to travel, so that made the farmers far more wealthy.
Still, this was his moment of glorious return. He would live it to its fullest no matter the reality of the situation. So he dropped down on the chair, sitting with his legs braced wide apart like a warrior. His infamous deer-horn knives were clipped to his waist, reinforcing his image as Enforcer. Jing-Li also carried a weapon—his father's sword—which banged against the wall when he slipped into position behind Zhi-Gang. The two servants he'd brought through the mud with him took places nearby, as if they were real bodyguards rather than thick-armed boat people. And then Zhi-Gang waited and wondered where all the peasants could possibly be. He had seen almost no one on the tedious trek here.
A form bustled upstairs. Zhi-Gang waited until the fuzzy image resolved itself into a large-busted woman with missing teeth. She had made an attempt to scrub her face and smooth her hair, but had done too hurried a job. A long streak of mud smeared her left cheek, and a thin glob of pork fat glistened in her hair where she had not combed it away.
"Great sir, great sir! What an honor to have you here!" she wheezed.
Jing-Li nodded in response, then turned to whisper into his supposed master's ear. "I thought you said all the women were beautiful here."
Zhi-Gang shrugged. "To an eight-year-old boy, all breasts are beautiful."
Jing-Li shuddered in horror. "Not true. Not true at all." But then he turned to address the woman. "Tea for the mandarin!"
"Tea for the mandarin!" she echoed in a loud, shrill voice.
"Tea for the mandarin!" someone repeated below, and then kept doing so. "Tea for the mandarin! Tea for..."
"And dumplings? Excellent dumplings, your honor, better than in the Forbidden City."
Zhi-Gang doubted that. And truthfully, his mouth was watering for something else—something plainer and remembered from his impoverished youth. He glanced at Jing-Li and murmured his request. His friend's eyes widened in horror, but he knew better than to object. Jing-Li put on an air of much suffering and turned to the woman.
"The mandarin requests congee ..." He had to take a breath before finally voicing it. "Fermented bean curd in..." He sighed. "Watered rice."
The woman gasped in horror. "No! No! Such a thing is not fit for your honor! We have good dumplings! Steamed if you prefer—"
Zhi-Gang smiled, knowing it was time to reveal himself. "But Madame Sui, I remember your porridge. I have told Jing-Li of your excellent cooking. He is most anxious to taste it." Then he paused. "Do you not remember little Tau Zhi-Gang who used to steal your dumplings?"
Madame Sui frowned, her ample face scrunching tight as she stared at him. She even dared a step closer as she inspected him. Zhi-Gang waited, his breath held, as an oft-dreamed-of moment hovered tantalizingly close: his glorious return.
She frowned and laughed at the same time, the sound completely uncertain. "Of course, of course," she murmured in confusion. "Little Zhou."
"Zhi-Gang. I had two brothers and... a sister. We lived just north of here."
"There is nothing north of here but ruins and—"
"Yes, yes. Ruins. My home. We sold it when I was ten."
"A storm destroyed it. It is all ruins now." She abruptly grinned, clapping her hands. "But I will bring you dumplings fit for the Son of Heaven himself! Steamed dumplings for the mandarin!" she cried as she hustled away.
"Steamed dumplings for the mandarin!" the voice downstairs echoed.
Zhi-Gang glared at her retreating back, his stomach souring in fury while Jing-Li's laughter grated in his ears.
"She doesn't even remember you!" he chortled. "How long have you dreamed of this? How long have you talked of returning home to your little village and being—"
"Silence!" Zhi-Gang bellowed. And when his friend did not react except to arch a disdainful eyebrow, he grabbed the man by his collar and shook him. "Find the slaver," he hissed. "And speak no more of
Still, this was his moment of glorious return. He would live it to its fullest no matter the reality of the situation. So he dropped down on the chair, sitting with his legs braced wide apart like a warrior. His infamous deer-horn knives were clipped to his waist, reinforcing his image as Enforcer. Jing-Li also carried a weapon—his father's sword—which banged against the wall when he slipped into position behind Zhi-Gang. The two servants he'd brought through the mud with him took places nearby, as if they were real bodyguards rather than thick-armed boat people. And then Zhi-Gang waited and wondered where all the peasants could possibly be. He had seen almost no one on the tedious trek here.
A form bustled upstairs. Zhi-Gang waited until the fuzzy image resolved itself into a large-busted woman with missing teeth. She had made an attempt to scrub her face and smooth her hair, but had done too hurried a job. A long streak of mud smeared her left cheek, and a thin glob of pork fat glistened in her hair where she had not combed it away.
"Great sir, great sir! What an honor to have you here!" she wheezed.
Jing-Li nodded in response, then turned to whisper into his supposed master's ear. "I thought you said all the women were beautiful here."
Zhi-Gang shrugged. "To an eight-year-old boy, all breasts are beautiful."
Jing-Li shuddered in horror. "Not true. Not true at all." But then he turned to address the woman. "Tea for the mandarin!"
"Tea for the mandarin!" she echoed in a loud, shrill voice.
"Tea for the mandarin!" someone repeated below, and then kept doing so. "Tea for the mandarin! Tea for..."
"And dumplings? Excellent dumplings, your honor, better than in the Forbidden City."
Zhi-Gang doubted that. And truthfully, his mouth was watering for something else—something plainer and remembered from his impoverished youth. He glanced at Jing-Li and murmured his request. His friend's eyes widened in horror, but he knew better than to object. Jing-Li put on an air of much suffering and turned to the woman.
"The mandarin requests congee ..." He had to take a breath before finally voicing it. "Fermented bean curd in..." He sighed. "Watered rice."
The woman gasped in horror. "No! No! Such a thing is not fit for your honor! We have good dumplings! Steamed if you prefer—"
Zhi-Gang smiled, knowing it was time to reveal himself. "But Madame Sui, I remember your porridge. I have told Jing-Li of your excellent cooking. He is most anxious to taste it." Then he paused. "Do you not remember little Tau Zhi-Gang who used to steal your dumplings?"
Madame Sui frowned, her ample face scrunching tight as she stared at him. She even dared a step closer as she inspected him. Zhi-Gang waited, his breath held, as an oft-dreamed-of moment hovered tantalizingly close: his glorious return.
She frowned and laughed at the same time, the sound completely uncertain. "Of course, of course," she murmured in confusion. "Little Zhou."
"Zhi-Gang. I had two brothers and... a sister. We lived just north of here."
"There is nothing north of here but ruins and—"
"Yes, yes. Ruins. My home. We sold it when I was ten."
"A storm destroyed it. It is all ruins now." She abruptly grinned, clapping her hands. "But I will bring you dumplings fit for the Son of Heaven himself! Steamed dumplings for the mandarin!" she cried as she hustled away.
"Steamed dumplings for the mandarin!" the voice downstairs echoed.
Zhi-Gang glared at her retreating back, his stomach souring in fury while Jing-Li's laughter grated in his ears.
"She doesn't even remember you!" he chortled. "How long have you dreamed of this? How long have you talked of returning home to your little village and being—"
"Silence!" Zhi-Gang bellowed. And when his friend did not react except to arch a disdainful eyebrow, he grabbed the man by his collar and shook him. "Find the slaver," he hissed. "And speak no more of
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