Chapter 13

When the adrenaline and anxiety from the morning had been forgotten, celebrations were in order. The afternoon was spent bidding goodbye to those who had failed to make the cut, while the night was reserved for unbridled revelry.

Ying tagged along with the rest of the group as they swarmed through the gates of the guild and traipsed down the streets toward the center of town. This was the first time any of them had left the guild compound on unofficial business since the start of the trial. There were strict rules that forbade them leaving without permission, and to ask for permission from the likes of Gerel would be foolhardy. Tonight, they had been given the rare opportunity to take time off and head out. The leashes were off.

"Where's he going?" Ying asked as An-xi separated from the group and turned a different corner. Some of the others had also started breaking away, heading in varied directions.

"Home. The Niohurus all have sticks up their asses. If you thought An-xi was bad, then you haven't seen his father and mother yet." Chang-en chortled. "He's probably expected to give them a full rundown of what's happened since day one of the trial. And any other insider information he's found out about the guild. I bet you'll be a big part of that report."

"And your clan is any better?" Arban snickered. He was walking some distance ahead, but that hadn't stopped him from eavesdropping. "You Tongiyas are better at being smiling tigers, that's all."

Chang-en threw his head back and laughed even louder. "I prefer to call it having wit, Arban," he shouted. "Unfortunately, Abka Han doesn't bless everyone with it."

Ying had hung around the boys long enough to know that politics within the Eight Banners was complicated and highly tense. In Fei, there was a precarious balance of power kept in check under the watchful eye of the High Commander, who was no less than a master in the art of human weiqi. He promoted and demoted members of various clans in a shrewd and calculated manner, wed concubines in droves as a means of consolidating power and securing loyalties, and spread out authority evenly among his many sons to ensure that no one could threaten his.

Still, there were strong, wicked currents hiding beneath the seemingly calm surface. No matter how powerful he was, the High Commander was getting on with the years, and factions had formed backing the different princes in the race to be named heir. The frequent gibes between the young men in the guild were only the tip of the iceberg.

The first stop that they made was to the Silver Spoon, one of the most famous restaurants in the capital. Ying let the others herd her along like a clueless duckling as she gaped in awe at the colorful lights and sights of Fei. Since arriving, she'd never had the chance to explore the city properly, having been holed up in the fourth beile's manor first and the Engineers Guild after that.

Fei—better known to the rest of the nine isles as the Cobra's Lair—was even more spectacular than the traveling merchants described. Wide cobbled streets were lined with elaborate brick buildings, their sloping emerald roofs like elegant hats sitting atop their proud heads. In the night, bright red lanterns lit the streets, adding a touch of mystery and enigma to the bustling city.

They crossed an arched bridge to reach the town center. As she climbed up the bridge's stone steps, Ying leaned out and peered curiously over the side, eyes greedily taking in the scenery below. The bridge stood almost ten stories above sea level, and from her vantage point she could see the intricate and unusual layering of the city. Streets and buildings crisscrossed to form a complex maze, different levels linked by a network of stairways, bridges, and the occasional mechanical lift. At the lowest level, waterways provided an alternate passage through the capital. Ying could see tiny boats sailing down the canals, like lanterns floating on the water's surface.

"Hurry up," Chang-en urged, dragging her along by the arm. "If we're late, they'll run out of goose and that'll be a tragedy!"

The Silver Spoon was a three-story building with strings of five pumpkin-shaped lanterns lining each side of the entrance, the characters of the restaurant's name emblazoned in bold gold strokes on its signboard overhead. Ying had already spotted it from afar, firstly because it stood out as the tallest building down the entire street, and secondly because of the long, snaking queue that had formed in front of its doors.

Arban led the pack, walking right past the queue and straight toward the entrance. He cut an imposing figure with his broad shoulders and stocky build, and was easily identified as nobility from his sapphire-blue silk robes and thick gold cuffs on his lobes. The young server who was guarding the entrance immediately bowed once he saw Arban approach.

"Master Fucha," he greeted, an obsequious smile plastered on his face.

Arban fished out a silver tael from his waist pouch and pressed it into the boy's hand, heading into the restaurant. "We're starving," he said. "Serve your signature dishes to our room. Quickly!"

"We don't have to queue?" Ying whispered to Chang-en.

She looked around, dazzled by the noise, colors, and smells that accosted her senses from the moment she stepped in. Spices and perfumes mixed in a dizzying aroma. The first floor of the restaurant was an expansive space with plenty of square tables scattered around. Diners filled every table, chatting as they busied themselves with their chopsticks, snatching at the delectable morsels on plates. Looking up, she saw the same relay system of interlocking tracks and bamboo tubes that she had first seen at the Maiden's Well in Muci, sending orders zipping from the dining hall to the kitchen.

"Of course not. The first floor's for commoners. The Fucha clan has a private room that's reserved for their use. We have one too, but I'll let Arban do the showing off this time."

Ying reckoned her clan would be classified as "commoners" too. In the Antaran territories, there were only a select few clans considered nobility, those that historically produced streams of warriors, scholars, and engineers, and had consolidated much political power in their hands.

She followed them up to the third floor, where they were shown to a private room. A wooden plaque with the characters spelling "Ocean" carved into it hung by the side of the doorway. Unlike the busy first floor, the third was noticeably quieter and more exclusive. The moment she stepped into the room, a subtle jasmine fragrance wafted into her nostrils, coming from the bronze incense burner situated in a corner.

"Make yourselves comfortable," Arban said, settling himself into a chair by the window.

The six of them who had come along slid into empty seats. Ying immediately started looking around like a curious cat.

The Silver Spoon was so different from Roya's tavern, and even the Maiden's Well on Muci. Roya always had a fresh pot of her signature mutton dumplings simmering in her huge cast-iron pot that sat in the middle of the tavern, the meaty fragrance of her broth wafting out through the tavern's open doorway and tempting anyone who walked past.

All that seemed so crude and primitive compared to the Silver Spoon.

The room they were in was spacious and elegantly decorated with watercolor paintings hanging on the walls and porcelain vases sitting on curvaceous wooden stands. As befitting the room's name, the paintings were all of the sea, with ships bobbing up and down upon the gradient of blue, set against the backdrop of the rising sun. Ying leaned over and squinted at the name inked at the bottom of one painting. Borjigit Luyan—one of the most famous painters in Antaran history.

Ying gulped. One of those paintings would have cost a fortune. There were six hanging in this room.

"You like those?" Arban said when he saw her eyeing the paintings. "My e-niye collects Luyan's artwork. These are from our family's private collection. Plenty more where those came from. You probably haven't seen any of these before, eh? Huarin is so rural. Wonder why your father never did anything about that dump, especially since he's seen the magnificence of Fei before."

Ying stared sullenly at her cup of tea. She was used to Arban's not-so-subtle barbs, but hearing him belittle her father left a bitter taste in her mouth.

A knock at the door saved her from needing to engage further, as the servers entered bearing trays with over a dozen different plated dishes. Vibrant, tasty delights filled the entire table—roasted pork and yak, classic mutton dumplings in broth, millet cakes, a stir-fried assortment of vegetables, and even a hot pot with blood sausage and pickled cabbage.

"The Silver Spoon is famous for its blood sausage," Chang-en quipped, fishing some out from the pot and placing them in Ying's bowl. "Best thing ever. If I get kicked out of the guild and flayed by my father, this will be the one dish I'm ordering as my final meal."

Ying could see why. One bite into the sausage and a riot of flavors exploded in her mouth. It was exactly the right combination of salty and sweet, with a hint of spiciness from the chili. The more she chewed, the richer the taste became, and even after she had swallowed everything down her throat, there was a lingering fragrance of sesame.

Roya's tavern had much to learn.

"The second beile said he might leave Fei for a while," Arban said, chomping on a huge slab of roast meat.

"Why?" someone asked.

Arban leaned forward, and Ying recoiled at the thick layer of oil lining his lips. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but apparently the High Commander's sent the second beile on a big mission to Fu-li," he said, beady eyes glinting proudly at knowing something that everyone else didn't.

Ying's mind drifted back to what she had overheard between Ye-yang and Erden. Had the second beile convinced the High Commander to put him in charge of whatever mission it was that Ye-yang had proposed?

"You're just like them. You don't think I can do it. All of you think I'm just here to make up the numbers."

Ye-yang's frustrated and bitter words circled inside her head, and her heart clenched.

"What about the other beiles? Are they going too?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

Arban shrugged, then tossed a glance in Chang-en's direction. "Tongiya, did the first beile tell you anything? Your father's his right-hand man, surely you must know something."

"Nope." Chang-en lowered his chopsticks and dropped his voice. "But I hear that the winds of war are stirring on the horizon. If the Eight Banners make one wrong step, then we shall be ripped to shreds by the claws of the ferocious dragon that is the Empire!" He finished with a flourish, leaping to his feet and scratching at the air as if he were the beast itself.

The other boys stared at him for a moment, then the room erupted in peals of delighted laughter.

"Tongiya, I'll order you an extra goose for that!" Arban shouted, wiping a tear from his eye. "Winds of war and dragon claws…Wish I could go to Fu-li with the banners. Can you imagine actually wielding one of those air cannons? Firing a cannonball at those Qirin scum? Boom!" He dropped a dumpling back into its soup bowl with a little splash.

Hoots of agreement went around the room, but Ying remained silent. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, eyes fixed upon the ripples left by Arban's cannonball of a dumpling. She didn't share the same glee and anticipation she could see in the faces of her peers, even Chang-en, although a part of her also wished to witness the prowess of an air cannon.

Would there not be the young and the old, the sick and the vulnerable, all going about their daily lives on Fu-li? To level a city for the sake of testing weapons felt horrifically cruel, as if all those Qirin lives weren't lives at all.

"Abka Han gave us the ability to create things so that we can make the world a better place for others," her father had said, "so never treat it lightly, little lamb. It is, unfortunately, as much a gift as it is a burden."

Why then did you create such terrible things, A-ma?

None of this conversation would be taking place had her father not invented the air cannons, setting the stage for the war that the Cobra's Order was about to wage. There would be blood on her father's hands, even though he might not have fired a single one of those cannons himself.

For the first time in her entire life, Ying felt a hint of shame at the legacy that her father had left behind. She turned her gaze toward the open window and the crescent moon that hung low in the sky. In her mind's eye she saw the Order's airships gliding through the clouds—their undulating sails both beautiful and monstrous at the same time.

"Time for the real fun to start," Arban announced once every single plate on the table had been emptied. Getting up from his seat, he swung his arms across the shoulders of two of his cronies, heading for the door.

"What does he mean by that?" Ying asked, snapping out of her trance.

Chang-en wiped his mouth and stood up. "We're going to the Red Tower," he said with a wink. "Arban might be an asshole, but he sure knows how to have a good time."

The infamous Red Tower of Fei stood in the middle of the city's largest canal, a lofty seven-story pagoda that had its own private dock, allowing its rich and powerful clientele to be ferried to and fro. True to its name, the pagoda was constructed entirely out of red brick, with vermilion roof tiles to match.

Leaning against the rails of the ferry they had boarded, Ying craned her neck to gaze at the imposing structure, wondering what mystery entertainment was contained within its walls. The alluring melodies of the zither floated through the air, and as they got closer, the overwhelming scent of floral perfumes tickled her nostrils.

She sneezed.

"Ah, the smell of women," Chang-en said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"What?" Ying yelped, shrinking away.

"Don't act like such a prude. I know Huarin isn't as liberal as Fei, but surely people everywhere have the same needs." Chang-en nudged her in the arm, his eyebrows bobbing up and down. "Let me tell you, the Red Tower doesn't let anyone and everyone through her doors. Madam Zaya is very strict on standards. Without this"—he held up his clan pendant—"we wouldn't even be on board this ferry, much less get a whiff of this heavenly fragrance."

"What do you mean?" Ying had a bad feeling about this.

"The number-one courtesan at the Red Tower is Sarnai," her friend continued, oblivious to her confusion, "and she doesn't receive just any client. Arban claims he's spent a night with her before, but I'm calling his bluff. My brother said it costs at least a thousand gold taels to get one night with Sarnai. There's no way General Fucha would let Arban spend that kind of money at a whorehouse."

"A w-w-what?"

"Oops." Chang-en covered his mouth with his hand. "My bad. Madam Zaya would ban me from ever coming back if she heard what I just said. The Red Tower is not a whorehouse, it's a pleasure palace."

The ferry docked at the base of the pagoda, and Ying felt a headache coming on. It was both the suffocating stench of perfume and the realization that she had just arrived at the doors of a brothel. Her e-niye would have been horrified if she knew.

"I'm not feeling so well. Maybe I'll just call it a night," she said weakly. The others had started stepping off the boat, but she remained rooted to her spot on deck.

"What are you? Twelve?" Arban suggested. His friends burst out in loud cackles, as did the random drunk customers milling around at the docks with their arms around the waists of waiflike women in barely there silks.

Chang-en ran back to the ferry and grabbed her by the arm, forcibly dragging her off. "Don't chicken out now," he said. "We earned this! It's not like we get to come here every day."

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Ying squeaked, feeling distinctly uncomfortable in her disguise. Waltzing into a brothel and partaking in the wanton merrymaking taking place required a whole other level of playacting that she was not confident of, and she did not want to risk her secret being exposed because of it.

"If you don't want to spend the night, you can just join us for drinks and enjoy the music! The courtesans in the Red Tower play the zither better than the musicians in the High Commander's manor. Nothing like those mechanical bands they use in the restaurants and taverns."

Chang-en wasn't taking no for an answer. Ying couldn't shake his firm grip off her arm, so she was dragged toward the entrance of the pagoda, where a middle-aged woman decked in a crimson fur-lined cloak stood waving off a group of inebriated clients.

"Master Fucha, I haven't seen you around for a while." The woman placed her well-manicured hand on Arban's arm, one lacquered finger coyly scratching at the fabric of his sleeve. "Xin-er has been pining for you. She thinks you've forgotten all about her, that silly girl."

"Is that so? Send her up to me. Can't have my little flower worrying her pretty head over things like that, can we?" Arban laughed, sounding pleased by the madam's words. He quickly stepped across the threshold and disappeared into the building with a few of the others.

As Chang-en and Ying approached, a hint of surprise appeared in Zaya's eyes, her smile widening even further. "Why, if it isn't Master Tongiya!" she exclaimed, waving her silk handkerchief at Chang-en. "It's been a long time. Does your father know you're here?"

"If I don't tell him and you don't tell him, then he won't have to know, will he?" Chang-en answered with a wink.

"And you've brought a friend! Who might this handsome young man be?"

"This is Master Aihui, a good friend of mine." Chang-en beamed, slinging his arm across Ying's shoulder. "He's quite timid and it's his first time at the Red Tower, so don't scare him away, eh?"

Ying found herself herded into the pagoda—Chang-en on one side and Madam Zaya's putrid perfume on the other.

Unlike the Silver Spoon, which had been decorated elegantly and tastefully, the Red Tower was the epitome of decadence and debauchery. On the ground floor, a stage had been set up in the center, where a graceful figure in fiery red silks was spinning and twirling to the music of the zither, reminding Ying of a vibrant peony in bloom. Men sat around drinking wine, bursting out in applause and whistles each time she dazzled them with the nimble twists and turns of her body. The dancer was incredibly beautiful and skilled, possibly even more refined at her craft than Nian. At the side, another courtesan accompanied the dance by singing to the tune of the strings—"Dance of a Thousand Flowers," a famous Antaran classical piece—and the depth of emotion in her dulcet, mellifluous voice left chills running down Ying's spine.

Her eyes continued to gaze in admiration at the artistry happening onstage as they were led up the stairs—dimly lit, with just enough light to enhance the level of mystery and anticipation of clients that passed through these halls. They brushed shoulders with both male and female courtesans, some brazen and forthcoming, others wearing proud and aloof expressions on their intricately made-up faces.

When they reached one of the higher floors, Zaya showed them to the room where Arban and gang were already being served generous bowls of wine. Arban didn't even glance up when they entered, his attentions focused entirely on the little nymph who was perched on his lap, throwing her cute tantrum about his tardiness.

Ying stood by the door, not sure what to do with herself.

"What're you doing? Sit down!" Chang-en hollered, sliding into an empty seat. Another girl poured him a bowl of wine, which he immediately downed with a sigh of satisfaction.

"I—I think I need to relieve myself," Ying said. "Drank too much tea."

"Oh, you should have said so earlier, my dear," Madam Zaya said, a frown marring her heavily powdered face. She wrapped her bony fingers around Ying's arm. "The latrines are all the way back downstairs, by the back door. I'll show you the way—"

"There's no need," Ying interjected, wriggling her arm out of the woman's grip. "I can find my way." Zaya seemed to be studying her a lot more closely than she liked, and might become suspicious of her disguise if she stayed longer.

She turned and rushed out, eager to get away. As much as she appreciated the skill and effort that the courtesans placed into their trade, she would much rather spend her time with her tools and books instead—where it was both safer and more comfortable.

Ying hurried down the corridor toward the stairs, head bowed so that she wouldn't have to witness what was going on around her. Before she managed to get there, she spotted something—someone—that made her pause in her step. If only the corridors of the Red Tower weren't so dimly lit, tinted red by the lanterns hanging from the ceilings. She squinted her eyes to confirm whether her first instincts had been right.

It was Ye-yang.

He stepped out from one of the rooms farther down, deep in conversation with another man. They had their backs to her. Ying was almost surprised that she had recognized him anyway. When had his silhouette become so deeply ingrained in her mind that it only took one glance for her to spot him in the shadows?

And what was he doing here?

Two girls clad in sheer silks pushed past her, their seductive perfumes reminding her where she was. Indignation bubbled up inside her. She was too naive. What else would a man be doing at a place like this?

Ye-yang ended his conversation and the other man bowed respectfully before moving toward the stairs. The man turned his head for a brief sideways glance. In that instant, Ying glimpsed a familiar scar running across his eye.

The blood in her veins ran cold.

"Min?" Ye-yang called out, sounding surprised. He was careful as always, making sure he used her assumed name. He walked over. "What are you doing here?"

Ye-yang's tall frame blocked her view of the man momentarily, and when she stood on tiptoes to peer over his shoulder, the man was already gone. A phantom ache gripped her where those poisoned needles had pierced through her skin, where that nine-tailed chimera's claws had clamped upon her shoulders, reminding her of how the assassin had come so close to claiming her life the way he had her father's. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

"What's the matter?" the beile asked, frowning when he saw her anxious expression.

Ying ignored him and ran over to the stairs. She leaned over the balustrade, peering downward. All she managed to catch was a dark corner of the man's robe before he disappeared once more. She swiveled around to face Ye-yang,

"Who was that? The man that you were speaking with," she asked, doubt swirling inside her.

The furrows on Ye-yang's forehead deepened. "One of my guards," he answered. "Why do you ask?"

"I know that man—with the scar across his eye. I've seen him before."

And he's a murderer.

But if this murderer was indeed one of Ye-yang's guards, then what did that make Ye-yang? This was the second time that Ye-yang had been around when the scar-faced man had shown up. First on Muci, then now.

She shook the thought out of her head. It wasn't possible. Ye-yang could never have been involved in her father's murder.

Still, she could feel her own emotions—fear, anger, confusion—beginning to spiral out of control, fueled by the suspicion that was permeating through the crevices in her mind.

"That's not possible," Ye-yang replied after a brief pause. "He doesn't have such a scar." He was watching her with concern in his eyes, and his tone remained calm and collected. It didn't sound like he was lying.

"The lighting in this place must have played tricks on your eyes," he continued. "If you don't believe me, come downstairs. He'll be waiting at the docks with Nergui."

Ying was of two minds. A voice in her head was telling her that she was overthinking matters, that she should trust what Ye-yang was telling her, yet another voice was screaming for her to run away because she could be walking straight into danger.

When she didn't move, Ye-yang gently placed an arm around her shoulders, making the decision for her and guiding her down the stairs.

He led her out of the pagoda toward a boat that was parked at the brothel's docks. The boat was an elegant private craft that had a small, pavilion-like shelter built on its deck with soft gauze curtains protecting the privacy of its occupants. Nergui was waiting by the boat, like Ye-yang said he would be. Beside him stood a man decked in black, the familiar coal-black hilt of the Cobra's Order hanging at his waist. The man had his back toward them, revealing only a pair of hefty shoulders and a single plait running from the back of his head.

"Nergui, Fan-shun," Ye-yang called out, walking ahead.

Fan-shun.

Ying held her breath, trying to calm her fraying nerves.

She stopped.

Suddenly she didn't want to know the answer. What would she do if he did turn out to be the assassin? She wanted to go after him and put a blade through his heart, but she knew she couldn't. She didn't have the capability to—yet.

But it was too late for her to escape, because in the next moment the man turned around, forcing her to see his face under the illumination of the paper lanterns lining the docks.

There was no scar.

No scar.

There was a steely, aggressive aura to the man, but he was nowhere near as menacing as her father's killer.

"See?" Ye-yang turned and said. "I told you he doesn't have a scar. Do you believe me now?"

Ying exhaled. All the tension that had been slowly building up through her body was abruptly released. She turned to look at Ye-yang, her gaze falling directly into a pair of placid gray pools, tinted an alluring silver under the moonlight.

He wasn't lying.

Her relief at this conclusion surprised her. She hadn't realized how fearful she had been of the possibility that Ye-yang could have been associated with the assassin, that he could have played a part in her father's death. Thankfully, it wasn't true.

"Come," Ye-yang said, gesturing toward the waiting vessel. "The Red Tower is no place for someone like you."

"And it is for you?"

The beile arched an eyebrow, a mischievous twinkle appearing in his eyes. "It was once, but maybe not anymore," he said.