Everything?
I waited for my mother to explain, but she didn’t.
“A holiday?” I said, helpfully. Royal visitors from kingdoms all throughout the mountains had crowded into Lóng City this past month—something about trade negotiations—and the king had scheduled numerous banquets and festivals to entertain them. The shops often closed early for the big celebrations.
But Ma mi was shaking her head. “The king . . .” She stopped and rubbed a hand over her eyes, a gesture I had not seen since my father died years ago.
I was a child, almost a baby. How could I remember?
You did, you do, Chen said softly, though no one could hear us. Children always remember.
Even so, it had been ten years....
My mother went on. “The king fell ill this morning. They believe he will not live beyond a week. They’ve sent for Princess Lian.”
So many replies clattered through my brain. The king. Lian. My friend. She must be worried. Or scared. Those were not subjects I could discuss with my mother. Finally, I asked, “How?”
Ma mi set the spoon down on the table and frowned in its direction. I had the feeling she wasn’t seeing the spoon or the table any more than she saw me right now. She said, “If you listen to the bazaar rumors, he fell by attack from angry spirits unleashed by this wretched heat. Most likely it was simply from age and overeating. He is an old man, you know. And he misses his daughter.”
I knew that. I also knew it was my fault that Lian was far away in Phoenix City. And now her father is dying.
“I am thinking I should suspend classes,” was my mother’s next unsettling announcement.
“Close the shop?” My voice squeaked up.
She gave me a sharp look, almost like usual. “Not entirely. You and Yún shall have your lessons. But the tutoring can wait. A week or two, not more. Things should be decided by then.”
Things? Like the king dying?
The teakettle rattled. Ma mi pushed herself to standing—stiffly—and fetched it from its hook. “You need not finish the worksheets,” she said quietly, as she poured the boiling water over the leaves. “Go. Find your friends. Just come back by nightfall.”
I stared at her, not believing what I heard or saw. Ma mi telling me to goof off? Ma mi acting quiet and bothered by what went on in that “golden egg crate they call a palace”? I waited another minute, but she never glanced in my direction. She rifled through the cabinet and extracted a honey pot, which she set beside her cup. My mother never took honey, not that I remembered. She liked her tea strong and bitter. Like her.
Unnerved by all the strangeness, I backed through the curtains into the dimly lit corridor, where Chen waited. He’d taken a smaller form, the size of a formidable cat. His bristles stood out in worry.
I’m going out, I whispered.
He tilted his head.
She told me to, I added.
Chen made a soft, pig-whistle noise. Do you want company?
I . . . I don’t know yet.
He nodded. I will listen for you, then.
I turned the shop sign to CLOSED and headed down to the Golden Market. It was the oddest walk I’d ever taken through Lóng City. Sure, there were festivals where the shops closed early, but that usually meant people thronged the streets, laughing and dancing and buying grilled kebabs or bowls of rice and curry from street vendors. And in the main squares, the public radio speakers always played loud old-time music, while jugglers tossed batons and acrobats flipped around in heart-stopping handsprings.
Today, the streets were quiet and empty. In the bazaar itself, the noodle shops had closed their shutters, and their brightly colored awnings were rolled away. One scrawny mutt lounged in the shade, panting. An old man swept the steps in front of his house. He stared at me as I passed by. Two or three kids wandered around, with confused expressions. Probably their parents had told them to go play, too.
I took a roundabout path to the nearest wind-and-magic lift. Iron shutters blocked the counter. Chains hung across the entryway, and a hand-brushed sign informed me the lifts weren’t running. A big placard with an arrow pointed at the stone stairs nearby.
Seven hundred years ago, Wei Lóng, our first king, had ordered staircases built all over the city as part of its defense. He wanted to make sure his soldiers could always reach every corner and terrace of Lóng City, even if the wind-and-magic lifts stopped working. Whenever a king or queen expanded the city, they added another flight, or reinforced the existing ones. It was a fine accomplishment—one I could appreciate better when I wasn’t trudging up those same stairs in the lingering heat of a late summer’s day.
There were six flights between me and the top of the city. Guard posts marked every landing, and every intersection with a major boulevard. Some of those guards stared at me as I passed, their electronic eyes whirring as they recorded my image. I stared back, scowling.
I reached the topmost terrace, then bent over, wheezing. Behind me stood the city’s outermost wall. More architecture. Above that the mountain shot up another li to a snow-rimmed peak.