Fox and Phoenix (Lóng City 1)

Ma mi always told me to think before I talked.

But I was right. I had to be the one who heard Quan’s explanation. Yún trusted him too much, no matter what she claimed. And Lian either loved him or hated him, but either way, she’d hear only what she expected, instead of what Quan actually said.

“Yes, me,” I said. “The emperor would send guards after Lian. And Yún is better off here, ordering you around and pretending she’s not. Besides, no one will suspect me of anything because everyone thinks I’m an idiot.”

Yún’s cheeks flushed. “Kai thinks Quan is a tilt-nosed sneak.”

“Kai thinks that about all nobles.” Lian was smiling faintly. It wasn’t a big smile, but better than almost-tears. “Kai is right. And you are, too, Yún. We should at least listen to what he says.”

We returned to Lian’s suite, where an army of minions was packing the princess’s belongings into trunks. The only room untouched was her study. Lian went to her calculor and called up a screen with a few taps on the keys. Ten minutes later, a runner appeared with a thick packet stamped all over with official-looking seals.

Lian took out two silver medallions that buzzed with magic flux. “These are your official passes inside the palace,” she told us. “Now you can traverse the public wings without an escort. Which is necessary, because I have errands for you both.”

She sent Yún back to the library with a list of scrolls and records to borrow. For me, she unlocked her desk and took out a handful of coins. She sketched a second, shorter list and wrapped the coins in the paper.

“These are for you,” she said, giving me the packet. “I would like you to go at once to the offices of the Zhang-Yin Freight and Transport Company and request a receipt and bill of lading, which their idiot grandson failed to provide my agent this morning. Some of those tapestries were gifts from my honored grandmother. I would not have them conveniently disappear because the papers were incomplete.”

I accepted the paper and coins with a bow. “Yes, Your Princess Highness, ma’am.”

Her eyebrow went up. “The list, Kai Zou,” she repeated in a crisp tone, as though I were a particularly witless servant. “Check those items against the caravan records. If there is any discrepancy, tell them I shall visit their offices myself tomorrow. The coins are to buy tickets and a finder map for the electric tram. Also, a cup of tea after your errand. Now go. And do not dawdle.”

The Zhang-Yin Freight and Transport Company was located two districts over, near the merchant and counting houses. Half an hour after leaving the palace, I got off the electric tram in a small public square, surrounded by bland cement office buildings. My map led me down a side street to the caravan company’s front doors.

A clerk took my message into the back rooms. He returned with an old woman—the owner. She listened to my fumbling request for the receipt and the bill of lading. I expected her to laugh, but she only nodded, as if she were used to crazy nobles and their stupid demands. She sent the clerk (her nephew, she mentioned) off to write up a new receipt and the detailed bill for their honored customer Princess Lian. A young girl brought me a pot of sweet tea to drink while I waited.

It was a busy shop. More clerks sat at their desks, writing up accounts or whatever clerks do. Other men hauled boxes from one room to another. Once a wizened old man stomped in from the street door and shouted that the horses were ready even if his cargo was not. That sent a dozen clerks running in all directions, until everything was sorted out. The nephew reappeared just as I finished my tea.

“Your receipt and bill, honored sir.” He bowed.

I pretended to check the receipt. It looked official, so I tucked it inside my shirt. The bill of lading was even more impressive—fifty pages, with neatly brushed characters running up and down each page. Ai-ya! And Lian wanted me to check for missing items?

For the first time, I glanced at the paper she’d given me.

And grinned. The list was not a list, but directions to the Scarlet Lotus Noodle House.

Hü, that was smart. That way no one could trace me from the magical map I’d bought.

Another electric tram dropped me in a public square a short distance from the noodle house. We were closer to the university—I could tell by the number of second-hand shops and cheap eating houses that lined the streets. Also, the crowds of scruffy students hurrying around. On a corner, one of them shouted political slogans, while others passed around cheap pamphlets. I put on my best peasant face and hurried to the shop with the scarlet lotus painted on its signboard. The clocks were just chiming noon as a waiter showed me to my seat in the back.

I scanned the room. No sign of Quan, so I ordered a bowl of spicy noodles and settled down to wait. Luckily, I fit right in. There were a few students here, but also lots of ordinary working people, dressed in plain good clothes, like me. Some even looked like mountain folks, with their loose trousers and quilted jackets. I ate my noodles slowly, but after half an hour, Quan still hadn’t showed.

(Maybe he got bored and left.)

(Not him. He’s expecting Lian. He’d wait a century for her.)

(Then why isn’t he here?)

(Are you sure here is here?)

I almost smacked my forehead. His note said to meet him behind the shop.

In case the emperor sent snoops to ask later, I paid my bill and asked where the latrines were. The waiter waved toward a curtain at the back of the room. Down the hallway were the latrines. Just as I expected, another door opened onto an alleyway behind the shop.

And there he was, one tall plain young man, pacing back and forth in the alley.

He’d been pacing so long he’d worn a visible path through the weeds and dirt. My heart jumped in sympathy, remembering Yún and our arguments. Ai-ai, it was hard when the person you cared most about shut you out of their world.

Our boy swung around for another circuit. He stopped, and his face went blank. “You.”