As I watched, one crab excreted a small pile of glowing . . . dung.
“They look ugly,” I said.
He nodded, as though pleased. “Very ugly. That means their magic is more powerful.”
I shot him a suspicious glance,
but he seemed to believe what he said. I shifted my attention back to the tanks. One fish—a paper-thin, black and orange triangle—paused in front of me. The next moment, it had darted forward and snapped another fish in half. One piece disappeared into the larger fish’s gullet. The second floated down to the tank’s floor. A smaller crab scuttled from behind a pile of rocks. A bright glitter filled the tank. When the water cleared, the fish had vanished and so had the crab.
“Was that magic?” I demanded.
“Magic crabs make magic,” the old man said.
Yún gestured for me to hurry up. Quan had already crossed the square to another narrow opening. Was that how districts divided themselves? No time to ask, because Quan was urging us through the alleyway, which emptied into a maze of backstreets.
Once more the neighborhood had changed. Instead of shops, we saw rows and rows of tumbledown houses, with trash blowing over the mud-packed streets. Tired old men and women sprawled on the front porches. Some of them knitted or mended clothes as they chatted together. None of them looked anything like Quan’s rich friends from the university, but he didn’t seem to notice. Whenever someone accosted him, he stopped to ask about old grandmother’s cough, or the sores on uncle’s leg, or how many eggs they had left in their icebox.
The sun had disappeared behind the rooftops by the time we halted in front of a narrow brick building. Steps led up to a wooden door with a metal box over the latch. Quan placed his palm against the box. Magic rippled through the air, then I heard a loud click. Yao-guài chirped with excitement.
Quan smiled at the griffin. “He likes magic.”
“He’s just hungry,” I said. “The only meal he likes better than magic is fresh meat. Rich meat, if you know what I mean.”
Quan’s smile turned extra bland. “I shall take care, then.”
He ushered us into a shabby entry hall. The moment we entered, a trio of small glass globes flickered with pale light. Hü, motion detectors. I hadn’t expected to find those in a beggar’s district. The current was weak, however, and the lamps flickered annoyingly as we climbed up the four flights to Quan’s rooms. The smell of cooking curry, wet diapers, and the sharper stink of old urine filled the stairwell. The top landing, however, was painfully clean.
Quan pressed his hand against another of those metal boxes. The air flickered with uncertain magic and the door swung open.
“My home,” he said, standing to one side.
Yún entered first, tall and straight and graceful, as if she had not been wandering Phoenix City with a backpack over her shoulder. I followed, weary and stumbling and not afraid to show it. We found ourselves in the middle of a plain entryway, with bare wooden floors and battered pieces of furniture.
No, this was the main room. A small alcove off to one side served as a miniature kitchen, with one counter stacked high with cook pots and dishes, spice jars, and what looked like a mortar and pestle. Another alcove contained a washstand and pitcher. Bookshelves and cabinets lined the rest of the rooms, except for one door and a large window overlooking the alley below. I deposited the griffin on the nearest chair. He grumbled at being put down, then settled into the chair and began to pick at the loose threads with his beak.
Quan came last and bolted the door behind us. “I apologize for my poor rooms. But they are more comfortable than the city’s free shelters.”
“More comfortable than the dormitories?” Yún asked.
“Cheaper,” I said.
Quan flushed. “I have my reasons. If you will excuse me a moment.”
He disappeared into what looked like a closet. No, that was his bedroom. I smirked. Yún smacked me on the shoulder. “Be nice,” she whispered.
“Why? He’s a stuck-up rich man pretending he likes the poor.”
“Maybe so. Be polite anyway, until we find out why he wants to help us.”
Aha. Now I understood.
Quan reappeared with cushions and blankets, which he stacked in one corner. “I don’t have much,” he said. “But I can offer you tea while I make dinner.”
He took a square metal box from one of the cabinets. It turned out to be a burner powered by magic flux. Quan cleared off his desk, uncoiled the thick gray cord, and inserted the plug into a wall outlet. He filled the kettle, then set it on the burner, which hummed and fizzed with current. My skin prickled at the sight.
Magical locks outside and in. Magical lamps in the corridor. Motion detectors and outlets. How did such a poor neighborhood rate the special connections you needed for the current? I glanced toward Yún and mouthed the words too much magic. She nodded but signaled for me keep quiet.
“So,” she said, “how do you know Lian? Did our princess decide to study medicine?”