The Fire King by Marjorie M. Liu Page A

international call, but her passport would be required, along with other travel documents. She had most of that in her vest, along with cash, but given the circumstances, a paper trail seemed like a rather poor idea, right along with using a credit card, or writing her name across the sky with big giant arrows pointed down at her ass. No newspaper stands were around, either, which usually sold phone cards for cash. Local pay phones would be useless.
    Limited options, and no time. Soria went looking for a whorehouse.
    Finding one was easy. Along with dinosaurs and trains, Erenhot was also known for its sex trade. Women from Inner Mongolia and Russia were often brought through the city by organizations engaged in human trafficking. It was an easy scam, preying on girls desperate for work and who were willing to believe nicely dressed older women who promised respectable jobs in hair salons or restaurants. Until they arrived in cities far from home, and those sly older ladies sold their girls to men for the same amount of money that Soria had used to spend on a nice dress.
    Brothels were an easy place to get lost, too: no one ever remembered anything.
    Following the Russians led her to the right neighborhood. Large windows lined the buildings along the street, lit red from within. Girls stared out, some of them dancing, while others just looked small, shoulders slumped. Prostitution was illegal in Mongolia and China, but Soria would never have guessed.
    Only one of the buildings seemed to be doubling as a nightclub. Music pounded, neon lights throbbing over the doorway. It looked like it was doing well, with foreigners and Chinese in nice suits going in and out. Money demanded some civility in places like that, even for one-armed women in bloodstained clothes. She was certain they would have a phone capable of making an international call. In a place like that, there would have to be.
    She felt incredibly uncomfortable approaching the club. A very large Mongolian man stood beside the front door, watching her. His hair was slicked back, and he wore a white T-shirt and black slacks. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He held out his hand when Soria drew near, his gaze flickering down to her empty sleeve and then over the rest of her.
    Yes,
she told him silently.
I look like shit. Get over it.
    “Not for you,” he said in badly accented English. “This naughty place.”
    Soria raised her brow, not amused. Words and nuance floated from his mind into hers, faster now than this morning when she had encountered the village children for the first time. Her mind had already been broken in. In perfect Khalkha she replied, “I need to make an international call.”
    The man blinked, startled. “You speak very well.”
    She shoved a small wad of cash into his hand. “A phone, please.”
    He tilted his head. “You a journalist?”
    “I am a girl having a bad night,” Soria replied firmly. “I am not here to cause you trouble.”
    A cold smile touched his mouth. “And all you want is a phone? Nothing else?”
    Soria gave him her best
do-not-fuck-with-me
stare. “One call. Right now. I will pay the charges, and I want a private room.”
    The man shrugged and tossed his cigarette to the ground. The cash disappeared into his pocket. He held open the door for Soria and ushered her inside.
    The lobby was small but well lit, the walls and floors tiled in glossy black marble. Gilt-framed oil paintings of naked Mongolian horsewomen hung on the walls, and below, like the waiting room of a dentist’s office, deep leather chairs were lined in a row. A man was seated in each, a mix of white and Asian; most looked like business types, texting messages on their smartphones while girls in miniskirts served them bottles of beer. They were waiting in line, killing time before sex.
    The men stared at Soria when she walked in, one after the other, glancing up and then doing a double take. Some of them smiled—smarmy, slick, but a smile