Jade Fire Gold(12)

The boy tenses, expression unfathomable.

“You are a nonbeliever,” the face reader says to me. “It is all right. Not everyone has the sight. Not everyone understands.”

It feels like she insulted me, so I decide to play along. “Please, ah pó, I am curious—tell me what you see.”

“As you wish.” Her eyes sweep my face and the lines on her forehead deepen. “I see jade, I see fire . . . and gold. The three are bound together. Jade does not melt in fire. And gold—gold follows you and the red thread of fate binds you together.”

I burst out laughing. “Gold follows me? I’ve been dirt poor all my life and that fact doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon.”

She purses her lips and turns away from me.

“There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you. It doesn’t take this long to buy fruit,” says another voice from behind us.

A curvy girl with a heart-shaped face walks up. I take a step back, intimidated by the thick iron chains wrapped around her waist. Half her hair is up in a bun secured by two wooden chopsticks with noticeably sharp metal tips, the rest of it lush and loose around her shoulders. Narrow sleeves on her purple hànfú. She must be a pugilist, too.

She peers at me coyly from under her thick lashes. “Who’s this?”

“Nobody. Let’s go.” The boy’s face is cold. He barely looks at me.

Nobody.

It shouldn’t affect me, but it does.

The girl smiles and links her arm around the boy’s. I keep staring as they weave through the crowd, trying to ignore the sting of his words.

The face reader makes a sympathetic noise. “What is your birth name, xi?omèi?”

I tear my eyes away from him. “I was adopted. I don’t know what my family name is. My grandmother’s family name is Jia and my name is Ahn.”

“How is Ahn written in the ancient script?”

“I didn’t know my name had an equivalent in a dead language.”

She reaches out and grabs my hand, examining my open palm. “Interesting. You see, my dear, your name transforms into a homonym in the ancient script. Depending on how it is written, it can mean either peace . . . or darkness.”

A shiver slinks its way down my spine despite the heat. I yank my hand back and walk briskly to another row of tents, well aware of her gaze following me.

After some exploration, I catch sight of hastily scrawled characters on a wooden board.

BUYERS AND SELLERS OF ANTIQUES AND TRINKETS

The tent is a mess, the merchant distracted by a couple of hagglers. Two burly men are pressing him for a good price, and he looks like he’s about to buckle under the pressure.

A good target.

Inching closer to one of the long tables where his wares are displayed, I consider the assortment of merchandise. The thin gold leaf decorating the edges of a mahogany abacus tempts me. As do the bronze ritual vessels of various sizes and delicate white porcelain bowls painted with cobalt-blue flowers. All undoubtedly pillaged from wealthy nobles during the wars.

Easy pickings. But I’m here to sell my jade ring. Not to pilfer trinkets.

My fingers hesitate, unwilling to remove the leather pouch from my pocket. Unwilling to part with the only evidence that my parents existed. That I was someone’s daughter once. I breathe in, and the pain in my chest eases. That was before. This is now. I can’t keep thinking about the past. Ama needs her medicine, and this is the only way to get the money for it.

But as I turn to the merchant, my eyes pounce on a flash of red.

A jiàn lies at the end of another table. It’s a weapon of beauty with a blade slim and long, tapering to a sharp sly point at the end. The soft silvery-blue sheen of the metal makes it unmistakably clear that it was forged from a foreign material not found in this arid, poverty-stricken region. But it’s the blood-red ruby cradled in the intricate metalwork of the hilt that has my attention. Vividly saturated, it looks like it would fetch a good price. I could pry it from the hilt. I could sell that. I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking hard.

Sell the ring or steal the sword?

There’s a clink of metal as the merchant rummages through a large wooden crate before handing one of the burly men another item of interest. Whatever it is, it must be significant. The men swiftly turn their backs to me to examine the new treasure.

The leather pouch goes back into my pocket. I pick up the sword and walk out of the tent, adjusting my outer robe to cover it. My pulse thrums. Just when I think I’ll get away, someone shouts.

“Where’s my sword?”

The voice doesn’t belong to the merchant. Ten Hells. Did I steal from the burly men instead?

“Where is it?” repeats the booming voice.

I force my feet to keep their rhythm. Too obvious to run now.

“It was here!” the merchant bleats.

“You—girl with the braids—turn around!”

Freezing in mid-step, my eyes dart around the crowd.

I am the only girl with braided hair.

Adrenaline pumping in my veins, I dash down the line of stalls, weaving between tents across the town square. Curses and shouts follow me as I shove people out of the way. I make it to the other end and spin around a corner. The gods! There’s a line of camels sitting leisurely across my path. A man tugs the rope tying one beast to the next, but the stubborn animals refuse to budge so I dash off in another direction.