Fox and Phoenix (Lóng City 1)

More sobs and weeping. One of the old women griped about the weather workers not doing their job properly. The other one blamed everything on the kings hereabouts, saying they hadn’t paid the magic guild yet.

The young man spat onto the floor. Magic sizzled and drank up the thick yellow gob. “And they won’t. Not with the king of Lóng City falling sick like that.”

“You mean dying like that,” the older of the women said.

My stomach pinched tight, remembering the sight of His Royal Majesty, Wencheng Li, lying limp and sweating in his bed. No matter how rich he was, no matter many attendants he had, he was dying.

Why did that idiot ghost dragon think I could do any good?

I drank back the rest of my spiced chai and stood up, feeling queasy. Maybe I could take a nap before the innkeeper gave away my bed.

The door swung open again, and a new stranger trudged inside. Water streamed over the floor, more water dripped from the wide-brimmed hat and the backpack slung over one shoulder. But like the merchant, the stranger’s clothes appeared unaffected by the rain, and only a scant inch of mud stained his trouser hems.

The newcomer stopped in the middle of the inn’s common room and dropped his backpack onto the floor. (A strange muted squeak sounded from deep inside.) Then he wiped the water from his face and turned to observe the room.

Not “his.” My breath came short, of a sudden. Yún.

Yún’s gaze stopped at me. She did not smile. She didn’t frown. It was more like she couldn’t decide how she felt either.

“Hi,” I said. My voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Yún nodded, then turned to the innkeeper. “A room, please,” she said quietly.

The innkeeper began his litany about no rooms, no rooms at all, and how all the hospitality laws in the world and its Seventy Kingdoms could not alter that fact.

Yún held up a hand. “You have stables,” she said. “Let me have a corner there, next to the pigs and goats if necessary. And tea, please—as hot as you can make it. Thank you.”

Without even waiting for his reply, she sat opposite me. “Kai. Hello.”

“How, um, did you find me?” I said.

“Jing-mei gave me your letter. It didn’t make any sense . . .” She dropped her voice to an almost whisper. “It didn’t make sense why or how your mother had disappeared. So I went to the palace guards, and they told me how you showed up three days before I did and reported your mother missing.” A flicker of lightning in her eyes reminded me of the storms outside. But Yún didn’t go crash and thunder. She just sighed and shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I-I was too worried to think. Then the ghost dragon king . . .”

“He told me the rest,” Yún said.

Ah, so. That explained a lot.

“But how did you know which road to take?” I asked.

And how did you know to stop here?

A muffled squawk interrupted us. Yún’s backpack rocked back and forth. She was just reaching down to the strings, when a small golden beak poked through the cloth.

“Silly monster.” Yún grabbed for the strings, but the backpack rolled away from her reach. Another, louder squawk sounded. Now everyone in the common room stopped what they were doing. The merchant hissed. The innkeeper took two quick side-steps away from the backpack and made a sign with two fingers—a gesture the old women in the Pots-and-Kettles Bazaar used whenever they saw a ghost dragon, or something equally scary. Both dogs rose onto stiff legs and growled in their throats.

A small, rumpled griffin crawled out of the pack

. Quick as a curse, it launched itself toward me and bit me on the ear.

Three things happened all at the same time.

“Ow!”

“Wa! Monsters!”

“Ai-?i! My clean floors!”