Fox and Phoenix

by Beth Bernobich

  Chen?

  Ghosts and spirits gibbered at me from beyond the rift. I felt the faint traces of those who had died in these chambers—ordinary servants dead from fever, a nobleman killed by the scullery girl he tried to force, an old woman who took her own life with a thin, sharp dagger. I could sense the presence of animal spirits, too, as they flitted between the worlds. But no sign of Chen.

  Deeper and deeper, I told myself. Another old lesson recalled—that a human spirit cannot dwell long across the rift—but I would be quick. Just a peek to see if Chen was there, hiding among the slithery shadows. But as I felt my soul dipping and diving closer to the rift, I smacked against a strange invisible shield.

  Snow-cold fingers gripped the essence of my spirit and flung me backward. I lurched back into my body, rapping my head against a shelf.

  “What the hell?”

  Bright points of light circled in front of my eyes, and my stomach was flipping this way and that. Fuzzily, I tried to figure out what had just happened. Something . . . something had stopped me from exploring the rift. But what? And why? I wiped a hand across my eyes and glanced around my small bedchamber. Nothing moved. I sniffed, smelled no sign of recent magic.

  I rubbed the knot on my head. I’ ll ask Yún tonight. She might understand what’s going on.

  YÚN NEVER DID call. A couple of hours later, I broke down and decoded the instructions for the talk-system. They’d been written by a second-class technical writer, I thought, squinting at the manual. Or someone with a terrible sense of humor. Whatever. I finally managed to convince the blasted monstrosity to connect me with Yún.

  The system chimed a couple times, then a bland voice informed me the young mistress had requested privacy.

  I clicked off the talk-system with a loud, unsatisfying smack of my hand.

  Peh. I guess we didn’t really have a truce.

  I wanted Yún. I wanted Chen. I even wanted that horrible monster Yāo-guài.

  Except no one wants me back.

  Feeling extra sorry for myself, I ordered an early dinner, which I choked down alone in the dining room. Oh, yeah, I supposed it was delicious, but my stomach hurt too much to appreciate it. Same-same with the video cubes I pretended to watch until late at night. Eventually, I drifted off into a gray, fidgety sleep, filled with dreams about dissatisfied ghost dragons and noisy pigs. About the mercenaries screaming as they fell into the snowy abyss. About Yún’s blank expression when she turned away from my kiss, back in Golden Snowcloud.

  Eventually, a soft chiming wormed itself into my dreams. A happy, irritating, persistent chiming that dragged me up through the sludge of bad dreams to the waking world.

  Reluctantly, I opened one gritty eye.

  Across the room, a small brass clock chirped. I tried swearing. That didn’t work. So much for voice commands. I tried swearing and firing a pillow at the blasted thing. The clock dodged me, still chiming. I stumbled to my feet, a second pillow in hand. Maybe I could smother it.

  The clock gave an alarmed cry. Six jointed legs sprouted from its sides, and it skittered away from me. I gave chase.

  “Stupid, cursed . . .”

  Before I could catch up with the damned thing, a slot opened at the base of the wall, and the clock escaped through it. The next moment, something else scuttled into the room. It was a wide, flat, square box—brass, like the clock, but with a dozen tiny clawed feet poking out from all four edges. Once the thing reached the middle of the room, legs extended and popped into straight poles. The surface rolled back to show a tray with a small squat teapot and cup.

  I muttered an insult under my breath. Remembered the microphones and cameras. Okay then. Let’s pretend to be polite, if only for Lian’s sake. I thumped down on the bed and poured myself a cup of tea. More creatures appeared from more slots. They skittered around, bringing me bowls of warm scented water, a toothbrush, fluffy towels, and even a couple of bottles of perfume. I scrubbed my face and cleaned my teeth, but ignored the perfume. No use scaring the girls. Then I skinned out of my old tunic and trousers and pulled on the clean ones that a dozen other spiders had laid out on my bed. I still wasn’t all awake, but at least I could face Mr. Sleek and his hundred friends.

  I punched the button beside my door. It slid open with a whispered admonition.

  Yún was waiting for me outside. Well, no, she wasn’t waiting. She paced from point to point, her hands clasped behind her back, while Yāo-guài watched from atop a doorframe. Neither of them looked happy, but then I wasn’t, either.

  “Nice nap,” I said bitterly. “Have another, why don’t you?”

  Yún whirled around. Her eyes were bright with tears. Immediately she drew a hand over her face. “Kai.”

  (Peh! I am such a jerk.)

  I didn’t even need Chen to tell me that one.

  “Yún—”

  She made a quick gesture of denial. “Not your fault. It’s Qi. I tried to find her. All yesterday. All night. I . . . couldn’t.”

  A waterfall of cold rippled through me. “So did I. I mean, I tried to find Chen. Just once. It—something—threw me back into this world.”

  “Same here,” Yún whispered. “We need to ask Lian about those palace protection spells.”

  “Or not. We’ll be gone soon enough.”

  She nodded, but her face was clearly miserable.

  We rang the bell to summon an escort. A runner appeared in an eyeblink. She took us along a different path—through an airy gallery with ancient statues, up a small back staircase, to another corridor that emptied out beside the princess’s door. Once there, she handed us over to a liveried servant who led us into a small sunlit parlor.

  The mood of the two people inside the parlor was anything but sunny.

  “. . . there cannot be an excuse,” Lian whispered in a low furious tone. “The emperor himself—”

  “Your Highness—”

  “Do. Not. Interrupt.”

  The young man held the sheaf of papers against his chest like a shield, and tried again. “Your Highness, I know of the emperor’s wishes. I and my colleagues have spent the night searching for the correct paperwork and seals so that you and your entourage might depart Phoenix City with all dispatch, but I cannot—”

  “You cannot conjure the necessary forms from the air. Yes, I know. Your office is overworked, the most important members of your staff absent to some mysterious conference in the northern provinces. You told me twice already.” Lian sighed. “How long, then?”

  “If we can—”

  “How long?”

  He gulped back a breath. “Another day.”

  Lian stared at him. “Very well,” she said slowly. “Tomorrow at sunrise, bring all the necessary permits to me. Or do you require longer?”

  “Sunrise,” the young man stuttered. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you. You may go now.”

  The young man sidled past me and out the door. Farther away, another door opened and closed. Meanwhile, Lian flexed her hands and breathed out audibly. “My apologies.”

  “For what?” Yún asked.

  Her mouth twitched. “For being so . . . royal.” She sighed. “It’s not just the travel permits. The fastest wind-and-magic trains have a worker’s strike. They’ve reduced the number of trains running between Phoenix City and the borders. Even those had no seats or compartments to spare.”

  “Do you believe that?” Yún said.

  “I have no choice what I believe.” Lian made a visible effort and smiled at us. “Never mind that. Let us go to the parlor. The servants should have our breakfast ready by now.”

  We retired into an intimate little dining room, where more liveried servants laid out platter after platter of this useless breakfast feast. Lian herself was polite and attentive throughout the meal—she asked us about our travels and about Yāo-guài—but I could tell she wasn’t thinking about griffins or the raw fish and ginger creations the chef had arranged into intricate shapes just for the princess’s pleasu
re.

  Yún was just as polite. She answered Lian’s questions about home. She asked her own questions about the university, the princess’s studies, and life in the Phoenix Court. It was like watching an old-fashioned play, where the actors gave formal speeches instead of just talking to each other. Of course, I knew the reason. Lian and Yún both knew about the microphones and spy machines. After an hour, however, even Yún was yawning.

  “Would you like a tour of the palace?” Lian said, at last.

  The servants were removing the last of our dishes.

  I stopped myself from lunging forward in relief. Barely.

  Yún was better. She patted her lips with a scented cloth napkin and smiled. “That would be delightful, Your Highness. Kai?”

  “Sure,” I said. “The steward said we could ask him, though.”

  “Nonsense,” Lian said. “You are my guests. I shall show you around myself.”

  An hour later, I had it all figured out. The emperor didn’t need any protection spells. He let strangers wander around the palace until their feet dropped off. We saw tiny jewel-bright gardens, grand chambers set about with golden-leaf statuary and marble fountains, and even grander audience chambers. Lian knew everything about them, too. She could recite who had commissioned which terribly expensive tapestry to commemorate what glorious victory, and she could give the history behind every wing, from the dynasty to the architect.

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “Someone gave me a tour,” Lian said. “He—They explained everything to me. Would you like to see the library next? It’s small, but very quiet.”

  Yún lifted her eyebrows. “I like quiet. Kai?”

  “Splendiferous,” I muttered. “As long as I get to sit down.”

  The library was a short distance away, down a spiraling staircase and through a hallway lined with old tapestries from the empire’s earliest days. Lian led us through a pair of double doors, into a brightly lit entryway. Shelves of books and scrolls rose up to the curved ceiling overhead. Through another pair of doors, past several desks, I could see more bookshelves extending into the distance.

  An elderly man approached and bowed. “Your Highness.”

  Lian smiled—the first genuine smile I’d seen after we arrived. “My friends from Lóng City would like to see your domain. May I show them?”

  The man bowed again. “My domain is yours, Princess.”

  He had once served as the emperor’s chief librarian, Lian told us, as we entered the main room, but he preferred to oversee this smaller library, and so the emperor had granted him the favor. If this was the smaller library, then the bigger ones would be larger than all of Lóng City’s palace, I thought as I trailed after Lian and Yún. Dozens of scribes and under-librarians and scholars toiled away at their desks, or among the shelves, which must have held thousands of books and scrolls. Everything smelled of ink and leather. And more. I paused, sniffing. Strong magic permeated the air. I recognized special guard spells to keep the books and scrolls safe from decay. Those were easy to identify. But there were others that eluded me.

  “. . . then there are the archives . . .”

  I caught the last of Lian’s words and hurried to catch up.

  “Here,” she said, opening a smaller set of doors. “It’s my favorite part of the library.”

  We came into a small series of rooms, linked together by wide doorways. Locked drawers covered the lower half of the walls, open shelves the upper reaches. I tilted my head back to see a ghost dragon ranged along the highest shelf—a living guardian to go along with the magical ones.

  The griffin chirruped. The ghost dragon blinked lazily, its silvery eyes gleaming in the dim light above.

  “There’s at least one in every room of the library,” Lian said. “The king of Phoenix City’s ghost dragons signed a treaty, much like the one my father made. Come along, there’s a special set of scrolls I’d like to show you.”

  We passed through five smaller rooms to a large chamber with bright lamps hung from the ceiling. Three ghost dragons stood guard here. At Lian’s entrance, the dragons nodded, as though they recognized her.

  “Old friends?” Yún asked.

  “You might say so,” Lian replied. “They are cousins of the ghost dragons in Lóng City. Their loyalty is toward learning, not to the emperor himself.” She gestured toward the small square table. “Sit,” she told us. “We can talk freely here, but not for long.”

  Right. I blew out a breath, suddenly shaky, and plopped onto the nearest bench. Yún and Lian sat opposite me, and we all bent forward. Our griffin perched on my shoulder, his claws pricking into my shoulder, as though he too wanted a part of this secret conference.

  Yún started, her voice low and urgent. “You think someone in this court wishes to prevent you from leaving.”

  Lian shook her head. “It makes no sense. Lóng City isn’t important enough. And I—I’m just one of thousands who study at the university. Many others are of much higher rank and greater wealth.”

  “Then why the delays?”

  “I don’t know. Coincidence. Or bribes from someone in Lóng City’s court who has connections here. No one made any objection when I sent half my belongings yesterday to the freight transport company.”

  “They won’t need to object,” I said, whispering like the others. “They just need to make sure your stuff never goes any where.”

  “I thought of that,” Lian said bitterly. “If they think I care about books or clothes more than my father and my homeland, they are stupid people indeed.” Her eyes brightened to a fierce light. “If I cannot obtain my tickets and my papers by tomorrow, I shall walk home.”

  “The emperor will not permit it.”

  Quan appeared in the doorway we had just entered. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, like Yún’s had been, like mine and Lian’s. His hair had come loose from his queue, and he wore the same clothes as yesterday, only now they were rumpled and stained, as though he’d spent the night behind the palace garbage bins. Both his hands were clenched in fists.

  Yún gave a sudden jump. I muffled back a yelp. How had he found us?

  Lian pushed to her feet abruptly, sending the bench tumbling backward. “You—”

  Quan started toward her. She tried to shove past him. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. “Listen,” he whispered rapidly. “You must listen. I know who wants to keep you in Phoenix City.” He glanced over his shoulder. Already a confused noise sounded from the library’s main chamber. “There’s no time to explain more. Slap my face as hard as you can.”

  Lian’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Because of this.”

  Quan slipped one hand behind Lian’s neck. Lian stiffened—I thought she might jab him with a fist—then her body melted against his. Quan clasped her other hand and pressed his lips to hers. It was a thorough kiss, as though he were spending a fortune in passion. I had to turn away because it was too embarrassing, too intimate, to watch, but I heard the moment when that forever kiss ended, because Quan gave an audible sigh. Only then did I dare to turn around.

  Both their eyes were wide, surprised and wondering.

  “Now,” he whispered.

  I heard the slap before it even registered that she’d moved.

  Quan’s head jerked back. A dark red spot bloomed on his cheek. Lian herself was breathing hard, and her eyes glittered with emotion. That had not been a pretend blow. Quan gingerly touched the cheek and nodded, as though he’d expected such force. “Be careful,” he said softly.

  He disappeared through the farther door. Just in time, too, because a swarm of people rushed into the archive room. Some hurried past in chase of Quan; some remained behind to hover over Lian, bowing and fussing and generally doing nothing useful.

  “That young man took great liberties.” That was the former chief librarian.

  Lian stared down at her hands, knotted into fists. “Too many liberties,” she repeated in a soft voice. She shook
her head. The strange expression cleared from her eyes. “Far too many,” she said firmly. “It does not matter, however. He shall not be permitted inside the palace again. I will make certain of that myself. Now, please leave me.”

  She lifted one hand and flicked her fingers. Everyone else scattered away like ants.

  Except Yún and me. We waited, certain Lian had more to say.

  Above, the ghost dragons stirred. Lian glanced up. Her gaze caught that of the oldest and largest dragon. He in turn whispered something in that strange harsh language I had come to recognize. The flux shivered. The dragons disappeared.

  “What is it?” Yún whispered.

  Instead of answering, Lian opened her other hand. I saw a crumpled ball of rice paper. She smoothed the page over the table. The characters were smeared with sweat and almost illegible, but I could just make them out.

  If you believe me, meet me behind Scarlet Lotus Noodle House at noon.

  14

  YÚN WAS THE FIRST TO CRACK THE SILENCE.

  “Do you believe him?” she asked.

  Lian made a throw-away gesture. “I don’t know.”

  Yún studied our princess for several moments. There was pity in her eyes, of a kind I’d never seen before, except when she handled our griffin or any other wounded creature. In a gentle voice she said, “Tell us what happened, Lian. All of it.”

  “I told you what happened.”

  “Perhaps you misunderstood—”

  “I misunderstood nothing. He—It was after—” Lian drew a long breath. “He came to my rooms in the palace. I had not seen him for two days. I had expected—Never mind what I expected. He had promised to visit days before and he did not. Besides, I had learned certain details that troubled me. Another student warned me about Quan. Said he liked to involve himself with wealthy girls. He had already had a relationship with an older woman at court, who favored him with gifts of money.”

  Lian had delivered this speech while staring hard at the tabletop. Now she met our gazes. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “You see,” she whispered, “I did not need to hear his reasons for wanting money. I already knew them.”