side as if he was listening to something in the distance. His eyes were glassy. Then he shook his head as if trying to dislodge a fly from the end of his nose.
“I might have seen it, but if I had I wouldn’t tell you,” he laughed as if he’d heard an extremely funny joke. “This is a pretty stone,” he added, showing Ping a greenish crystalline rock. “When ground up and drunk with deer’s milk, it enables you to last without sleep for a week.”
Ping told him she wasn’t interested and walked away.
“It’s a waste of time, Danzi,” Ping said. “I don’t know where the stone is.”
”Ping must search heart to find stone.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” replied Ping wearily.
“Will be hidden. Must really want something, then will find. Has Ping never experienced this?”
“No,” snapped Ping. “I don’t know why you think I have. I’m a slave not a sorceress.”
The whimpering sound was getting louder. It set her teeth on edge. She wanted to get off the streets of Wucheng.
The dragon sighed. “Return to inn then.”
Ping couldn’t believe the dragon had given up so quickly, but she didn’t argue. A stomach-ache which had been troubling her all day had become a sharp pain.
The innkeeper was outside the inn when they returned. He was chasing away a cat the same ginger colour as the boatwoman’s, shouting at it and waving a broom. Ping wished she was back on the boat, but since she couldn’t be, at least she could be behind a locked door.
Ping could hear the regular hum and buzz of the sleeping dragon’s breathing before she’d had chance to lie down. Though she was exhausted, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was whirling with the things she had seen that night and wouldn’t allow sleep to empty it. Her stomach ached and the sound she’d been hearing all night was still there. It became a sharp and shrill keening that hurt her ears. She was still awake when grey light slowly defined the shape of the sleeping dragon. She heard others return to their rooms in the inn and then all was quiet. Her mouth was dry. She’d had nothing to drink since she’d eaten the salty stew. She tiptoed out of the room, barefoot and wearing nothing but the sacrificial shift with the green dragon painted on it which she had kept as a nightdress.
Outside in the courtyard the air was still hazy with smoke and foul smelling, but the sky was brightening. It would soon be daylight and they would be able to leave Wucheng.
Ping hadn’t admitted it to herself, but she had clung to half a hope that they would find the dragon stone. She was angry with the dragon for getting her hopes up, only to leave her disappointed. Why had he relied on her to reach out and find the dragon stone? Why hadn’t he done something himself? He was the dragon. He was the one with the mystical powers, not her. It had all been a wild goose chase. They could have stayed on the boat with Jiang Bing.
The inn’s courtyard was reassuringly normal. A stove made of mud bricks was still warm to the touch. There was a well. A clay pot and the dishes from their meal had been washed and were up-ended to dry. Ping drew up a bucketful of water from the well. A ladle with a curved handle hung from a hook. She took it down, dipped it into the water and drank thirstily. She couldn’t relax though. There was a nagging voice at the back of her mind. Not the dragon’s voice, but the voice of her conscience. She hadn’t been truthful with the dragon. She recalled the other sensation she’d had in Chang’an. The one she hadn’t told Danzi about. When the boy in the fur hat had stolen their coins, she had been furious. Somehow her anger had given her the power to reach out. She had been able to locate the boy among the thousands of people in the capital. Something inside her had drawn her to him. She hadn’t told the dragon about the keening sound either.
Ping pictured the dragon stone, its beautiful purple depths, its milky swirls. She recalled its smooth, rounded shape and how she liked to feel it bumping against her hip as she walked. The memory of it filled her with sorrow. She missed the stone. She remembered the greedy pleasure in Diao’s eyes when he first saw it back at Huangling. She imagined his dirty hands pawing its cool surface, the greasy hide of his clothing fouling its colours. A point of anger formed inside her, small at first but steadily growing. She was angry with Diao for stealing her stone, for defiling its beauty. But she was angrier still with herself. She was the one who had let it go. She hadn’t resisted when the guards at Fengjing took it from her. The dragon stone didn’t deserve to be in the hands of the dragon hunter or anyone who was evil enough to live in Wucheng. Ping had done nothing to try and get it back. She had allowed herself to be seduced by the rhythms of the river and the warmth of friendship.
The anger grew to the size of a taro root. Ping could feel the shape of it inside her. She didn’t try to stop it, she let it grow until it filled her. The strength of it made her shake. She reached out with her mind, searching for the dragon stone the way she had searched for the fur hat. She wasn’t expecting to feel anything. The dragon stone could have been anywhere in the empire. She was hoping at best for a faint whisper of knowledge, a vague shimmer that would give her a direction in which to search. What she felt was so strong it knocked her off her feet. It was a wave of emotion—fear, anger and loneliness mixed together.
The dragon stone was close, very close. The sound she’d been hearing all day was louder, shriller. It filled her mind. It seemed unbelievable, but she was sure now. The dragon stone was calling to her.
She got up, closed her eyes and turned in a circle until she felt a force draw her forward. She opened one eye just to make sure it wasn’t the dragon pulling her back to the room by the front of her shift. There was no one there. It was as if strong cords were drawing her somewhere, pulling her. She held on to her anger. It led her out of the inn and into the deserted street. Wherever it was taking her she wanted to go.
Ping opened her eyes. A door had stopped her progress. She was outside one of the houses built of the pitted rock of the fire mountain. The cry of the dragon stone calling her was more urgent. The door wasn’t locked. It creaked on its hinges as Ping slowly opened it. She held her breath as she entered the house, half expecting to find Diao inside. There was a sleeping figure curled up on a mattress. It wasn’t Diao; it was the man Ping had seen earlier watching her from the shadows.
• chapter sixteen •
LOST AND FOUND
The necromancer’s fingers reached out to
the dragon stone. His long, black fingernails
hooked into the weave of the reed basket.
Scattered around the room Ping could see horrible things—a tiger’s tail, the skull of a dog or wolf, a dried liver. There were plants that had been roughly uprooted, piles of bleached bones. A dead baby goat was spread on the floor, its stomach cut open and its entrails pulled out. Movement startled her. In a cage there was a large bird that had lost most of its feathers. A rancid, sickening smell came from a cauldron on the hearth. On the wall were charts of the constellations and a circular bronze mirror. Ping thought she saw the face of an old wrinkled woman in it, then realised it was her own ref lection.
The man was sleeping soundly, the memory of a smile on his lips. Ping saw that what she had thought was a birthmark on his cheek was in fact a tattoo. It was in the shape of a fantastic creature with a striped tail, a mane that was made up of flowers and open jaws full of sharp teeth. The man had a patch over one eye and his head was completely bald. His thick beard wasn’t black but an orangey colour. Unlike Master Lan’s beard, which was a straggly bunch of long, black hairs, this beard was made up of short, stiff hairs, more like the pig bristle in the brush Lao Ma used for scrubbing. The ornaments that hung from the sleeping man’s ears were birds carved from turquoise. A wooden staff lay beside the mattress, alongside a screwed-up cloak. He was wearing a tunic made of a fabric that shimmered even though there was little light in the room. Around his waist was a cord made up of five different coloured threads braided together. In sleep, he didn’t look evil, but the dragon stone’s cry was filling her mind. It was a desperate cry of fear and pain. She knew that he was no harmless sorcerer.
A goblet lay on its side by the mattress. A dark stain spread out from it. She would have turned and tiptoed out of the room, if she was relying on her eyes alone. But she wasn’t. The inner vision that had brought her to this terrible place told her to stay. The cry she could hear had become a shriek. She looked closer. In the half-light she could see that the man was clutching something to his chest. His fingernails were several inches long and black. She knew exactly what he was holding even though she couldn’t see it clearly, even though it was wrapped in a piece of cloth.
In her mind Ping could see smooth curves, purple crystalline depths, beautiful milky streaks. She had found the stone. All she had to do was get it out of the grasp of the strange man. But how? The power suddenly dropped out of her like yolk from a broken eggshell. The cry faded to a faint whimper again. Ping had no experience in the world. Now, it seemed, she was required to come up with plans and plots on a daily basis. She had to make decisions and locate powers within her which she would rather leave hidden. She squatted on her haunches, feeling weary and stupid. The inner vision was gone and she’d run out of ideas. She was an ignorant slave girl again.
The smell of spilt wine drifted towards her. It was a familiar smell that reminded her of Master Lan’s house. Ping suddenly realised that she’d had a lot of experience with situations like this. Master Lan had often fallen into a drunken sleep holding onto something that she wanted—a dirty cup, a ripe peach, a chicken leg. She had an idea.
The ladle from the well was still in her hand. She went over to the bird’s cage and picked up one of the feathers that lay beneath it. The bird ruffled its few remaining feathers, but didn’t make a sound. She had all the tools she needed.
When she had felt the vision within her, she had been fearless. Now she was terrified. She knelt down at the edge of the sorcerer’s mattress and, with a trembling hand, reached out with the feather. She tickled the end of his nose. Just as she had hoped, the sorcerer, still asleep, reached up to swat away whatever it was that was disturbing his rest. His hand then flopped down beside his head. He now held the stone with only one hand. Ping gave him a moment to settle back into sleep. Up close, his tattoo was even more sinister. The creature’s mane wasn’t made of flowers, but skulls. She took up the ladle and grasped hold of the spoon end. With it she reached towards the stone. She hooked the curved handle into the loose weave of the cloth that it was wrapped in. With the tiniest of movements she gently pulled it towards her. The man’s fingers, relaxed in sleep, allowed the stone to be pulled away. When it was almost out of his grasp, the bird in the cage let out a miserable squawk. The man’s long, black fingernails dug into the cloth. His one eye opened. It was staring right at Ping. She didn’t move. The man’s eye was an unnatural colour, dull yellow like urine, but glazed and unfocused. Ping was so close she could smell his foul breath. She could see the ginger pig bristles of his beard, the holes pierced in his ears. She realised that the ornaments hanging from his ears weren’t birds but bats. The pale dawn-light seemed too bright for him. He muttered an animal sound like an angry goat, and flung his arm across his face. Ping waited, not daring to move a muscle, until the sorcerer’s breathing became regular, with a faint snore at every intake of air. Then once again she pulled gently at the dragon stone. His fingers uncurled. The cloth came free from his grasp. Ping pulled it towards her until it was close enough for her to pick up. She held the stone in her arms for a moment. It made her heart sing with happiness.
Ping’s weariness disappeared. She was filled with strength, enough to run all the way to Ocean, but she made herself creep slowly out of the room. She ran down the street to the inn and returned to the room where the dragon was still sleeping. She could barely stop herself from shouting out loud. Couldn’t he feel the stone’s presence? Couldn’t he hear the stone singing like she could?
“Danzi,” she said. “I’ve got it! I’ve found the dragon stone.”
She unwrapped the stone and her smile faded. The dragon stone was dark and dull and covered with brown blotches. The swirls weren’t milky white, but grey and crisscrossed with blood red veins. It took a while for Danzi to wake. He didn’t seem to know where he was. Then he saw the stone.
“Who had stone?” he asked.
Ping described the sorcerer’s tattooed face.
“Necromancer,” the dragon said.
“We have to get it away from this place.”
“Now even more important to get stone to Ocean.”
Ping didn’t care where they went as long as it was away from Wucheng. She was halfway out the door.
“Ping should dress.” The dragon’s voice was calm in her mind.
Ping looked down at herself. She was still barefoot and wearing the sacrificial shift. She quickly pulled on her gown, her socks and shoes, and packed up their few belongings, put the dragon stone in the reed basket. The dragon lumbered creakily to his feet. Ping didn’t wait for him.
Outside, the street was empty. The inhabitants of Wucheng had all disappeared with the darkness. Ping ran towards the gates. Six people were standing across the street barring her way. She stopped. They were strange, thin figures
with fluttering grey robes and long straggly hair that blew about their heads even though there was no wind. They had blank staring faces. There was something else about them. They were floating just above the ground.
”Sentry spirits,” the dragon said. “They will warn the necromancer.”
Ping felt the back of her neck prickle. The necromancer was behind her, his face like a thundercloud. He held a staff in his hand. Ping clutched the dragon stone close to her, closed her eyes and ran. She felt an icy chill, but she kept running through the eerie people—straight through them as if their bodies were made of mist.
When she reached the gates, she found they were shut. They looked as heavy as lead. She could never have opened them—even if they hadn’t been locked. Something sharp and shiny skimmed past her ear and dug into the dark wood of the gate. It was a disc, made of bright metal with three barbs radiating from it, curved and sharp like cats’ claws. She turned. The necromancer was standing in the middle of the street hurling more of the barbed discs at her. Ping ducked out of the way of the first and the second, only to find a third spinning straight towards her. It missed her body by less than an inch, but pinned her gown to the gate. The necromancer pointed his staff at the dragon. The force from it threw Danzi against the wall, winding him.
“Ping must stop him,” the dragon gasped.
“I’m not strong enough,” Ping replied.
“Nothing under Heaven is softer than water,” Danzi said. “Yet it can overcome the hard and the strong.”
The necromancer was walking towards her, his eyes fixed on the dragon stone. She hugged the stone close to her with one hand. It was shrieking with fear again. She held up her free hand as if to stop him. He laughed at her, sneering and scornful. He had no doubt he could take the dragon stone from her as easily as taking a jujube from a baby. He raised his staff. Ping felt the anger grow within her again. Her body tingled from head to foot. She felt her qi focus in a rush that filled her within seconds. It coursed down her arm and burst out through her fingertips. The necromancer was thrown to the ground by its invisible force. He scrambled to his knees and pointed his staff at her. Ping was still pinned to the gate. Before the necromancer had a chance to summon his own power, Danzi appeared at her side and swiped at the necromancer with his talons. The man looked down as blood oozed through his shimmering tunic.
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