I held my breath. Whoever it was didn’t move on. Some self-important flunky? Or maybe a senior invisible servant who wanted to critique my style in groveling? I dared a glance upward and had to choke back a squeak. Double-damn. It was the emperor’s youngest son.
His eyes were dark slits in a narrow face. His scarlet-painted lips were set in a thin line. Magic glittered over his shaved head, making him look more like a skeleton than ever. I’d seen friendlier expressions on a gargoyle.
“Mountain Boy,” he said. “What are you doing here? Spying?”
(Play stupid. You’re good at that.)
I grinned.
Wrong move. The prince flicked his hand up, ready to slap me.
“Mei-shan.” It was the emperor. “Do not torment the servants. I expect better from you.”
The prince muttered a curse and stalked away. My breath trickled out. Safe, safe, safe. But then I caught a glimpse of the emperor. He, too, continued down the corridor, but not before letting his keen glance pass over me.
TWO HOURS LATER, Yún, Lian, and I sat around an old battered table in a storage room next to the basement library. Lian had given the excuse that she needed to research tax codes from the Seventh Imperial Reign for a paper. We were there to take notes and run errands. It was quiet here, nothing but scrolls and books and paper dust spinning around in the musty air, glittering in the faint light of a single shaded lantern. The griffin paced back and forth, leaving tiny dusty tracks over every available surface.
Lian listened intently as I reported everything about my meeting with Quan. And I mean everything. What he said, how he said it. What he left out or tried to skip over. When I mentioned the part about the money, she flinched. When I got to the part about why he wanted the money, she sat as still as any mountain.
Finally, I ran out of report. My throat was parched from dust and worry. Yún handed me a flask of water, and I drank. Lian said nothing.
“Do you trust him?” Yún asked after a moment.
The silence went on for almost forever. “I believe him,” Lian said at last.
Not an answer to the question, but an answer.
15
LIAN SENT OFF A NOTE TO HER ADVISOR, REQUESTING an interview the following morning. She explained about her father and wished to discuss how she might continue her studies over the winter. She expected to return next spring, and hoped to attend her regular classes once more.
“Very nice,” Yún commented. “Very . . . sincere.”
“My studies in political rhetoric were useful, then,” Lian said drily.
She summoned a runner and gave him the message and directions for its delivery. The runner, an older man in palace livery, promised to return with the reply before sunset.
“Twenty yuan says the emperor hears of my plans within the hour,” Lian murmured.
A sucker bet. Yún and I just shook our heads.
The reply came back from Lian’s advisor long before sunset. Ten o’clock, the professor wrote. Please to bring notes and drafts for any current research papers, as well as a list of materials available for her studies in Lóng City. His tone made it clear he thought the list would be a short one. Lian’s lips curled. “Alas, he would be correct. Our libraries are nothing like the libraries in Phoenix City.”
“Are you sorry to leave?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I am only sorry that my father is ill.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that one. We ate an early dinner together, mostly to satisfy the spies and vid-cameras, then went to our separate rooms and to tense, scattered slumber with ominous shadow dreams.
AT SIX O’CLOCK, the brass clock chimed its alarm. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Swearing, I fired a pillow at the cursed thing. The clock chirped louder. Then something bounced off the bed with a rattle of wings. The next minute, there was a horrible crunching noise.
Oops.
I lurched into a sitting position. Screws and broken glass littered the floor. A puddle of dark gooey liquid was spreading over the carpet. It looked like blood; it smelled like oil. Across the room, the griffin clutched a jumble of wires and shiny metal between its front claws. Yao-guài shot me a triumphant glare, then bit into the clock’s remains. I swear the little monster was chortling.
“Remind me to feed you more often,” I said.
Still chortling, Yao-guài set to munching his kill.