“No, come with us to Wangfujing. I will make sure the debt is settled. Who owns the boat?”
“Mao Zhang.”
“I know him well,” Kunmia said. “There will be no obligation. If you sell the fish in Wangfujing, you will get a better price. Come with us, Quion. Maybe another fisherman will take you on. You’re a hard worker. You will not go hungry.”
“Thank you,” Quion said. His expression had brightened a little, although it drooped again when he caught a glimpse of his father’s covered body.
“Please take us back to the quay.”
He swallowed nervously. “But the fog.”
“If it’s still there, we won’t stop. But I think it will have settled by now. Do as I say.”
There was no way a fisherman’s boy would countermand someone with her authority, so it came as no surprise to Bingmei when the young man nodded and set to work.
As they sailed back the way they’d come, Kunmia came and sat by her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You will fetch the sword, Bingmei,” she said.
A quiver of pleasure went through her heart. It was followed by a throb of fear.
The air at the quay had an acidic smell to it. When the boat thumped against the damp wood of the dock, she saw the remains of the dead Qiangdao. Dewdrops glistened on the vacant faces, eyes closed as if in sleep. Their chests lay still, but if Bingmei hadn’t known better, she would have sworn they were only resting. Their placid expressions chilled her to the bone. She’d never seen the effects of the killing fog before, not firsthand, although the others in the ensign had told her stories. Bodies left by the fog did not rot like they should. No flies would buzz around them, even days later. They said the best way to dispose of the bodies left by the fog was to throw them into the water.
Bingmei looked at the others on the boat, trying to see if they were bothered by the death sleep. They were all different ages, although Mieshi and Zhuyi were closer in age to each other than to the rest. None of them appeared to covet the responsibility for which Bingmei had been chosen. They all looked sickened by the sight of what had befallen their enemies. And Lieren.
She stepped over the edge of the boat and onto the dock, sniffing. A sharp, acidic smell hung in the air, masking all other scents. A bird squawked from a tree in the distance. But nothing living would venture near.
Animals fled the killing fog as well.
She glanced back at the boat, watching the solemn faces stare back at her. Only Kunmia nodded in encouragement.
Mustering her resolve, Bingmei stepped around the fallen and started off into the long grass, hand on the hilt of her grandfather’s saber. The gentle breeze made the tips of the grass sway with a shushing noise. She walked deliberately, retracing her steps. Now that it was daylight, the scene looked entirely new and unfamiliar. Her foot struck something heavy, and she realized it was another dead man. She went around him, her heart beating swiftly in her chest.
A new smell struck her nose.
She stopped, freezing in place, her hand lightly touching the tips of the tall grass. The smell of meiwood was a subtle fragrance. Meiwood trees were tall with straight trunks, and the ancients had used them to construct buildings. They were exceedingly rare, and what few groves still existed were guarded day and night. She’d heard it took over a century of waiting to harvest a single tree.
She loved the smell, which reminded her of her little wooden cricket. Kunmia’s staff was also made of meiwood, from a limb sheared off a trunk.
The scent came from just ahead. She cautiously started forward again, her boots striking another corpse of the Qiangdao. There were many dead ones nearby, flattening the grass. Then she saw Lieren, and a queer feeling clutched her heart. Even he looked peaceful. The unfairness of it grated on her. He had protected and guided the ensign for decades. Loss quivered in her chest again, though she tried to still the wrenching sensation. Death was something that happened often. It did no good to become too attached to people. Although she pitied the fisherman’s son, Quion, she would not let her heart linger on her compassion.
Staying alive was all that mattered to Bingmei. At least for long enough to exact her revenge on the men who’d murdered her family. Then . . . it didn’t matter.
The smell grew stronger, indicating she was headed in the right direction, but a strange sensation rippled down her spine. Something felt . . . wrong. Crouching down so that her eyes were level with the tall grass, she gazed around at the small copse of trees where the Qiangdao had concealed themselves. In the daylight it wouldn’t have been possible. She could see through the limbs in daylight. So why did she feel that she wasn’t alone?
Nearer the ground, she smelled the burnt tang of metal. She parted the grasses until she found the source: an arm and a hand clutched around a dagger. The blade was pitted, discolored. Had it always been that way? She pried it loose of the cold fingers and gazed at it, holding it closer to her nose. The smell was overpowering. She set it down in disgust.
Slowly she searched the grass, using her nose to draw her closer to the meiwood. A huff of wind sounded from above and behind her. She whirled, saber ringing clear of its scabbard. Her arms shook with fear. But she swallowed, steeling herself, and tried to calm her breathing. Nothing was behind her. It was just her imagination. So why were all her instincts screaming at her to flee?
Childishness. That’s why Kunmia had chosen her for this mission. So she could overcome her childish fears.
Get the sword. Go. That was her duty. Ignoring the prickling of her flesh, she stepped backward and nearly tripped over someone’s remains. The Qiangdao leader. Squatting low, saber held protectively in front of her, she groped with her free hand, searching for the sword. There it lay in the grass. Its blade was not tarnished in the least, a double-edged blade, unlike her saber, which was only sharpened on one edge. There was a rippled pattern in the metal, a technique lost with the ancients. At the nape of the blade, the guard and pommel were made of gold. An intricate carving of a phoenix had been embossed on each, and the meiwood grip looked sturdy and solid.
The phoenix. A creature of legend. A bird that reigned over all other birds. She’d seen them depicted in many of the artifacts retrieved by the ensign, although no two looked the same . . . some resembled roosters, others bore more in common with eagles. Most of the depictions had one commonality—their tail feathers were all different colors, each one representing a virtue, like benevolence, honesty, knowledge, decorum.
These stories and images were all they had left of the past. Upon joining Kunmia Suun’s band, it had surprised Bingmei to learn that the legends she’d been raised with differed from theirs. Each village had its own tales, and the degree to which they conflicted made her doubt if anyone knew the truth.
As she stared at the intricate blade, she felt compelled to touch it. It was the most beautiful weapon she’d ever seen. She reached for it, grasping it by the hilt, and lifted it from the grass. Power jolted through her body, frightening and thrilling her. The weapon felt strangely familiar, but she’d never seen its equal in her life.
Holding it, gazing at it, she felt a trance steal over her. Her eyes were fixed on the rippled metal blade, the twin phoenixes on the hilt.
“Bingmei!”
Kunmia’s scream jolted her from her reverie as the first wisps of fog crept toward her. The sharp acidic smell had become nearly painful. She bolted.