Fox and Phoenix (Lóng City 1)

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.”

Ai-ai, I thought to myself. No wonder Lian was furious.

Yún was shaking her head. “That doesn’t sound like Quan.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I don’t. You do.” She hesitated. “You haven’t asked my advice but I’ll give it anyway. Someone ought to hear Quan out, in spite of what he did or what you think he did. He lived in this palace. He knows the court. His father served the emperor. And what about all those cousins of his? Maybe he knows some rumors that you don’t.”

“I cannot leave the palace . . .”

“Of course not. If Quan is right, and the emperor is involved, he won’t allow it. If not, well, you cannot risk his displeasure.”

“I’m not a child,” Lian said evenly. “I understand the rules of politics.”

“Then why argue?” Yún shot back. “You understand politics, but you don’t understand—”

“I’ll go.”

Silence followed my declaration. Both Lian and Yún stared at me. I wet my lips.