The Art of Prophecy, page 20
“Damn that stupid boy,” she muttered. The softness inside her was spreading. Taishi pointed at the girl. “What’s going on? How did you find me? Speak.”
“Brother Foo’s been stealing food up the mountain for weeks,” the girl managed to say between long, labored sniffs.
“You said you bought the food,” Taishi spat at Foo.
He looked embarrassed. “Sometimes I, maybe, borrowed from our temple stores. No one noticed.”
“Oh, everyone noticed,” the girl continued. “I followed him up here one day and realized it was the evil master Ling Taishi’s family crypt. That’s when we realized Foo might be hiding the Prophesied Hero of the Tiandi and came to see for ourselves. We didn’t mean any harm.”
Taishi gritted her teeth. “Watch who you’re calling evil.” She pointed at the clubs. “So you all thought you would come up here and capture the hero then? Maybe hand him to the dukes for a fat reward, right?”
“He’s an escaped criminal. We’re just doing our duty to the Enlightened States.” The girl hesitated, looking abashed. “The bounties for the Prophesied Hero just increased.”
Taishi swept her finger across the group. “You sad bunch of eggs are too pathetic to be bounty hunters. Stick to tending to the dead.” She furrowed her brow. “Just how large is the hero’s bounty now?”
“Ten strings of gold liang.”
Taishi couldn’t help but gape. No wonder these children wanted to jump in the game. “And how much did they increase mine to?”
The girl looked confused. “It stayed the same.”
Taishi’s face darkened. Those cheapskate dukes had put Jian’s bounty at over five times hers. Ridiculous! She was one of the grandmasters of the war arts, a heroine of the Zhuun. Practically a national treasure. He was just a spoiled boy accidentally thrown into a mistaken and now-broken prophecy. What an outrage!
An irritated growl climbed up her throat. This was what it all came down to. How had the prophecy gotten things so wrong? The birth of the prophecy had been a seminal moment to the Zhuun. The people had been weary from centuries of war. They had rallied around the Prophecy of the Tiandi. It had given them hope, stiffened their spines in the face of utter collapse. It had given them purpose, a signal that the terrible times would pass. That was the difference between a tunnel and the abyss. That lone glimmer of light on the other end. Now, after centuries of faith, the prophecy was revealed to be nothing more than a hoax.
No matter how many times she tried, Taishi couldn’t let it go. The journey to this moment was just as important as the unexpected outcome. Even though events had resolved favorably for the Zhuun, it left a taste of ash in her mouth. Generations had placed their faith in the prophecy. They had fought and struggled and sacrificed their lives and dreams to see it fulfilled. An entire religion had been born. It couldn’t just end like this, could it? Taishi had to find out. The people needed—she needed—closure. At the very least they had to confirm that the Eternal Khan was truly dead and that Jian was free from his destiny.
Her gaze drifted to Sanso’s tomb at the far end of the crypt, her face softening. It wasn’t time, not yet. Taking a deep breath, she rounded on the pretend bounty hunters. “Do you know who I am?” It was more a statement—or a threat—than a question.
The tall one, now shining a large bump on his forehead, exchanged looks with the girl. He volunteered, “You’re the evil, I mean, the great war arts master, Ling—”
The girl cut him off, shaking her head vigorously. “There’s no one here. We followed our brother Foo to see if he needed help cleaning this esteemed family’s crypt.”
“Smart girl,” muttered Taishi. “Now, I suggest the rest of you be as smart as your friend. You don’t ever want to see me again.” She turned to Foo. “Our arrangement is finished. I won’t need your services anymore. Clean up the crypt so it looks as if I were never here.”
“Where are you going—” Her glare cut him off. The stupid, slow learners finally caught on and bowed. “Yes, Master Ling.”
“And scrub the damn ceiling this time,” Taishi snapped as she turned her back to them to pack.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE TASTE OF FREEDOM
Jian woke to his new neighbors quarreling at an obscene hour of the morning. The scattered rays of the King had not yet pierced the veil of night, the city outside still slept like a drunk in an alley, and it was so cold Jian’s breath steamed in the air. The young couple, a pair of bush warblers, had moved in a few months ago and had built a nest on the corner rafter. He hadn’t minded at first, appreciating the company, until one morning when their occasional warbling was joined by the frantic and insistent squeaks of four hatchlings. The young family’s chatter filled his room every morning, but Jian didn’t have the heart to evict them. At least now he was never late for morning chores.
He yawned and uncurled his body, his arms and legs escaping the warmth of his jute blanket, his toes extending past the foot of the bed. That wouldn’t have happened a few months ago. His voice was changing as well. The frigid morning air bit at his exposed feet, causing him to pull back under the covers like a turtle into its shell.
Jian considered staying in his warm cocoon, but then he remembered that a heavy storm had swept through the city overnight. With a resigned groan, he swung his legs over the side and winced when his feet touched the cold, damp floor. He minced his way to the washbowl and splashed his face with icy water. He ran his hand through his now-short-cropped hair, tied his faded white robes tightly around his waist, and slipped on his fighting slippers.
A thick layer of morning dew hung low on the grass as Jian trudged out of his ramshackle hut and walked the length of the grounds of the Longxian Northern Fist School of War. The clouds above were still puffy and laden with rain, but were hastily moving westward. With a little luck, the next deluge would miss the school. He proceeded to the inner courtyard and hurdled the back of a stone chair set at the head of the training grounds. He landed softly between the armrests with his legs dangling off the side and surveyed the wreckage.
It was as expected for the morning after a storm early in the third cycle. Fallen branches, soggy leaves, and random debris littered just about every inch of the waterlogged courtyard. The weapons rack standing against the near wall had tipped over, spilling training spears, staves, and axes across the floor. Puddles filled the indentations formed from years of feet stomping on the stone tiles.
“You’re up late,” said a hard voice.
“I’m up early, Auntie Li.”
“Not with this mess you aren’t. You best get cleaning before first class.” A short, plump woman with her sleeves rolled up and wearing a stained white apron appeared next to him, frowning disapprovingly. She wore a wrap over her hair like an imperial headdress and wielded a pair of long cooking chopsticks as if they were daggers. She shook them at Jian with each emphasized word. “How many times do I have to tell you not to sit on the master’s chair?”
“As many as it takes before you realize I won’t listen.”
She tapped him lightly on the head with the chopsticks. “Ungrateful egg. Get to work before he wakes. You know how he feels about a clean training ground. You put him in a sour mood early, everyone will have a bad day.”
That much was true. Every problem Guanshi noticed was always the biggest problem in the world. Jian rolled off the chair and accepted a straw broom from Auntie Li. Until dawn, he cleaned the courtyard, sweeping off the water and leaves and clutter, putting the weapons back on the racks, filtering the debris floating in the large drinking vases and refilling them.
Each of the vases was neck-high and four times his girth, and their smooth surfaces made them difficult to grip and carry. He had to squat down to lift them, then half carry, half roll them along the bottom rim to one side of the school to water the gardens. Then he would carry the empty vases to the back to fill them at the well, then return them to their places. Guanshi, the sadist, had forbade him from using a cart to transport the six vases dispersed across the training grounds. It used to take Jian the entire morning to navigate this chore when he had first arrived. Now it was almost a game to see how quickly it could be done.
Jian next went about scrubbing each stone tile in the training area. There were exactly 714 tiles; counting helped passed the time and kept him focused. Guanshi expected each to be cleaned, dried, and polished before the first students arrived, and the master was quick with the balance-a-pot-on-your-head-while-you-stand-on-one-foot punishment if any blemishes were found on his precious floor.
It was tedious work, but there was a reason this school was one of the most successful in Jiayi. While the family style had a respectable track record in tournaments and battles, the real secret to the school’s success and popularity among Caobiu nobility was the master’s excessive fussiness about immaculate cleanliness. War arts schools were notoriously rough and often dirty. Guanshi had discovered early in his career that there were few faster ways to earn the approval and business of a noblewoman about to send her child to a war arts school than to show her that her child would not live like a commoner.
Auntie Li reappeared from the kitchen as he was on his hands and knees scraping the grooves between the tiles with a sharp stick. “I’m off to the market. Clear out the sewer line in the back, then wash up. Wash up twice and change your clothes. I’ll need help in the kitchen afterward. If any of the morning students are hungry, I’ve set aside a basket of fried dough and warm soy milk. One piece per student!”
He slumped his shoulders sullenly. “Yes, Auntie.”
“No such thing as a free bowl of rice, Hiro.” She waved as if to smack him again, and then broke into a sympathetic smile. “I’ll look away when you pilfer a couple of bao later on.”
“Thank you, Auntie Li.” Jian watched as she left through the front gates. Auntie Li may only have been the school’s cook, but she ruled everything inside the four walls as if she were the dowager, which was the nickname whispered behind her back. He appreciated that she looked out for Hiro, the pitiful orphan. She did smack him a lot, but he didn’t mind. Auntie Li smacked everyone—including Guanshi—but it was rarely out of spite. Unless the offense was severe enough to require the long cooking chopsticks; then everyone—Guanshi included—became as still and quiet as the statues in the vegetable garden.
After he had finished with the courtyard, Jian went to work scraping the drainage lines that were routed from every part of the school into the sewer alley in the back. The storm had clogged several of the smaller channels with leaves and clumps of mud. That took up the rest of his morning. He was still trying to finish his chores when students began arriving for the first class.
The front and back courtyards soon became crowded. Many came early to stretch or practice, or just horse around. Jian avoided making eye contact as he hurried to finish up, feeling every smirk, snicker, and look. The humiliation didn’t stop when Guanshi emerged from his residence in the east building. The master of the school passed Jian with a dismissive glance before taking his seat in the stone chair.
The senior of the class this morning, a girl named Gwaiya, clapped her hands as the students scrambled to their lines. She barked a command, and they bowed in unison to Guanshi; then she led the class through stretches and warm-ups. Morning classes were for novices, academic students and moonlighters, hobbyists exploring the arts for recreation. The majority here wouldn’t make it to intermediate, but would walk away having learned just enough not to embarrass themselves in a scuffle or lop off a finger with a sword.
Auntie Li returned from the market a little later. Several of the students broke off from their exercises to help the Dowager carry groceries. She shooed Jian away when he offered to help, directing him to the nearest washbasin. After he dutifully complied, she carefully looked him over, checking under his nails and sniffing his robe before allowing him into her kitchen. The rest of his morning was spent working the stone oven and boiling water for the steamer.
Every once in a while, he would peek out the window to the training yard. The late-morning classes were for intermediate and advanced students. These were dedicated war artists—careerists and serious practitioners. Many of them had spent years studying at Longxian. Most, after obtaining a certain level, would enlist as officers in the state armies. Some would seek employment as magistrates, palace guards, or bodyguards. Others would specialize as duelists, bounty hunters, or assassins, or join mercenary companies.
There was a group of students who lived on the school grounds. Most did so because they had traveled to Jiayi from afar, but a few were truly dedicated to Longxian. These were the ones who were added to the school lineage and might eventually open their own schools. All of the students who could afford housing on-site certainly were well off enough not to have to work for room, board, and tuition. Except for Jian.
He was carrying a stack of baskets of small dragon bao over to the dining hall when Xinde, who was teaching a class, waved in passing. The school senior was running his students through a series of basic open-fist three-, four-, and five-stance forms that were shared among many war arts styles.
Jian had been drilling many of these same exercises since he had learned to walk and could easily outclass this pathetic bunch. As much as he wanted to show off, however, his life depended on keeping his identity a secret. Wen Jian may have been the Prophesied Hero of the Tiandi, the Champion of the Five Under Heaven, but Lu Hiro was still a novice, an orphan boy whom Guanshi had taken in out of charity.
“Paying forward my good fortune,” the master told others when they inquired.
At least that was the story Taishi and Guanshi had concocted. Jian gnashed his teeth and slammed the basket of bao on the counter at the thought. Ling Taishi was a liar. She had promised to watch over him while he was here, but Jian had not seen her since she left him, barely risen from what could have been his deathbed. She had just dumped him here and gone on with her life. One would have thought he would have wised up and gotten used to disappointment by now, but the thought of abandonment still devastated him.
The last class before noon wrapped up, and the students broke for lunch, congregating at the dining hall. Lunch and dinner were easily the worst parts of Jian’s day. One of his regular duties as an indentured servant was to work the dining hall during meals. This was one of the few times he had to interact with every student—his supposed peers—in order to serve and clean up after them. The daily humiliation never got old.
Jian spent lunch bringing out baskets of teriyaki buns, refilling cups of water, and busing dishes. When he wasn’t running back and forth to the kitchen or wiping the tables, he tried to blend in with the wall, standing perfectly still while staring at his feet.
The chatter in the hall was always lively. The usually strict Guanshi relaxed discipline during meals, often saying that when bodies were nourished bonds between brothers and sisters were strengthened. The students took advantage. The little ones, some as young as six, sat at the near end, chattering animatedly and climbing over one another like a litter of puppies. Many of these children would train together for the next ten years until they graduated. Jian spent half of his time here cleaning up after them.
The older students sitting at the far end were louder and rowdier, with food and insults often being flung across tables. Bravado and gossip powered much of their conversations, inevitably leading to jokes, pranks, and the occasional food fight. This was all initially a shock to Jian, whose sheltered upbringing left him ill-equipped to deal with such social chaos. He considered this behavior childish and dull, but also couldn’t help but feel as if everyone but him was clued in on some secret.
A girl sitting at the end of a table beckoned him over. “Hey, handsome boy.” She wasn’t flirting with him, and that wasn’t a compliment. As he approached, she held up her plate. He opened the basket and placed a steaming bao onto it.
“I want one too,” whined a boy next to her. He reached his hand into the basket.
Jian slapped it away. “You already had your second.” There was a strict two-bao limit.
“Over here too, handsome boy.” One particularly large youth raised his arm and shook his cup.
Jian pretended not to hear for a few seconds before meandering his way over with the glass pitcher of water. Cyyk was one of the louder and more confident students at Longxian. He had the haughty and confident air of a nobleman’s son, and the perfectly manicured face and hair to match. To leave out any doubt, Cyyk’s fine wardrobe reminded everyone that he was different. His higher-class upbringing and assertiveness made him popular. He was quick to tease and often the catalyst for taunts and bullying.
Jian kept his interaction with him as minimal as possible, quickly refilling the cup. As he turned to leave, Cyyk held up his plate expectantly. “Since you’re going back to the kitchen, take this back with you.”
Jian bit down on his lip, and his cheeks burned. He made as if to take the plate and then dropped his hand as soon as Cyyk let go. It clattered to the ground, scattering broken clay and rice all over the floor.
“I’m not your servant. Put away your own dishes,” Jian growled, walking away. He didn’t make it three steps before he was shoved in the back, sending him to his hands and knees, the pitcher breaking and spilling its contents.
Cyyk towered over him. “If you’re not my servant, why are you serving me, handsome boy?”
“It’s because he doesn’t have parents,” someone sitting nearby piped in.
“I hear it’s because they don’t want him,” added another. Mocking laughter followed.
