A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (97)
“More wine!” the soldier who led us inside roars, throwing his arms around our shoulders.
The soldiers cheer. We are forced to take off our helmets so as not to appear inconspicuous. The possibility of us slipping away quietly lessens with each step. The heavy pots are taken from us, their seals broken swiftly. The wine is poured into round bowls, much of it spilling out the sides. Somewhere in the room, a group of men break into raucous song.
“There’s more where it came from!” The soldier releases us, laughing. He tips the bowl into his mouth, dribbling wine down his chin.
“Cheers!” They raise their bowls toward us, and before we can protest, we’re pulled to sit down on stools at a table. Zhen and I exchange uncomfortable looks but continue to play the part. The wine flows freely as the conversation grows louder and the jokes increasingly vulgar. One of the soldiers tells war stories to an attentive audience, while to our left, a drinking game involving rapid hand gestures and curses is in progress.
I hold a fake smile on my face as I speak to Zhen from the corner of my mouth. “What do we do?”
“Play along,” Zhen says, and scoops up a bowl from the table, downing it in one gulp. The man next to her guffaws and slaps her on the back.
A city guard raises her bowl to the sky. “Things are changing, my friends! No more patrols. No more chasing after petty thieves. We’ll soon be making a decent living!”
“I’ll drink to that!” her companion shouts, and they guzzle down more wine.
Another soldier stands unsteadily, patchy stubble barely growing on his lip. “I’ll make a name for myself!” He slams his foot onto a stool. “They’ll call me the Conqueror!”
“You’re drunk, you fool!” A soldier with a grizzled beard roars with laughter, throwing a cup at his head. The young soldier ducks, and the cup hits a man behind him. He turns and glares at our table, which erupts into uproarious laughter.
I feel it before I see it, a sudden shift in the air.
Around us, the soldiers pull themselves to attention. At first, it’s the thud of a single fist on a table, then it’s a steady rhythm, everyone pounding their fists in sync.
Zhen puts her hand on my arm, bracing herself. “No,” she whispers, so close her breath brushes the back of my neck.
I turn to see a man with a commanding presence standing at the entrance to the teahouse.
“General!” someone calls out, and others echo the title with reverence.
He strides in as if the crowds are expected to part before him, as if he knows he will be obeyed.
I realize with horror who this must be.
The Banished Prince. The General of K?iláng.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
When he turns his head, I can see the blue-black pattern on his face. At the center is the word for exile. The tattoo is meant as an imperial punishment, for everyone to see your traitor’s mark. But from that word, a defiant pattern emerges, lines curving around his brow and under the jaw. The guards beside him bear similar tattoos, and they wear them with pride, honored to be marked with the same art as their general.
“He will recognize me,” Zhen whispers to me, gripping my arm, as everyone begins to applaud and call out their welcomes. “If he sees me, I’m dead.”
We slide off our stools to stand with the rest of them. Behind me there is no clear path to the kitchens, the press of bodies too thick for us to slip away.
“Companions!” the general calls out. His voice is warm, resonant over the heads of the crowd. “Ten years ago, I was banished from the capital by my own kin. I have despaired at the fall of the Li name, at the struggles of the people. But now it is time for us, my true family, to return and restore Dàxī to its former glory!”
I am shocked at his impudence. He dares to walk into one of the most prominent teahouses in the capital, showing his face in the city streets without concern.
The astronomer was right. Darkness is descending.
Something cold touches my arm, and I look down to see that Zhen has drawn a dagger, the flat blade pressing against my skin.
“Stop,” I hiss at her, while the general begins to make his way through his soldiers, greeting many of them by name. With sinking dread, I realize he is pouring each person a drink, adding something from the flask at his side. The stories always said he commanded the loyalties of his battalions easily, and it’s apparent in how he treats his soldiers with respect and acknowledgment.
“You can’t possibly think you would be able to walk out of here alive if you try to kill him,” I whisper to Zhen, placing my hand over the blade.
“He’s the one who orchestrated my father’s poisoning,” she snarls. “I will watch him bleed with my knife in his chest.”
I for one, want to live. I want to find the antidote for my sister. I want to see the plateaus of Kallah with Lian. I want to stand on the peaks of Heaven’s Gate and peer into a different kingdom.
The general is getting closer, and I reach for the only thing I have: my magic. I pull the pouch from my sash. With a twist of my hand I drop my bowl on the table, spilling most of my drink. I pick up the neglected pot of tea, and it’s still half-full. Not many are interested in tea with the wine so abundant. Better for me.
I break the pieces of tangerine peel and also use my fingernail to grate slivers of golden root into the tea. The general is twenty paces away, and fast approaching. I thrust my elbow into Zhen’s side, forcing her to lower the knife. I pour half my bowl of tea into hers, placing my hand around her own. The bowls begin to warm under my hands, and Zhen jumps beside me, assuring me she feels it as well.