One of the men studies us with quick eyes. He’s wearing a silk lounging jacket, embroidered with scarlet thread, a dragon snaking up and down his sleeve. A puckered purple scar runs down his jaw. There’s a slight bulge of his belly — soft from years of ordering others around.
This is Longwai: leader of the Brotherhood, god of knives and needles, king of this little hell.
“This is the boy you brought to do the job?” The drug lord’s voice is like a junkyard dog’s. Throaty. Growling. “Doesn’t look like much.”
I throw another glance at the kid. He’s all eyes, shoulders hunched and arms still crossed as he takes in the opium smokers. The crimson light of the brothel’s lanterns hollows out Jin’s face. Shows just how many meals he’s missed. One gust of wind could probably knock him flat.
There’s a cramp in my stomach, but I push it down, ignore it. I don’t have the luxury of doubt and second guesses. It’s this or the chopping block.
“He’s the best,” I tell the drug lord. “I give you my word.”
“No need.” Longwai’s grin couldn’t be more like a dragon’s: predatory and sharp. Capped off with false golden teeth. “I’ll take your life instead.”
The burn in my gut turns into a broil. But then I think of the boots that sit just down the hall. I look back at the dead-coal fierceness of the kid’s eyes.
I should be okay.
Longwai nods over to the far corner. A man dressed in a nice black suit appears at Longwai’s shoulder. He holds a bag of white powder wrapped in the shape of a brick.
Longwai takes the package and weighs it in his hands. “Do you know where the night market is, boy?”
“In City Beyond?” Jin manages to hide most of the shake in his voice, but it’s still in his shoulders.
“Yes. Seng Ngoi.” He scowls at the kid’s slang. “Take the package to the last stall on the west corner. There’s an old man there selling jade carvings. Deliver this to him, take what he gives you, and return here. My man will be watching to make sure that the exchange occurs as planned. Your partner will stay here until your return. And if you don’t, then he’ll have a nice, long appointment with my knife.”
The kid’s face goes a shade paler. My fingers start twitching again. They’re tapping a frenzied, double-time staccato while I watch Jin tuck the package into his tunic and sprint for the door.
“Have a seat.” Longwai’s gold teeth flash again as he gestures to an empty couch.
I suck in a deep breath and flop down on the sagging cushion.
Time to get to work.
JIN LING
Runs into City Beyond are dangerous. The police don’t come into the Walled City. But they’re always outside. Waiting. More than a few vagrants have ended up in jail for doing outside runs.
There are no police now as I jog through the wide, clean streets. Just flaring neon signs, the slick shine of cars, and an open sky, dark and pouring rain. All of me is soaked when I reach the night market — my clothes, my hair. The only thing that isn’t wet is the package. It lies snug between the bindings on my chest and my shirt.
The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get back to the brothel. Keep searching all those painted faces for the only one that matters.
The man with the jade carvings makes a point not to stare when I scuttle toward his stall. He busies himself polishing a long line of tiny animal figurines.
“Put it there,” the stall-keeper whispers, and nudges the basket by his feet. It lies under his table of merchandise, easily ignored.
I look around. There aren’t many shoppers here in the far corner of the market. A young couple stands by the stall next to us, looking at jewelry while the vendor punches numbers into his calculator. The boy has his arm around the girl’s shoulder. They’re laughing. Together. It’s a strange, happy sound. Reminding me of how much I don’t have.
My hand slips into my tunic and leaves the brick at the bottom of a shabby, splintering basket. I stay close to the table, close enough to grab the bundle back if I need to.
“Where’s my package?” I ask.
For the first time, the jade dealer actually glances at me. I realize how ratty I must look — thin like bamboo, dripping and streaked with mud. I don’t belong here. With these happy, laughing people — these crummy, overpriced statues and scarves.
“Tell your… friend… that there’s been a slight delay. I’ll make up the payment in a few days. Tell him I’ll send a boy of my own.”
I don’t move. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. I’m supposed to get the package… the money… to bring back. If I don’t do that, I don’t complete my mission. I fail and Dai dies.
This last thought catches me. Sharper than a fisherman’s hook. Why am I worried about Dai? He’s not the reason I’m running and fighting. If he gets knifed, it’s his own fault. He knew exactly what he was getting into when he crossed the threshold of Longwai’s brothel.
I tell myself this, but I can’t shake this feeling. The crush of this older boy’s life on my chest.
“You look like a smart boy.” The stall-keeper smiles, flashing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “Your friend will understand, I’m sure. We go a long way back, him and me. My word’s good with him.”
He’s right. I am smart. Smart enough to have rules. Smart enough to survive.
Trust no one. The second rule flashes through my head, wailing and police-siren bright. Maybe this man is telling the truth, but there’s no way I’m going back to Longwai’s brothel empty-handed.
“My friend will understand?” I ask. It’s a trick I learned early on in the streets — if you act stupid, people don’t pay attention. They don’t expect anything.
“Oh, yes.” The man’s grin splits wider. “He knows where to find me. No?”
“I guess so…”
When the moment is right, I lunge. Throw my body under the table with blind effort. The basket falls over in my rush; the brick spills out. I reach for it, only to have my hand caught by the stall-keeper’s fingers. He swears at me, trying to pull me out from under the table. The man’s grip is strong. His fingers dig into my wrist so hard that tears blur my eyes.
My knife is under my tunic, easy to reach. I grab it and aim the blade straight into my captor’s arm.
His scream is awful. He jerks back. Blood, red and thick, pours everywhere. I grab the brick and do what I do best. Run.
DAI
Longwai hasn’t paid much attention to me since the kid left. He’s slouched in his chair, taking long draws from his pipe. Opium smoke spills into the air like ink, making a ghost ring around his head. I watch it, trying to look listless while my mind is racing. From the corner of my eye, I see the guards, black-clad and hulking by the hall.
What I need isn’t here in the lounge. Not like I actually expected it to be. Most men don’t keep their prized possession lying in the middle of an opium den.
There are four entrances to the lounge. All of them are wide and arched, stretching into dark halls. Four possibilities. My eyes dart among them, trying to get glimpses into the shadows for any hints.
But hints won’t help. Not if I can’t find a way off this couch.
I look at Longwai. His eyes are closed, face slack like a cat in a patch of warm sun.