Descendant of the Crane(37)

The horizon was eerily aglow, baking the silhouettes of the ridged roofs black.

“Seen enough?” came a quiet voice from behind.

Ignoring Mei, Hesina picked up her pace until she reached the first sign of life: a fleeing crowd. People ran past her, away from the red-light district, their faces engraved with terror. Panicked cries and shouted words sailed overhead, cleaved by the blast of the city-guard horn.

“Call for reinforcements!” cried the captain, heading a horde of armored men and women. Their red-tasseled halberds gleamed as they marched past.

Hesina grabbed the cloak of one. His spear jerked to her throat, and black flashed in the periphery, but she dropped her hold before Mei could spill blood. “What’s going on?”

The guard stepped back, halberd still raised, and took in Hesina’s commoner’s garb. “Stay away from the red-light district.”

“Why?” Hesina pressed, but he’d already rejoined the rest. As they rushed by, her hand shot to her silk broad-belt, where her imperial seal dangled. Then she froze. She could get the answers she wanted by revealing her identity, but then the guards would swamp her like fifty Caiyans. She’d forfeit any chance of making it to the Silver Iris.

Before Mei could stop her, Hesina turned and ran against the tide. She passed under the west arch, down the streets lined with dingy pawnshops, taverns, and teahouses, not slowing until she hit the crowd that had formed in the middle of the limestone street.

It was a bristling thing of people fleeing and people joining. Guards hemmed it in but did nothing to disperse the mob, or silence the shout that came from the heart of it.

“Another village has disappeared!” Hesina couldn’t see the person, only the torch he’d thrust high. “The Kendi’ans grow ever stronger!”

“And why?” cried another torch-holder. “Because of them! Their kind live among us! They disguise themselves as beggars and whores, hiding themselves among the dregs of society as they bide time and recover from the blow the Eleven dealt them. But mark my words! One day, they will hatch like maggots! They’ve oppressed us once with their powers! They will oppress us yet again!”

Arm by arm, torso by torso, Hesina squeezed past the human barricade. It ended abruptly, and she pitched into the clearing.

In the middle rose a hastily erected stake. The girls and boys lashed to it stood out like exotic birds in their brothel colors, but they weren’t beautiful. The kohl lining their eyes dripped black over their rouged cheeks, the carmine stain on their lips smeared like blood. They cowered as the crowd raged.

“Sooths!”

“Whores!”

“Maggots!”

“Destroy them now!” screamed a woman. “Destroy them before they destroy us!”

Hesina didn’t trust herself to speak. She feared her voice would betray her, that the mere sound of it could reveal her horror and her guilt, for taking from the Silver Iris and giving nothing in return.

So she watched with the rest as one of the men handed off his torch and approached a tied-up courtesan. The girl shrank, flattening against the stake as the man cut her free.

He dragged her to her feet. “From this day forward, we strip them of their disguise!” He turned to the girl. “Burn,” he spat out. “Burn, and show us your true identity!”

He raised her arm.

Do something.

Drew something from his belt.

Do something.

It was a sickle, the Eleven’s weapon of choice, symbolic of the peasants’ struggles against the sooths and nobility. Its sharpened edge grinned under the torchlight, ribboning the air in Hesina’s throat. Then it hurtled down in a streak of silver.

It should have been a fast moment, over in second, ending in a spray of blood, perhaps a flicker of blue flame. But instead, time slowed. Hesina envisioned the Silver Iris again. Saw her back, the monstrous truth of Hesina’s kingdom carved into skin. The truth of her, if she stayed silent.

“Stop!”

The blade stopped short of flesh.

Eyes fell on Hesina, then flashed up to her jade seal raised high in the air. With her free hand, she tore apart the buttons Ming’er had so carefully fastened. The cloak slid to the ground.

Gasps rose as people fell. The mob, worshipping another leader just seconds ago, dropped into a collective koutou. The reverie only kicked up Hesina’s disgust. She faced the ringleaders. “Step away from the girl.”

Once they did, she spun to the guards pushing through the crowd. “Seize their weapons.”

Then she drew Mei’s dagger and strode to the young courtesan, who blanched when Hesina grasped her arm.

But it wasn’t the courtesan’s skin that broke under the blade.

In one heartbeat, Hesina sliced her own forearm and pressed the flat of the blade to the courtesan’s bare one, streaking the flawless skin with her own blood. By the next heartbeat, Hesina had let her own sleeve fall over the wound. She spun around and, with her good hand, held the girl’s arm up for all to see. “Look! Does it burn?”

People shoved and pushed, fighting for a view. Nothing happened. The girl’s “cut” didn’t burst into flame.

Hesina dropped the arm and held up Mei’s knife. “Does it burn?”

The knife didn’t burst into flame either.

Under Hesina’s sleeve, warmth vined around her wrist and budded off the knuckles. She desperately hoped no one would notice in the falling light.