The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(72)

“Or a different boat,” Slate said. “Something flat, with more surface area. Like a really big tray. Something stable.”

Kashmir tapped his chin. “Could we take the doors off the hinges downstairs and nail them together?”

“We need an outrigger,” I said. Kash and Slate looked at me. “Like the Hawaiians used on their sailing canoes. Or a catamaran.”

Working together, we fashioned a crude outrigger out of the repair kit we kept in the hold. Laying one beam parallel to the dinghy, we attached it with two perpendicular crosspieces, one at the bow and one at the stern, and lashed the whole contraption together with sisal rope. Then we lowered the boat to the mirrored surface; it sat there as light as a leaf on a pond.

“Let’s be quick,” Bee said. “Ayen says it’s crowded here. The air is thick with spirits.”

I sucked air through my teeth. “Are they dangerous?”

She took a moment to answer. “No . . . they only miss the light.”

I shivered as a drop of cold water from my damp hair trickled down my neck and ran down my spine. Slate laid his hand on my arm, his face serious. “Kashmir and I can go. Rest if you’re tired.”

“Rest?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief off my face. “And miss this?”

The captain squeezed my shoulder. Then his brow furrowed. “What is that, there?” he said, tapping the leather case on my shoulder.

I hesitated. “A map.”

“Of what?”

“It’s 1886. Joss gave it to me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Chinatown? The Great Fire?”

“She asked me to bring it here.”

He dropped his hand to his side, tapping his fingers on his thigh, his eyes distant. “It’s odd,” he said finally.

“What is?”

“I found that map rolled up inside another one.”

I almost asked which one, but then I realized I knew. “The Mitchell map. The Sandwich Isles. The one you arrived on first.”

He nodded, his face grim once again as he stared out into the shadows on the bronze shore.



Kashmir climbed down into the dinghy, and I followed after him. The rowboat bobbed a little when I settled in, but the modifications made it very steady. I was put in mind of those pond striders, the water-walking bugs. I let Kashmir man the oars. He shipped one, laying it in the bottom of the dinghy, and pulled the other out of the oarlock to use like a paddle, with two hands, leaning in and pushing through the mercury first on one side, then the other.

We sculled along toward the massive stone wall, and I closed my eyes to better see my memory. “According to the map, this central part of the tomb is rectangular, with canals leading out in each cardinal direction. Along either side of the canals are the rooms where the warriors are.”

“Why are you whispering?”

I opened my eyes and kicked him. The boat bobbed, and I froze for a moment. Kash had the decency to stifle his laugh. “The soldiers seem quiet so far, but I don’t want to press our luck,” I said, my voice low. “The story is, they guard Qin’s riches and his actual . . . person.”

“So, his decaying body?”

“Yes. Don’t touch it.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“And don’t take anything.”

“You’re no fun.”

There was indeed an arched doorway, twenty feet high, midway along the wall. Kash turned the boat toward it, and as we approached, the light from our lantern illuminated the damp stone, which was marred at even intervals by sooty black streaks above the burned-out oil lamps. But the lamps could not have been dark long. I smelled the scent of sweet oil and bitter flame, cutting through the sour odor that seemed to permeate my very skin.

“There’s something wrong.”

Kashmir froze in midstroke, beaded droplets of quicksilver dripping from the oar. “Care to elaborate?”

“In the legend, Sima wrote the lamps would burn forever, and they’re out.”

“It makes sense, amira. There is not enough oil in all the world to burn forever.”

“No, I know, but in the myth, they’re supposed to last. So were the trees, but they’re dying too. Then again . . .” I bit my lip. “Sima didn’t draw the map.”

“Who did?”

I was, nervous, for some reason, to say it aloud. “I think it was Joss.”

“Ah.” We sculled along for a moment in silence. “So. Do you suppose she believed the soldiers would come to life? Or that they were no more than fancy pottery?”

“But why would she have sent us if . . . ugh, that’s a stupid question.”

“We’re here now. We might as well check.”

Our little boat passed between two huge archways that opened onto rooms where matching junks were moored, their beautiful red lacquer sides studded with gold coin-shaped reliefs. The masts were rigged with silken sails, ready for the terra-cotta sailors who manned her ebony deck.

“That’s lucky,” I murmured.

“Hmm?”

“If this works, we can tow one of the junks back with us and use it to get into Honolulu Harbor,” I explained. “The Temptation is pretty recognizable.”

Beyond those chambers, there was another opening, this one smaller and set above the waterline with stone steps leading up. Kashmir pulled us near enough for our light to crawl inside; painted pottery horses stood, hitched to chariots cast in bronze. They were absolutely immobile.