Fury of the Phoenix (2 page)

Throughout the day Ai Ling huddled below deck in one of the dark cabins and drank warm water from her flask. The constant roll of the sea had robbed her of any appetite. Afraid she might fall asleep, she cast her spirit around the ship, learning what she could.

She fingered the jade at her neck and ran her thumb over the carved spirit character. Her father had offered to buy her a new pendant, as this one had clouded over. But she had refused. No powerful spirit sent by the Immortals protected her any longer, but she still felt an attachment to the piece.

What had her father thought when he found her letter? Her parents had not chased her. Two days into her journey, and she had still been able to sense their spirits. Her father sent his love and strength, touching her mind like shining pinpricks. It was impossible for her mother to rein in her anxiety and agitation, but beneath their nettle was a surge of love for her rash, stubborn daughter. Ai Ling smiled to remember it.

She jumped to her feet. Yen, the pilot, was climbing down the steps. He walked along the corridor, past her dark compartment. Her heartbeat pounded hard in her ears.

Now he was coming back, and the compartment door opened, bringing a whiff of the sea and a halo of lantern light into the cramped space. The small cabin had a wide berth, a rough square table, and a lop-legged stool. She pressed herself against the wall behind the door, cursing the God of Luck for his tricks. Maps were stacked high on the table, and Yen riffled through them, his muscular
body seeming to take up half the cabin. She fought the urge to squeeze her eyes shut.

Finally finding what he had been searching for, he turned to leave. He froze when he saw her. The small lantern swayed in his hand. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Who are you?” He stared, his flare of incredulity almost pinning her against the wall. He had dropped the map, and a dagger had replaced it. Around twenty-five years, he had high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, his features emphasized by the fact that his head was shaved. He set the lantern on the table and reached over to remove her cap. “A girl?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You’ll have to come explain yourself to my captain.”

The sun hovered low on the horizon, but Ai Ling still shaded her eyes when she emerged from below deck. All she could see was a glittering, endless blue. She lurched on unsteady legs toward the stern, with the pilot close behind, and the crew gawked in astonishment. Captain Peng stood outside the bridge. Although Xian, he had his hair cut short at the ears and trimmed close to his neck in the back, a hairstyle Ai Ling had never seen. He also wore strange clothing: tight black trousers, a white shirt with billowing sleeves, and a black sleeveless tunic over it.

His surprise was controlled, almost compartmentalized like the chambers of his magnificent ship. She felt his amusement and curiosity, his consternation. He strode forward to meet them. “I asked for a map, Yen.”

The pilot handed him the parchment. “She was hiding in my cabin.”

The crew had gathered around them, far enough away to be unobtrusive, but near enough to hear the conversation.

Peng scrutinized her. “I hope you can swim. Toss her overboard.”

The men murmured in excitement.

“You jest!” Ai Ling’s face felt cold and hot at once. They were leagues from shore.

“Ai Ling?” Chen Yong spoke from behind her.

Her skin tingled at the sound of his voice, and she turned, swallowing hard. He had pushed himself to the front of the crowd. Ai Ling met his golden gaze for just a moment. She felt as if her heart would leap from her chest.

“You know the stowaway?” Peng arched one dark brow.

Chen Yong was shaking his head. She wound her spirit tight within herself. Still, she felt his confusion, his anger. “I do. She’s my…sister.”

“Sister!” The captain flicked his dark eyes from Chen Yong to her. “I guess we can’t throw you overboard, then?”

Chen Yong didn’t respond, and she gritted her teeth. All this to save
him
?

“I am called Ai Ling.” She tilted her chin.

“Why are you here, Ai Ling?” the captain asked.

It was a reasonable question, but so direct it caught her off guard. “I—I wanted to travel with…my brother. To help him find his birth father.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Chen Yong asked.

“You wouldn’t have agreed.” She glared at him.

“We’ve never had a girl on board, much less a stowaway,” Peng said. “Very well. You can share your brother’s cabin.”

Feeling the heat creep up her cheeks, she stared at her feet.

“Yen, clear out your cabin and switch with Chen Yong. Yours has the wider berth,” Peng said. Yen nodded, his face inscrutable. “Not exactly following the rules of decorum for brother and sister to share a cabin and bed, but you probably bathed in the same tub as babes.”

She caught a spike of amusement from Peng and snapped her head up. But his expression was cold, revealing nothing.

“You’ll help with tasks to earn your passage—like the rest of the crew.”

“I can earn my keep.” She made certain she spoke in a loud and steady voice.

“Indeed? I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow, then.”

Peng made to leave, then paused. “Go to the galley and get some ginger. You’re looking slightly green.” He wrinkled his nose. “And get yourself cleaned up. You smell like a butcher.”

He did not wait for her reply, and the crew scattered like embroidery beads when the captain disappeared back into the bridge.

E
very available space in the giant banquet hall was taken. Guards dressed in black lined the walls, competing for room with guests who had yet to find seats. It was an invitation-only event to celebrate the Emperor’s forty-first year. Guards at the front entrance stopped those who did not carry the gold invitation.

Zhong Ye had not been invited, but in his plain gray tunic and trousers he passed as a servant easily enough. It’d been almost two years since he’d joined the Emperor’s household as a palace eunuch, swearing his fealty. A huge banquet had also been given for the Son of Heaven’s thirty-ninth-year celebration, but Zhong Ye had been too busy emptying latrines, his
first official task. Even now he could recall the stench.

He had soon been promoted from latrine boy in the servant quarters to one in the private chambers of the concubines. From there he was made a palace messenger. He had been searching for lychees for a high-ranking concubine when he impressed the royal chef with his intelligence and demeanor. This was how Zhong Ye had become the recipe keeper, ensuring that all the necessary ingredients were at hand for the dozens of dishes served to the Emperor each day. Early in the morning, before dawn, and even late at night, near the thieving hour, he still made himself available to the whims of the concubines, often fetching treats from the kitchen or fabric and new embroidering thread from the royal sewing quarters.

Two years on four hours of sleep each night at best, and it was time to set his sights higher. Zhong Ye stood still, willing himself invisible behind the guests who all were finally seated, their chatter surging with the day’s languid heat. Sweat collected at his nape, trickled down his back, but he didn’t twitch.

A gong reverberated across the hall. Everyone stopped speaking in mid-sentence, but the rustling of silk, the snapping of fans, and coughs could still be heard. The Emperor entered, trailed by his main consort and eight guards. They paraded down a red carpet embroidered
with golden dragons to a massive dining chair. He was attired in black stitched with crimson and gold designs and, despite the heat, wore a black and red cap encrusted with gold, rubies, and pearls.

Zhong Ye followed the Emperor with his eyes. He’d learned much about the Son of Heaven’s routine through his time in the royal kitchen. He knew his likes and dislikes from gossip among the concubines. His Empress, dressed in deep purple, stepped daintily up to the throne beside him, her head held high despite her heavy bejeweled cap. She had given the Emperor one son and one daughter, but both were pale and meek, their voices as thin as their faces. Zhong Ye knew she was trying hard to become with child again.

The gong sounded twice, loud enough that he felt it in his teeth. He allowed himself one full breath. The stout banquet master stood by the Emperor’s throne, intoning salutations and blessings for a most prosperous forty-first year in this earthly realm. He had quick hands and was known to fondle handmaids throughout the palace. All the girls tried to steer clear of him. The banquet master flourished those hands now as he spoke.

Finally, he stilled, drawing his arms to his side, and the gong sounded three more times. He gave a sudden clap, and servers emerged from side entrances and began
placing dishes covered with lacquered trays before the guests. Zhong Ye wove between them, along the length of the opulently laid table, toward the Emperor’s chair. He slammed into a wall of armored chests several feet from his destination.

“You’re not the Emperor’s server,” one guard growled.

“No, but I have reason to believe that at least one of his dishes has been poisoned,” Zhong Ye said in a steady voice.

The guard’s mouth dropped open, and in three strides Zhong Ye was beside the Emperor, who had just picked up his solid gold eating sticks to try the marinated cold cuts. The guard whispered in his ear. The Emperor cocked his head, cast his eyes in Zhong Ye’s direction. He gave a slight nod, and the guard waved his hand. Zhong Ye dropped to his knees beside the Emperor’s ornate dining chair.

“Your most humble servant, Your Majesty,” Zhong Ye said in a clear voice, so he could be heard. He was crouched low against the ground, and the din of festival guests seemed especially loud.

“What’s your name?” the Emperor asked.

“Zhong Ye, Your Majesty.”

“And you think my food has been poisoned?” The Emperor’s boots were also embroidered with pearls and rubies. His foot shifted as he spoke.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“All the dishes served to me are tested by a taster.” He tapped one jeweled boot. A hush spread among the guests closest to the Emperor; the clink of eating sticks against porcelain was like musical notes.

“Get him up,” the Emperor said brusquely.

Zhong Ye felt himself being pulled by the stiff collar of his tunic, the guard clutching a handful of his queue at the same time.

“You imply that my dish was poisoned somehow between being tested by my taster and arriving at my table?” Silence rippled like a wave across the enormous hall.

Zhong Ye clenched both hands, felt the slick of his palms. He had to have timed this perfectly; it was his only chance. “Yes, Your Majesty. The foreign enemy has an expert assassin within your court. I bid you with my own life to take caution.” He would have fallen to his knees again if the guard hadn’t gripped him by one arm.

“Very well then. Prove your claim.” The Emperor picked up a slice of beef tongue and whisked it in the soy and chili sauce. Gasps and murmurs rose until the Emperor slanted one look at his guests. The hall quieted. Zhong Ye gulped, his throat much too dry, as the Son of Heaven fed him the piece of beef tongue as tenderly as a mother.

It was delicious, the perfect mixture of salt and spice, with a hint of sweet and sour, garlic and chives. He chewed as if it were his last earthly act. The Empress pressed one hand against her delicate mouth, and the other gripped the curved armrest. He swallowed and felt his stomach grumble. He hadn’t eaten since before daybreak.

The Emperor leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, his silk sleeves swishing. “Release him.” He nodded at the guard. “How do you feel?”

Zhong Ye unclenched his fists and bowed his head. “Perhaps I was wrong—” His knees buckled as heat blazed from his chest outward to each limb. The world turned black, but he could still hear. His face was pressed against the cold stone floor, and hands grabbed at him. Voices sounded like distant echoes.

“Take him to the royal physician,” the Emperor said.

It was the last thing he heard.

Zhong Ye opened his eyes to a blurred world, light and dark spots skittering across his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut again, his head spinning.

“Drink this.” A man’s soft voice. The physician brought a steaming bowl to Zhong Ye’s lips, and the bitter stench of medicinal herbs filled his nostrils. He would have
jerked his head away if he’d had the strength. He took a sip. The dark brew hit the back of his throat, and he gagged, but he forced himself to swallow. He had to be back in perfect health as soon as possible, and the royal physician knew what he was doing.

“More. Drink it all.” Zhong Ye opened his eyes and looked at the physician. He had a thin face, and he squinted back at him with curious intensity. “You’re fortunate to be alive. Most victims who ingest dragon’s rue do not live to see the next day.”

It had gone as Zhong Ye had planned. The maiden’s slipper, a wildflower with blooms shaped to inspire its name, mimicked the symptoms of dragon’s rue, but merely put its victim out for a few days, not forever. From his studies of herbs and medicine, Zhong Ye knew the only difference between the two was that the maiden’s slipper increased one’s heart rate before consciousness was lost, while dragon’s rue slowed one’s heart until it stopped. He had forced down a cup of hot tea brewed with crushed maiden’s slipper flowers before the banquet, hoping that it would take effect at the right time.

“You’re fortunate I was at hand to attend you.” The physician placed the empty bowl on a lacquered table beside the bed.

“I’m grateful. I owe you my life, Royal Physician—”

“Kang. Royal Physician Kang.” He leaned over to touch Zhong Ye’s brow with the back of his hand. “You’re not as hot as before. This is good news. Rest.”

Zhong Ye wondered how long he had been unconscious. He didn’t want the Emperor to forget him and his act of bravery.

When Zhong Ye next awoke, both his vision and head had cleared. A lotus-shaped glass lantern sat on the table beside him, and the summer air did not stir. He struggled to sit up, wiggling himself against the cushions he rested on. He blinked into the dark corners of the sparse chamber. The window panels were shaded so it was difficult to tell what time of day it was. He swallowed, the taste of the bitter medicine still in his mouth.

A panel scraped against the stone floor, and he shifted his arm closer to the lantern, the nearest weapon. Zhong Ye looked down at the dirt brown tunic someone had changed him into. His legs were bare beneath the thin blanket.

He heard the rustle of a robe before he saw the low light catch the glint of gold and silver embroidery. The Son of Heaven settled on the stool by the bed, one foot casually propped on a low wooden rung. The Emperor rubbed one smooth cheek with a hand, head slanted,
and studied him, his dark eyes shrewd. The Emperor was not dumb, just too easily distracted by his vices, drink and women.

“Well done, Zhong Ye. I hope you’re feeling better?” He raised his dark brows, and Zhong Ye wondered if he truly cared.

“I am, Your Majesty. If it weren’t for Royal Physician Kang, I would be roaming the underworld.”

“Yes, he tends to me and is the best. I owe you that much, after forcing you to eat the beef tongue.” The Emperor smiled. “I had your records pulled to learn more about you. It’s important for me to know the history of the man who saved my life.”

“I come from a very humble background, Your Majesty.”

“Farmers. Not the most clever of people—” The Emperor paused, and anger seized Zhong Ye. His father’s greatest possession was his dull-witted oxen. Zhong Ye had spent the last seven years of his life trying to escape being a farmer’s son.

“But the backbone of our kingdom,” the Emperor added.

Zhong Ye exhaled and nodded. “My family works hard.”

“Tell me what you know of this conspiracy to murder me,” the Emperor said. His hands were in his lap now, the fingertips pressed together.

“There was a new boy in the kitchen these past two weeks. Looking not more than twelve years but not acting at all like a boy. Everywhere I turned, he was beneath my feet. I found him skulking in the storage room one morning when I was taking inventory.” Zhong Ye’s voice was hoarse, and the Emperor waved one hand. A petite handmaid emerged from the shadows, cupping a small bowl. She proffered it, and Zhong Ye took a sip and couldn’t stop himself from grimacing at the taste.

“That morning the kitchen was in an uproar preparing for Your Majesty’s banquet. The boy slipped out when he thought no one saw, and I followed. He ran quick as a rabbit into the Garden of Tranquility. I saw one of those foreigners from across the northern mountains hand him something. Something small.”

“Did you catch a good glimpse of the man?”

“No. He was draped in long folds of dress like those from Alban, a cowl drawn over his face. They exchanged few words, and the boy darted back toward the kitchens.” Zhong Ye took another long draft of the medicinal brew, the warmth zinging a path through him. “I wanted to chase after the foreigner, but it was near banquet time, and I feared what the boy held in his hand, what he might attempt.”

“How did he slip the poison into the food?” The
Emperor leaned close, and Zhong Ye could smell the liquor on his breath. “How was it that my taster was unaffected?”

“The boy was nowhere to be found when I returned to the royal kitchen. I watched the taster test your first two dishes, and when he approved, the chef plated them. But the tray was knocked over by a kitchen hand I didn’t recognize. The boy I had been following reappeared and was asked to clean the mess, while the other who had knocked over the food was taken out to be whipped. When I saw them replate your food, I felt unease.” Zhong Ye, exhausted from speaking, slumped against the cushions. He had hired the “suspicious” boy himself, paid him to appear and then disappear. The knocked-over dishes were pure luck; he couldn’t have asked for a better scenario.

“You mean to tell me you risked ruining my banquet on a hunch? That you actually saw nothing?” He could feel the Emperor’s eyes on him.

Zhong Ye closed his own, knowing he looked as weak as he felt. “I don’t question my intuition, Your Majesty. I’ve survived and advanced this far because of it.”

“But what if you were wrong?”

“It was worth the risk. My humiliation would be nothing. I was scared for Your Majesty’s life.” Zhong Ye’s
voice was barely audible now, and it was no act.

He was asleep before he heard the Emperor’s response.

Zhong Ye strode down a long hallway lit with blazing lanterns. Anticipation rushed through him, and he quickened his pace. The Emperor had promoted him the previous day, his first day back in full health. He glanced down to admire his new robe, a deep sapphire blue embroidered with yellow, befitting his new rank.

He paused in front of a red paneled door, accented in gold and carved with seven fierce dragons. Four guards flanked each side of the door. Zhong Ye knocked and bowed his head. The panel opened after a moment, and a giggling girl peered up at him.

“It’s Master Zhong, Your Majesty,” she called.

The concubine jutted a dainty chin toward the main chamber, indicating that he should enter. Her brocaded robe slipped to expose a creamy shoulder—not by accident. Zhong Ye bowed lower and lower still, until he glimpsed the concubine’s silk slippers peeping from beneath her sleep dress. Foolish girl, to flirt with him with the Emperor so close.

“Hurry!” The Emperor’s voice was deep and impatient.

Zhong Ye walked with quick, confident steps into the Emperor’s pleasure chamber. It had been specially
created for his dalliances. The Emperor could take his women anywhere, of course. And it wasn’t uncommon for him to indulge in the imperial gardens, barge in upon a handmaid’s chamber, even corner servants in the kitchen. The only place that remained sacred was the Temple of the Sun.