Fox and Phoenix (7 page)

I eyed the safe and shuddered.
I think we'd better check the other papers first.

There were a lot of them—lists of students, special tutoring schedules, lecture notes for her more advanced students, including Yún and me. (Wait,
I
was advanced?) Most important of all, a scribbled list of expected expenses for the next quarter. As I read through that last one, my eyebrows climbed up into my hair. I'd had no idea there were so many fees required by Lóng City's bureaucrats. Taxes, garbage collection and composting fees, sewage fees, teaching license renewal, import fees, something called a magic containment surcharge, the usual monthly bill for magic flux . . .

I wrote down a few sums, got the items mixed up, started over, then lost track of what I'd been looking at. I was about to cram all the papers back in their slots, when I felt a gentle nudge at my shoulder, a whisper of warm piggy breath at my ear.

We can do this together,
Chen said softly.

He materialized next to me, once more wearing those foolish spectacles, with a brush tucked in the crook of one foreleg. I wanted to laugh, but my head hurt too much.
Do what?
I asked.
Catalog a mountain?

His bristles quivered with amusement.
Something like that. Here, you take a look at each of these papers. Tell me what kind they are. Then you put it in a pile. One for each kind. After that we can decide what comes next.

We settled down to a good routine. I'd read a few columns from each scroll. Chen recorded what kind of thing it was. Then we'd argue which pile it belonged in. We'd sorted half the papers, including all the taxes and fees, and were thinking of taking a break for tea, when the front door opened and Yún walked inside.

Chen winked from sight. I swept my notes and list under a pile of scrolls.

“Good morning,” I croaked.

Yún shook droplets of early-morning rain from her hair, scanned the shop. “Good morning, Kai. Where is your mother?”

“Out and about,” I said airily.

Her gaze traveled down to my hands, lying atop the messy pile of scrolls. “What about our classes?”

“We don't have any today. Mā mÄ«'s orders.”

Yún's eyes narrowed. “Two days in a row? What about the supplies she bought yesterday?”

“All fine. I took care of it.”

“Really? When is your mother coming back to the shop? I want to ask her—”

“She's not coming back,” I said quickly. “Not right away. She went to visit a cousin. Up north. Family emergency.”

Which was true enough, in its own way.

But Yún was studying me suspiciously. “For how long?”

“A week.”

“What about the shop?”

“I'm watching over it. You're—” I nearly said,
You're to get a holiday,
but Mā mÄ« never gave holidays. Quickly, I snatched up a bundle of old books, tied together with a string. “Here,” I said. “Mā mÄ« said you were to deliver these to Shou-xin today. He needs extra tutoring and she wants you to help him. Take as long as you need.”

Yún's gaze dropped to the top book. An odd expression crossed her face, something between laughter and puzzlement and exasperation. Inside me, Chen's laughter tickled at my brain.
You gave her that stack of old books about love philters for old men,
he grunted.
The ones your mother wanted to sell to the junk man.

Gah. My face burned hotter than before. When Yún glanced up, I held my breath.

“Okay,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Whatever she wants.”

She
was
laughing at me. Never mind. At least the trick worked.

We muttered a few more words at each other—I doubt either of us was paying too much attention to what the other person said—then Yún left with the books in hand. I let out a sigh of relief. It seemed too easy that she believed my stupid explanation. Unless it was true what I thought about her liking Shou-xin . . .

You don't look happy,
Chen commented.

We finished totaling up the bills and taxes. I picked up the next folder, which turned out to be a list of extra-special, super-private students. Rich ones, who paid exorbitant fees for special tutoring. Curse it, I had forgotten about them. Hurriedly I scribbled out a note, saying that their teacher was called away to a special conference and so would be unavailable for the next month.

You won't be back in a month,
Chen said.

I might,
I said.

Ignoring him, I took out a dozen sheets of our best rice paper, copied the note over twelve times, and set the sheets aside to dry. Then I rooted around in the stationery box for the special gold-edged sheets Mā mī always used for her best customers. Curse it again, there were only six left. I'd have to add the stationer's to my list of ten thousand errands. Now it was ten thousand and one errands.

Meanwhile, Chen had not stopped watching me with those big disapproving eyes.

What?
I said.
What's wrong?

I slammed the brush onto the desk.
We talked about that already. I can't tell her. If I do, she'll try to stop me.

Chen laughed and grunted. A horrible stink filled the air.

I pinched my nose shut.
Chen.

Stop nagging me!
I shouted.

Without warning, the griffin exploded into sight, snapping and squawking at me. Its beak fastened on my hand. “Ow!” I grabbed it behind its head. It tried to squirm free, but I wrestled the horrible creature into my jacket and sat on it. Still panting, I said, “I mean it, Chen. I don't want to hear anything more about Yún or Lian or anyone else. And no sneaking behind my back and telling her, I mean, them. Swear it.”

The whole shop went quiet, even the griffin. Chen stared at me with bright black eyes, all the mockery wiped clean away. A dangerous beast. One who knew all kinds of powerful magic.

You want me to swear?
he said, still fixing me with that unblinking gaze.
A companion oath?

My brain went blank with dread for a minute.

There is an oath, as awful and terrible as the old folk tales say, which a human can use to bind their spirit companion to their will. It's not written down, of course. Spirit companions show up when a child reaches four years old. Chen was two years late, but I still wouldn't have understood something like that from a book. But he spoke the words directly to me, heart to heart, and I knew that we were bonded. And I knew that such an oath existed.

Yes,
I croaked.
Swear you won't tell Yún where I'm going, or why.

Chen slowly dipped his massive head.
I swear.

He looked so grim, I almost wished I could take back the oath. Almost.

I stood up, still holding the griffin.
I think I'll go to the markets now. Buy supplies for the trip. We can finish here this afternoon.

No answer except a gradual fade into invisibility.

A tremor passed through me. We'd never quarreled like this before.

I couldn't stay here. If I did, I might throw up. Or cry. I didn't want Chen to see either.

I blew out a breath. To the markets, then. That meant another list of what I needed and money to buy it with.

The griffin gave a feeble croak. I released him from my jacket.

“What's wrong with you?” I whispered. “Hungry?”

But when I loosened my grip, the griffin launched itself into flight and vanished in a glittering puff of magic.

 

 

 

I DECIDED I didn't need any lists. I knew what I needed. If I forgot anything, I could buy it along the way. Besides, the shop felt too empty, too quiet right now. So I locked all the doors and left a message for any customers to come back the next day. Then I hurried to the banking district.

Mā mī did all her banking with a
piaohao
run by two partners, Bin Chu and Hai-feng Lo. They did business from a hole-in-the-wall office, tucked between two bigger, fancier
piaohao.
I'd come here once or twice over the past year, ever since I won the king's reward, but it was Mā mī who handled the investments.

It was dim inside, except for a bright lamp over the counter. The air reeked of tobacco and the electric tang of magic. No one was in sight, but I heard a tap-tapping, followed by the scratch of a metal pen on paper. Then someone coughed.

I leaned over the counter. Hai-feng Lo crouched behind it, bent over a thick book and an antique calculor. He was sucking on a hookah and writing down columns of numbers. Now and then, he tapped the calculor's keys. The magic flux hummed in time to his tapping.

I cleared my throat.

Hai-feng Lo spat out the hookah pipe and smiled. A horrible sight, because his mouth stretched wide like a monkey's, and his face crinkled in a thousand different directions.

“Kai Zōu, hello. You have business with us today?”

“For my mother,” I said, using my best grown-up impersonation. “We would like to arrange for some automatic payments.”

The old man made a noise, halfway between a cough and a laugh. He held out an ink-stained hand and took the list of bills and taxes from me. His eyebrows danced up, then down, then tied themselves together over his nose as he glanced over the papers. “Already done,” he said.

“What do you mean, already done?”

“Three days ago. She came to us with a list—very thorough, very neat.” Here he frowned at my own messy writing. “Very neat. She made arrangements for us to handle all payments until she returned, or sent word otherwise. Do you wish to see her request?”

Without waiting for me to answer, he tapped out a few keys on the calculor, then rose creakily to his feet to pluck a scroll case from one of the thousand pigeonholes. I recognized the style of the case. It was leather, tooled with official guild patterns, and capped with gold-plated discs at both ends.

Hai-feng Lo was still talking, something about how my mother had made additional arrangements. I heard the words “emergencies,” “main account,” then my name and Yún's.

“Say what?” I said.

“An emergency authorization,” Hai-feng repeated with admirable patience. “Granted by Shen Zōu to her son Kai Zōu and to Yún Chang, to make special payments for expenses connected to the tutoring shop owned by the aforementioned Shen Zōu. You are each authorized to name a representative for yourselves, in case of unforeseen absences.”

So she had expected to vanish. But why make all those arrangements and not tell me?

“Any more questions?” Hai-feng Lo asked.

Oh sure, I had a mountain of questions, but right now I had to hurry to buy supplies and run errands before sunset. “I need money. From my own account.”

Hai-feng nodded. “Very good. How much?”

I'd worked out the amounts beforehand. “One hundred in paper cash. And, um, six hundred in personal notes. Do I have enough in my account?”

“Oh, yes. Your mother made an extra transfer, just for you.”

That gave me another jolt of surprise. I wanted to ask him if my mother had given any reason for all these mysterious transactions, but I knew better. You didn't bank with Hai-feng Lo and his partner for the shiny offices. You did it because you wanted reliable money handlers who knew how to keep secrets. So I took my bag of cash and notes and didn't ask any questions.

For the next couple of hours, I spent money, picking up this and that for my journey. It was late afternoon, and the temple bells were ringing, before I collapsed onto a stool in the nearest noodle shop. The waiter set down a pot of hot tea, then handed me a menu to read. “Garlic dumplings,” I told him. “Curried rice. Spicy meatballs. And more tea. Lots of it. Oh, and get me a brush and ink, please.”

Unlike Deming, this waiter didn't sneer at my order. He whisked himself and the menu away. Two minutes later, he'd refilled my teapot and plunked a ready-writing-kit on my table. As he disappeared back into the kitchen, I heard a banging of pots, and someone swearing in a thick, lowlander dialect. The swearing stopped suddenly, replaced by whining music.

I took out the package of gold-edge rice paper, wrote off the addresses as neatly as I could, then folded them around the letters. The waiter soon returned with several steaming platters. I ate absentmindedly, picking at tidbits from one then another, while fiddling with an extra sheet of the fancy paper. The argument in the kitchen had started up again, joined by a woman's high voice. Meanwhile the other customers had paid and left. The waiter slowly made his circuit of the room, cleaning off tables and humming tunelessly along with the radio.

Clearly, Mā mī had planned to disappear. Just as clearly, she hadn't forgotten about me and the shop. That made me feel a little bit better, except . . .

So, it wasn't all right, as much as I wanted it to be.

All unaware, I'd folded the sheet of paper into a hexagon. On impulse I unfolded it and scribbled a note to Yún, telling her about the
piaohao
and Mā mī's special instructions about payments. It wasn't a real explanation, but it was the most I could say right now. At least someone would be in the city to watch over the shop, and Mā mī clearly trusted her.