Young Writers Society

[language notes:
- Shi Jiāng 逝江 - 'passing river', literally. i actually had to think over this name quite a bit, but i like it for the meaning it has and it /will/ integrate with one of the thematic elements in the novel at some point, so.
- Bàn Rén 半 人 - 'half person', literally. Rén isn't very fond of the name, which wasn't very creative but the townspeople never called him by his real name, Zhou Bansa (reflection of Zhou).
- Neem Garh نیم گڑھ - pit/place of neem/Indian lilacs
- Tiangyedan - mesh of two words from Chinese and Korean (in Chinese, the word for stairs is 楼梯 Lóutī), although i found the Korean 계단 actually sounds similar to the Japanese 'Jaidan'. 'Tian [天]' means sky/heaven.
- Mujang -- placeholder name, will probably change. translates to 'armed'.
- Maghfi is me playing with the word Makhfi, which means 'hidden' or 'secret' in Urdu. My grandfather was telling the story of a poetess during the Mughal period who called herself Makhfi ... so it came from there.]

Chosen name: Zhou Bansa -more on this-[1]

'That boy--he was born like that. Face cleaved in two like someone took a moon blade to it. No amount of kintsugi--or prayer--can fix it. Not even the Heavenly Folk can help abominations like that.'

Loyal to a fault, but also immensely distrustful of people. Is very goal-oriented and lives in the present, worries easily, likes to keep things organised, spends a lot of time in his head, works hard, secretly resents his being a half-dragon, tends to be rigid in his opinions and wishes people were nicer to him. Is very cautious, but has a tendency to lose himself in his head and make stupid mistakes.
Rén is a hardcore realist and finds stuff like religion superstitious and ridiculous, a 'constituent of the fairy tale philosophy that people invest so much belief in'. As such, he is always searching for logical explanations behind the oddest phenomenon, and is inclined to believe that he is also the result of some bizarre mutation. (At times, Rén also comes to seriously doubt his own existence, because although he denigrates the very idea of magic and myth, he can't really find a proper explanation for what he is. During these phases, he tends to get moody and closes himself off from other people, instead finding some hobby to obsess over and keep himself busy. He has made maps, taken apart objects, and made frequent visits to the Antiquarian Baza'ar. Has more books than he has the patience to read, so his knowledge of things tends to be patchy but diverse.] -more on who taught him how to read-[2]

Rén doesn't know who his parents are or how old he is, although he'd reckon he's around eighteen years old. He grew up in Neem Garh [Maghfi] and was sold to a travelling troupe of firemen when he was thirteen. Essentially treated as both the village's pet and prisoner; his existence was heavily monetised and exploited on by the villagefolk--people called him 'the Serpent of the South' and his name, Bàn Rén, means 'half man'. Nobody knows how Rén came into the world, but he has been told that he appeared from the swollen roots of an old willow tree by the Jiuqiu river. [The day after he was 'born', the river suddenly dried up, and the willow tree he had come from withered and died.] -more on the villagefolk, in particular Ayina Yume, Tech Trader, Warlock, and Accursed but Respected-[3]

-placeholder for more: [1] on Rén's chosen name
[2] on Water Quail, Yume's right hand man, war veteran, and the person who is closest to what Rén would call family [if not the most affectionate of ones, at least a source of stability and comfort]
[3] on the villagefolk + Ayina Yume, who is odd but powerful.
[4] Rén in Tiangyedan
[5] On appearances, which is my least favourite bit because I am probably the last person to be sure of what my characters look like

Huā is fifteen years old but looks even younger than she is, partly because her stature is so small, but also because she seems to possess an innocent, vacant gaze. Currently, one of her main goals is to get eye-inserts once she can afford them. Huā's eyes are photosensitive and her vision is limited, although not as much as it was after she came to the north (she has had several surgeries). Her mother was part of the Secretariat in Ga'aro, Maghfi, and her father owned a small teashop alongside his small, at-home business selling herbal medicine. Huā's mother was assassinated in a series of target-killings during the Maghfi Rebellion, and her father went missing during the plaza bombings (he was later proclaimed as dead, but his body was never found). Huā was six years old at the time.

She works at the laundry-shop/helps Yesim at the post office/has numerous side jobs, ranging from helping glaze pottery during festival season/sometimes dances as backup in the Jehya plays, but has also read extensively on terracycling and is excited when it comes to helping Rén choose a bike to get started. She can never stay in one place for long because she gets a lot of flack for being albino, and as accepting as people can be in Tiangyedan, they also treat her as 'exotic' and ask exasperating questions. She's seen her fair amount of bullies (and bullets).

Huā likes fixing things and is fascinated by how things work. Rén is interested in the taking apart of things; Huā likes putting fragments together in new, interesting ways.

She does not have ears (although she was given artificial implants when she arrived at Tiangyedan among the other child refugees], communicates mainly through sign language, has a limited vocabulary (she lost her ears during the Maghfi Rebellion, severe damage was caused to her retinas following a series of explosions in Ga’aro). As far as Huā' is concerned, words are a lot of effort to speak; she would rather write or draw them out, or find a different way to express herself. She comes off as placid and fragile, but is actually very tough and persistent.

Rén met her when he was thirteen years old. -more on this + their relationship at some point-[2]

placeholders: [1] names
[2] friends

-placeholder for update-

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As in legend, the creature appeared twice--first to tease, and second to stay.

Yesim was the first one to see him when he came. Wrapped in an alabaster cloak of significantly rancid odour, looking devoutly human as he--it--walked up the street, carrying with it a tangible smell-cloud of crushed pines and cow shit. It was still early in the morning. Yesim had come outside for a quiet smoke, the rest of the neighbourhood still sound asleep. It was as he was refilling his pipe with tobacco that he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a sudden flash of light.

And following the flash of light--a man.

Yesim started when he saw a moustache hopping directly in front of his line of vision. He blinked, and the man's stiff facial hair gave way to a pair of rather histrionic fangs. The creature moved closer; its heels melted into candle wax, black irises dilating over human eyes until they looked like rotund fish eggs. Yesim yelped and backtracked, colliding with the door behind him. The man grinned--and like in the stories Yesim used to hear from his grandfather, where the Fire Dogs hunted the sun, disappeared.

The encounter lasted barely a minute.

All that was left behind was a small yellow crystal where the creature had stood. Yesim was so shaken up that he failed to notice it, his back still firmly pressed against the posthouse's front door. Rubbing his forehead vigorously, he stuffed his pipe into its cloth bag. Pronouncing himself unwell, he shook Rén awake, then spent the rest of the day in his office, where he puffed steadily away on his pipe and pored over the cost analyses he had checked a million times already.

Later on, it was Rén who found the crystal, twinkling in the mid-morning sun, and that is where the trouble began.

'Do you need any help with that?' Rén asked as he thudded past Yesim's door. The entire post office was an odd hodge-podge of stairs and landings, with some doors opening onto the maze of stairs itself--apparently, the building was a two-hundred-year-old war relic. Some high-ranking officer had lived here, and had designed his home as a paranoid experiment in bewilderment.

Yesim looked up from his desk, still counting numbers under his breath. '51, 52 ... no, I'm writing this out'--he waved the sheaf of papers at Rén--'in Keiyanian, so you can't help with this. I'll call you if I need translation.' He resumed his steady mantra, scribbling sums on scrap paper as he did. 'Don't you have somewhere to be, kid?'

Rén scowled. The Symbolist Gathering. 'I was hoping you'd tell me I don't need to go.'

'You don't,' Yesim said. Rén was about to crack open a smile and a 'thank you', but Yesim continued: 'Not until after you finish cleaning--I gave the work staff a day off. And'--Rén thought he heard the slightest note of tension in Yesim's voice--'make sure you lock the doors behind you. Firmly. If you forget, I cut your pay. You know the rules.'

Rén muttered blackly under his breath. He turned to leave.

'And take the signature stamp with you or attendance won't count!' Yesim yelled after him.

A loud, defiant slam echoed through the posthouse when Rén shut the office door.


It was a Saturday.

Saturday was the busiest day for post, generally, but on this specific Saturday, there was very little to do. Most services were closed--the milkman, the print shop, the digi-carpenter. Even the professional beggar who sat in the small alcove between the post office and the vehicle repair shop had clocked out early, Rén noticed as he cleaned the windows. The pop-up stores from the week-long summer festival stood flat and listless in the heat, their striped awnings and click-counters folded up like card paper props in a shadow play.

And all this because of some ridiculous Symbolist gathering in the Old City. Rén frowned. The Symbolists were a new religion--a strange occult sort, Yesim had told him last week, when they had gotten yet another order for poster-printing and delivery for 'The Gathering' as they called it. Apparently, an entire group of the Symbolist orators had demanded audience with the Emperor. And the Emperor, being young and disposed to curiosity--as well as, in Ren's opinion, just plain stupid in this respect--had allowed the group to exhibit a public demonstration of their arcane rites. 'But what's in a preacher party, really?' Yesim had said in his usual dry monotone, although Rén had noticed that his words tended to be more bitter-laced of late, especially in relation to the Moon Emperor. He dismissed Yesim's sullenness as a side-effect of the heat wave.

And--currently, Rén supposed, the fact that all print and postal services had mandatory attendance to Imperial Events was not helping his mood. Yesim disliked the idea of sermonising almost as much as Rén himself, but him being the employer, had found it easy to push the task of attendance on the half-dragon instead.

As he slung his canvas delivery bag over his shoulder, Ren caught sight of a yellow stone on the ground. It looked like a precious gem, although it could very well be a marble, for all Rén knew. He slipped the stone into his pocket anyway, making a mental note to ask around if anyone had lost it. If not--he grinned--then maybe he could pawn it off for a decent price. Slightly placated by the idea of making more money, he continued down the empty streets, towards the Old City.

A shadow followed him from close behind, unnoticed, its gait loose and flickering in the bright sun.
-

The Old City was spilling over with people by the time Rén arrived at the Phlox Gates. He squinted upwards as the crowd lunged forward; the paifang's crest glinted rose-gold in the sun, splashes of ceremonial paint still fresh over its original black. Below the crest hung an ornate engraving. A Kingdom's Path is Circular, it read. Once Divided, Once Complete. Beyond those gates was the heart of the Old City--temples with their sacred pillars, half of which were rotting away steadily, especially after the rains from the year before, but went untouched by the Imperial State. In Shi Jiāng, the idea of a renovation was tantamount to sacrilege. And so it was considered normal for wildflowers and weeds to grow around the carefully-carved stone, the actual shape of the structures disappearing beneath a thicket of leaves and petals. Vendors were clustered in all available spaces along the pillars: some held colourful, cheap-looking trinkets, whiile others sold food, and still others displayed perfume and amulets.

People were so distracted that they barely noticed a half-dragon had mixed among their ranks.

Slowly, painfully, the crowd inched towards the Imperial Pavilion: mothers hissed at their children to stay close, people swore, and an odd smell--a mix of sweat stench and oud--rose from the tangle of bodies. Rén almost instinctively tucked his hands under his arms, trying to breathe easy. He hoped he would see Huā here, perhaps assisting one of the dancers she had told him she was working for the last time they had met. Or Abalone, or even Tsutomo, a part-time civil worker whose cocky attitude always grated severely on Rén's nerves. He pulled his bamboo hat lower over his face, eyes scanning the crowd for anyone familiar.

Someone elbowed him in the face. Rén yelped. A woman, half his size, who looked over her shoulder--perhaps to apologise--and recoiled visibly when her gaze settled on Rén's face. Ducking her head, she pushed her way through the crowd as fast as it would permit her. A snarl escaped Rén's throat, almost of its own accord. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Irritable, he shook them off. By now, he could see the curvature of the sweeping palace roof--the barest glimpse, visible only from atop the dividing wall that lay between the outer precincts and the Pavilion within.

The sun bore down on the coiling streets oppressively, like a lantern wrapped in a thick woollen blanket. It was suffocating, Rén thought. Religion was suffocating. The idea of people--all these people gathered together--everything--everything was suffocating.

What sort of 'religion' served trinket entertainment in efforts to gain followers? he thought, disgruntled. It was funny how Rén had supposed that a large '-opolis' like Tiangyedan would be free of the superstition and fantasy that religion was predisposed to in the rural south--funny, because he had seen that illusion shattered firsthand the moment he had stepped foot in the Northern Province. People tended to have very abrasive reactions to whatever they deemed even borderline 'unusual'.

And yet, Rén thought bitterly, the very arrival of an arcane Far West religion thrills their bones to the extent that it shuts half the city down. Even the airways weren't running. And now he would have to put up with it all day.

'You really need to be more attentive, Bàn Rén,' someone whispered in his ear. Rén jumped, his satchel flopping heavily against his stomach.

'Abalone,' Rén hissed, peering over his shoulder at the much-taller man. Abalone smiled at him. His greasy, slicked-back hair shone brightly in the sun, the roundness of his head reminding Rén of a doorknob. Today, the resident writer seemed to have abandoned his usual mishmash attire of unironed pants and tunic for something more formal.

Velvet.

Abalone fell into step beside him, and Rén pointed at his collar. 'That material--in summer?'

Abalone shrugged, wiping the sweat that beaded his forehead. 'I didn't think it through,' he admitted. 'What're you doing here alone? I don't suppose the Postmaster...?'

Rén shook his head.

'Ah. Then the primary difference between us'--Abalone tripped slightly--'is that I want to be here, while you do not. That should make for an interesting disparity between our perceptions of the same event.'

'I'm not letting you interview me,' Rén said shortly.

'I don't need to interview you--I'll just ask Yesim instead. Oh, hello--look over there.'

Rén followed Abalone's gaze, standing on his toes slightly so he could see over the crowd. They were very close to the Imperial Pavilion now. Through the gateway, Rén could see a huge marble-floored courtyard--and in the middle of it, a circular, slightly-raised platform. A crowd of dancers were moving slowly across it, their figures graceful and lithe against the backdrop of the Moon Palace. Rén saw Huā running around the stage, her arms full of what looked like peacock feathers; her distinctive pale hair rippled like a candleflame amongst all the other dark-haired girls in the crowd.

'Looks like this thing's going to be a big one,' Abalone said. 'Her highness is attending--there, the throne on the steps, look. My landlord was right, she does look sickly still.'

Rén snorted. 'And your theory is that the Moon Emperor is poisoning her?'

'No indeed. My theory'--Abalone raised a finger in dramatic persuasion--'is that she is slowly dying of heartbreak.'

Rén shook his head, amused. They passed through the gate into the Pavilion, where Imperial Guards ushered them into lines. One of them carried a notebook; a ream of red tassels dangled from his cap to individuate him from the rest of the common guards. This man, Rén knew, was the District Governor for Print and Post, and he was also the man closest to the Moon Emperor, whom Rén reckoned probably had a hand in many legal matters as well.

Governor Chang Mul. The emperor's Caesar. Perhaps he sensed Rén's stare, because he looked up from whatever he was perusing and made eye contact. Rén winced inwardly, but held the stare, inclining his head forward slightly before looking down. The governor nodded back, then gestured at Rén to approach him.

'Abalone,' Rén said anxiously. 'Do I--does he do the checking--or is he just--'

'What?' Abalone was in the middle of craning his neck to catch sight of the Emperor. He looked at where Rén pointed him to. 'Oh--the governor. You'll have kept your stamp, right? Just walk up to him and get yourself marked.'

Rén made a face. 'But--'

'Go.' Abalone pushed him. 'Are you half-dragon or half-chicken?'

'Full-chicken, I think, actually,' Rén muttered. He felt around in his bag for the stamp as he walked up to the governor, whose face seemed to twitch into what Rén could have sworn was a slight smirk when their eyes met yet again. Close up, Governor Chang Mul's eyes were like half-moon slits, his face impossibly creased as though it were a wrung-out cloth that someone had not deemed important to iron. Rén bowed, then handed the governor the stamp Yesim had given him the day prior: a simple laced knot that spelled out Yesim's initials. The marking was over quickly, the governor informed Rén that he would have to stand in a specific section near the stage, and a young boy who seemed to vaporise into being led him to the designated area.

Abalone was not drunk. At least, he figured he wasn't, seeing as he had woken up that morning with all five of his senses intact. Six, if one included his intuition. Generally, Abalone would not be one to contest the possibility of his being under some sort of influence. Not that it was a habit, but his curiosity ... tended to result in indulgence. At least sometimes. The world was just so very interesting under influence. The leaves on his terrace lianas would change colour. The trains running overhead along the airway express would warp and slither and fall, like many tiny snakes, and Abalone would feel powerful.

But Abalone knew he wasn't drunk today. He wasn't high on anything either. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, bemused. A strange, fiery object was arching above them, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. It wavered in his vision, at some points looking like a bird, at others reminding him of the hounds his landlord kept chained in the downstairs porch.

'That's not a straw dog, is it?' Abalone elbowed the man next to him, who peered into the sky and grunted.

'Looks more like a fragment of sun come loose, if you ask me.'

'Poetic.' A beat. The trail of fire continued to circle above their heads. 'Mind if I use it?'

Smoke rose from the western edge of the pavilion: several tapestries had caught fire. Abalone could see the burnt heads of the emperor's ornate, wooden screens over the crowd. People scattered and palace guards wove their way through the melee, buckets of sand hanging off the steel rods they balanced on their shoulders. More staff appeared to escort people away from the centre of ... well, whatever it was, although Abalone felt instinctively that Yesim's half-dragon was somehow involved.

The flame bird--dog--streak--suddenly careened toward the ground. The crowd screamed. Abalone flinched, shielding his face with his arms. The Moon Emperor, he thought, half-anxious, half--against his better judgement--excited. If it hits him, we're screwed.

Wouldn't that make for a story.

But by the time he chanced to look up, it was gone, almost as though it had been swallowed by a sudden gust of wind.

After the fire was put out, the chaos settled largely--as did the hats and scarves on the frazzled onlookers' heads. Abalone's assumption proved correct. His sharp, beady eyes followed the Moon Emperor as he descended from his throne, all the way down the palace steps. It was Rén. The half-dragon sat on his haunches, head bowed low, stark in the thicket of it all. Not that Abalone was surprised. He pulled at his velvet collar, feeling even more uncomfortably hot than before. He watched as Rén was led into the palace; the Moon Emperor followed not soon after, his deep purple iris cloak wafting around his ankles in the heat. Medambulators were parked outside the pavilion, their flattish wheels hovering above the stone-paved steps, nurses and doctors running to and fro as they transported the last of the injured away.

The ceremony commenced, and Abalone sunk deeper in his seat, taking notes every so often as the Symbolists spoke.

But his attention was elsewhere. As Master Puto moved on from the topic of building a Heavenly Tower in Tiangyedan's centre to the idea of conceptual rhythm and symbolic spirituality, Abalone's interest ebbed.

'We can find ourselves within the world,' Master Puto was saying. He shook his sleeves out as he spoke, his short blond hair glinting where it caught the sun. Behind him, the black-robed Symbolists contorted their bodies and formed the character for 'universe', their individual objects balanced precariously on their heads. 'Within every object is a totem for our individual souls.'

The foreigners possess joints in impossible places, Abalone scribbled on his ink pad. Dragonboy possibly receiving a lashing at this present moment.

Looking up, he caught sight of Huā standing at the foot of the stage, her head resting against the wooden banisters, a basket full of bunched bouquets in her arms. Abalone signalled to her. She squinted at him, adjusting her glasses nervously, then plodded closer so they could communicate. Her small, metallic ears poked through her pale hair. Abalone supposed the sun was not making things easy for her vision, although she had admitted that her sight had improved once she had come to the Northern Province.

'Isn't it difficult,' Abalone remembered Yesim had asked once, 'to not be able to see much or hear well either?'

You get used to it, Huā had replied. As long as I can read lips, I'm all right. Although the dialect is strange here. She smiled wryly. But at least I don't have to worry about old-age hearing loss.

Abalone had rarely seen Huā show even the barest hint of worry. Her frigid expression was famous among people in the metropolis--people called her 'blood flower' ironically; they conjectured that someone as translucent as her probably had snow-mottled veins, with not a drop of real blood in her. But her more famous name, the one Abalone had heard people call her by everywhere he went, was Kūwěi.

It wasn't him, Huā signed to him now. I know he can't do that. He is... Abalone could see Huā struggling to process the situation, face contorting strangely underneath her black sun hat as she searched for the right words. He is ... incapable of something like that. Physically.

Physically? Abalone signed back.

Yes. For a dragon, he is absolutely useless. She hesitated. The flower girls will be going into the palace. I will ask them to find out if he is okay.

Can't you follow them inside? Abalone was eager for information, and if he couldn't get it himself, he at least trusted Huā's observational skills enough to get it for him.

Huā paused. Her barely-there eyebrows rose slightly--seafoam eyebrows, her hat rising with them like a ship on troubled water. She rested her basket more comfortably on her hip, lips pressed together tightly as she signalled.

I can try.




In a small room on the higher levels of the palace, Rén was being poured a cup of tea.

The Moon Emperor pushed the scroll towards Rén, gesturing for him to read it. 'It is addressed to you.' Hesitating, Rén took it. The Moon Emperor continued speaking as he unclasped and rolled open the scroll. 'It seems to be an invitation of sorts--to what sort of gathering, it is impossible to say ... but perhaps you may be able to shed some light on it?'

Rén stared down at the letter. Although the outside was feathery and soft, the paper was red and glossy on the inside, flashy vertical stripes in yellow and green bordering the edges. It looked like a circus tent. The typefont itself would have made Yesim squirm with discomfort; blocky letters clustered together on the page. They read:

Greetings, Bàn Rén.

YOU ARE INVITED

To the Annual Signet Symphonia, an Event of Great Importance
Organised under our Most Accomplished High Order,
Where we shall compose the next part of Melchizedek's Symphony
Among other things.

In three days
At the Blue Gates in Northern Tiangyedan,
Next to the flower shop.
08:00 p.m.

Although this is an invitation, you are urged to remember
That the Signet Symphonia does not extend invitations to Simply Anyone.

If you are so Fortunate as to have received this,
Kindly leave your Letter of Acceptance on your windowsill.
Our Resident Fire Dog, Mr Bhool, will collect it tonight.

Sincerely,
His Most-Esteemed Personage,
The Signet

Below that, in small, curling gold font were the words:

We will present to you an offer you cannot refuse.

Rén placed the letter flat on the table. He stared at it in silence, trying to find the right words to say. The room was quiet but for the sound of their breathing, and the clinking of china as the Moon Emperor poured himself tea. 'This letter ... came from the marble?' he asked, eventually.

'Marble?' The Moon Emperor's eyebrows flicked upwards. 'This is the letter the Fire Dog was carrying... It arrived in the form of a marble?'

Rén nodded.

'How ... odd. And you were carrying it for a while?' Rén nodded again and the Moon Emperor sighed. 'What a roundabout method of delivery! That's not usually how it's done, as far as I know. But the contents'--the Moon Emperor reached for the letter again--'are just as odd, so I suppose it doesn't really matter. Have you heard of this "Signet" before, on your travels? The Warhorse General has told me you were part of a circus troupe for some time.'

Rén started. 'His Majesty knows General Yume?' he blurted, ears turning red as he realised what a stupid question that was--obviously the emperor of the country would know. 'I--yes, I was. Part of a group of firemen, that's how I travelled up-country. But I've never heard of a ... of this Signet before. And I don't know what this letter is, aside from it being vaguely threatening...'

The Moon Emperor gave a slight chuckle. He shook back his voluminous sleeve; a heavy-looking, antique watch clung to his wrist, the dial a hovering hologram. It looked to be an older model, perhaps a decade old, the kind of watches Huā sometimes brought over to fiddle with. The time read four o'clock. Rén's head jerked abruptly towards the lone window in the room, but the shutters were down. Yesim will kill me if I'm late, he thought, chewing on his lower lip. The gathering had probably dispersed by now. The print offices would be at work, compiling the news--the news. Rén's eyes widened. Shit--once he finds out about today, he'll definitely kill me.

The emperor, however, was surprisingly unperturbed. It was as though the fire earlier that day had never even happened. 'Ah,' he said. 'Chang Mul is late.' He lowered his arm and the watch disappeared beneath a vast sea of silk. 'I thought it would be prudent to wait for him before giving you your punishment, but our guests must be keeping him busy. Speaking of which, what did you think of them?'

'I--' Rén could feel irritation clawing at his throat. I just want to get out of here. 'They were ... interesting,' he said slowly, wary of the fact that the emperor would not approve of his honest opinion on the matter. He gulped. 'Your Majesty, I don't wish to be rude, but I have questions and--'

'Ask away. There is time until Chang Mul arrives.'

Rén raked in a deep breath. 'When you say Fire Dogs, do you mean the same ones as from the children's stories?' He twisted his gloves in his hands, all his anxious thoughts tumbling out one by one. 'But what does that have to do with this letter? What--what is this letter? And I won't lose my citizenship, will I?' The scales on Rén's neck and cheeks were changing colour rapidly--from green to red to muted shades of purple dancing on his skin.

To his chagrin, the Moon Emperor merely looked amused. A wave of anger rippled through him.

'You will not lose your citizenship, half-dragon,' the Moon Emperor said. 'Convincing the council to grant a hybrid citizenship was no easy feat; it would be easiest to play the entire event off as an accident, although that will be difficult, seeing as how people distrust the idea of a legal hybrid anyway. But I would like...' The emperor leaned forward slightly; the light from the ceiling fixtures cast his features into sudden, harsh shadow. 'To barter with you. Your reputation has become my reputation, and your punishment is to assist me in upholding mine.'

As if on cue, the door slid open. Governor Chang Mul walked in, footfalls resonating heavily on the wooden floor. He bowed to the emperor. 'Your Majesty.'

Then, inclining his head briefly towards Rén, who had stood up to greet him, the governor sat down next to the emperor. Even seated, Chang Mul was huge, the difference especially obvious due to the Moon Emperor's much-smaller frame. Rén was afraid to look up at him for fear that all he would see if he did was an astoundingly graphic view of wide hairy nostril.

'You're just in time, Chang Mul,' the Moon Emperor said, smiling broadly. 'You caught me in the process of telling Rén about the Terrabike Races.'

Governor Chang Mul's eyebrows rocketed into his hairline. 'You are still adamant about this?' he asked. Rén was surprised he addressed the emperor so informally--but then again, he was his Caesar. 'I would advise'--Chang Mul glanced askance at Rén, his eyes cold--'against it. This child cannot uphold his own honour, let alone the both of yours combined. But if you insist...' He bowed his head. 'I suppose there is nothing else for me to say.'

'Uh.' Rén shifted awkwardly. 'Terrabike Races?'

'Chang Mul, would you do the honours of explaining to our young guest what the Terrabike Races are?' The Moon Emperor steepled his fingers, leaning back and looking at his Caesar in expectation.

'I--oh, very well.' Chang Mul poured himself some tea and took a sip, grimacing. 'It's cold. Anyway.' He looked at Rén, his forehead creasing as he spoke. 'The Terrabike Races are an old tradition--when I say 'old' I mean some hundred years back, although initially it was started as a pilot project to ... encourage people to come up with better, faster prototypes for travel. At least, that's what the Sun Emperor told people, but for all intents and purposes, the Terrabike Races were originally an attempt to develop a spy network across the Greater Kingdom. You probably haven't heard of it?'

Rén shook his head. 'I don't know much history,' he admitted. 'I know about Keiyan and what General Yume and my master taught me about Maghfi but aside from that...'

'Ah,' Chang Mul said tonelessly, picking at the tassel on his court hat. 'Unsurprising. But if you were to ask someone from the Northern Kingdom, they would be able to tell you about it. When the Sun Dynasty first came in power, the emperor's youngest son suggested he keep a sort of grand vizier. One who would head this spy network and work with creatures from the Other Realm: the fire dogs, Chollima, the koi in the rivers and lakes ... and so on and so forth.

But there's always been a bloody history with handpicking advisors, so a competition was devised--one that would test mettle, loyalty, and other skills besides, and these were the Terrabike Races.' Chang Mul paused. 'You keeping up so far?'

'I think so,' Rén said, trying to keep track of all these developments. 'But I do have ... questions.'

Chang Mul made a face, but the Moon Emperor gestured for Rén to continue. He was watching them as though they were some sort of amusement, or a very interesting specimen of plant being pounded into poultice.

'Was his emperor's Caesar selected through the Terrabike Races, too, after the war? Why isn't this common knowledge? Or was there a gap in-between--does that make you an interim Caesar?' Rén chewed on his lower lip.

The Moon Emperor sat up straighter. Rén didn't know if he imagined it--he probably did--but for a fraction of a second he thought he saw something akin to fear in the emperor's eyes.

'Too many questions,' Chang Mul said shortly. 'Yes, there was a period where the Terrabike Races were not taking place, and the very idea is a new one in this country. Anything else?'

Everything is new in this country, Rén wanted to say, but he bit down on his tongue instead. 'When you say Other Realm...?'

Chang Mul sighed. 'The Shadow World. The realm that lies in parallel to ours--or as your generation likes to call it'--General Chang Mul snorted--'magic. Myself being the Caesar, my job is to keep track of all that goes on in that world. That Fire Dog you saw today was a loose cannon, and we are currently trying to trace it to its source.' Chang Mul's gaze dropped to the Signet's letter. 'This invitation will aid us tremendously in the process, and so will you.' The General's gaze flickered back towards Rén. 'You must reply in the affirmative to this invitation and report back to us, so we can take action.'

'In addition,' the Moon Emperor said, 'you will also be joining the Races this year, as Tiangyedan's representative.' He took a small box out of the depths of his sleeves; it was the colour of sand. The Moon Emperor opened it. Inside was a small card with silver chain, a key, and an ID chip.

'You may continue working your regular job, but you will be given temporary accommodation near the Inner City and expected to show up for lessons on history, politics and rhetoric, as well as general lessons on how to operate and ride a terrabike. You must understand'--the Moon Emperor tossed his braids behind his shoulder, his thick eyebrows seeming to bristle with static--'you have little to no choice here. Your reputation--no, your very survival rests on your obedience to the kingdom.' The emperor's gaze softened. 'Ayinah Yume has been filled with nothing but praises for you, Rén. I trust in her judgement, and I trust that you shall trust in mine.'

Rén's mouth was dry. This is ridiculous, he wanted to say. An Other Realm doesn't exist. It's all a stupid fairy tale. 'Why?' he said instead, his voice quavering slightly. He felt angry. 'I've never ridden a terrabike in my life. What would the kingdom be gaining from making me the capital's representative?' What would I be gaining? The question hung like an anvil over Rén's mind. Temporary accommodation? The chance to learn, to get lessons on subjects he had always held a curious inclination towards, but never the resources?

This is blackmail, he thought. He clenched his fists. His scales turned a deep scarlet. 'Just--why?' he rasped, the word sticking to his tongue like soot.

'Have you heard the phrase: Fire Dogs will follow the Qilin?' the Moon Emperor asked. 'No? Well, half dragon, it seems that you are our Qilin. I will be frank with you.' He gestured for something to write with and Chang Mul stood up, exiting the room in a few, quick strides. 'If what happened today did not happen, I would not be sitting here having this conversation with you. The reason you remain so very ignorant of the Terrabike Races is because no such official contest has been declared. We are planning on making the announcement at the end of this year, when the current Caesar's four year tenure reaches its close. It is--how would you put it? A Jehya play, with a pre-decided ending. You will become the Caesar. You will gain the people's favour.'

'A set-up,' Rén breathed.

'Indeed. Although that is a crude way of putting it.'

Chang Mul returned, writing utensils and ink pot balanced on a wound-up scroll. Outside, Rén could hear the sound of rain. Chang Mul quickly drew up a contract. Rén inhaled deeply, the scent of cinnamon, paper, ink ... luxury. The room felt like a conclave, the inside of a shell, completely sealed away from all the petty miseries of the rest of the world. He thought of the letter the Water Quail had sent him, the letter he had left fluttering at his window that morning. His heart clenched in his chest.

Quietly, Rén quietly signed the agreement.

He pocketed the box the emperor handed him, and then he left. An Imperial Servant would show him to the door.

Once Rén was gone, Chang Mul turned to the Moon Emperor. 'You trust that he will be our link to the Shadow World?'

The emperor nodded, his jaw set. 'He will be.'

The sound of something crashing on the lower levels. A clatter, a bang, yells so loud that they punctured even the still air in the emperor's tearoom. The sound of feet thudding against wood and a loud, piercing scream. 'Whore!'

Alarmed, the Moon Emperor rushed to the door.

The Second Box
- is an interruption filled with seashells and the scent of home -

All days have melded into one. It has been four hundred days since time was struck still, and you have begun to wonder if it will ever move on. The bellboy tells you that this is so no one within Totem Pole Tower will ever need sleep, and so no one will dream, and you will never remember the nightmares.

But you remember your nightmares still. The bleeding trees, the broken bodies, and the vacant sky like a cup of churning chrysanthemum tea. You think about it, over and over again, as the people in black slide into the elevator. 'Which floor?' you ask, always in a robotic monotone, hand perched like a flyaway bird against the sliding levers. There is little change to this routine. People in the tower do not eat. People in the tower do not sleep. All they do is dance, shuffling from floor to floor in peculiar rhythm, and a voice inside you is always crying for them to wake up--wake up, because it is as though everything inside is sleeping.

The masked men, the reapers, they call you Elevator Boy. The only time you are not Elevator Boy is when the Master calls the workers to council, because that is when all the workers shift into new skins, from employees to slaves.

'You are empty,' the master says, and you believe him, in this tower where all is still. 'You are empty, you are small, you are powerless.'

Your lips form the words before the Master says them.

'By all means you should not exist.'

Chapter Three

Three Poisons: Snake


Huā had not reckoned it would be this difficult finding her way into the palace. At first, it had been easy--all she had to do was drape a shawl around her head and duck her face behind a basket of flowers, mixing in among the rest of the flower girls as they went to pay their respects to the Princess Empress. She had known this was stupid the moment she had promised Abalone she would sneak inside the palace for him, but she was worried about Rén. For as long as she had known him, Rén had never done something as crazy as setting anything on fire. He couldn't.

A nagging feeling wound its way around her throat.

I'll just ask around and then find my way out, she told herself. Nothing stupid, nothing reckless.

She hadn't expected to run into the Head Priestess, who was known across Tiangyedan for her nettled tongue. Her verbal lashes were enough to leave even the most powerful nobles smarting. There had been rumours that she had been especially cranky after the Moon Emperor's invitation to the Symbolists, but Huā had not even once supposed she would be caught in the fray of things. The clashing of Old Laws with New Laws should not affect her or her work. Out of all the places she had worked, very few people had allowed her to feel she was any less capable than them. Yes, she had been labelled as 'exotic'. Yes, people still said things that left her reeling for days on end. But Huā knew she was lucky--most of her jobs were uptown, where people were more open to differences.

'Sometimes,' she had told Rén once, 'I feel like I have tapped my way into a bubble. The bubble will burst, I know, like before. I have seen that. But I do not think I will ever be any less ready.'

In Shi Jiāng, there were three things that made a person Irredeemable, according to the Old Laws: hybridity, treachery, and Colourlessness. Even after all her research, Huā had never been able to tell where the hate came from, or how it had been internalised so devoutly by the people of the Old Religion.

All she knew was that she was hated, and that she had not been careful enough.

Her head had hit something hard. Something warm trickled down her neck--blood? she thought, dazed. Spots were dancing before her eyes. Someone had ripped out her hearing aids and taken away her glasses. Her ears felt heavy and waterlogged, her head vacant, and Huā struggled not to panic as her senses became inundated, as though she were submerged underwater.

Something hard collided with her stomach. She reeled, struggling to breathe. 'Please don't!' she yelled, her voice grating in her throat from disuse. She could feel the vibrations on the floor, the pounding, the clatter. Too many people, she thought, anxiously, feeling around on the floor as she tried to get to her feet. The world was a swarm of colour. She stumbled.

I need to be able to see.

Quiet. The vibrations lessened and Huā's posture slackened with almost-relief. Footsteps thudded towards her. She stiffened. Someone placed her glasses back on her nose and she blinked as an unfamiliar face swung into view. The face had what looked like red half-circle eyes and a strong nose. She squinted; her eyes settled into focus and she gaped, ducking into a bow. 'Your Majesty,' she said, glad she could not hear what she sounded like. She looked up so she could read the Moon Emperor's lips.

'Rise,' he was saying. He gestured to someone behind her. Huā turned her head, starting as her eyes met those of the emperor's Caesar. His face was dour, mouth and eyes pinched and drawn as though it pained him to keep them open for too long.

'Come,' he said, mouthing his words slowly. 'With me.' He turned around in the narrow hall, one hand bent slightly towards his sword. Huā followed, the soles of her shoes crunching against broken glass, water seeping through the strip of fabric she had wound around her heels. She glanced behind her to where the Head Priestess stood, still fuming, mouthing words that it would have made Huā wince to hear. She understood the gist, though. Squaring her shoulders, she took larger strides to match the Caesar's, until they had left the emperor and Head Priestess far behind. Up, down the wooden hallways with their brassy archways and lush carpets. The carpet beneath their feet soon turned to marble. Huā realised that the Caesar had led her through an odd arrangement of side-corridors to get her here, having carefully avoided the main routes. He looked at her, stern and imposing. Huā held her ground, staring at him defiantly.

'You are here for the dragon boy, yes?' he said.

Huā nodded. She looked at Rén and signed. I was worried. I am glad to see you are all right. Please tell Caesar Chang Mul I am apologetic. I did not think, and I am sorry. I did not do anything to trigger the Head Priestess. She hesitated. But I did laugh. That was rude.

Rén conveyed this to Chang Mul, who nodded, looking severe. ‘Please inform your friend that she is barred from Imperial Grounds. After this incident, we cannot take any chances of angering the Priesthood or the Council, and if we are to find that you have breached this interdiction, there will be worse punishments than a mere ban. Do I make myself understood?’

Huā nodded again. She patted her hair closer to the side of her head, better to cover the gaping holes in her head with. Her hair was sticky and heavy with blood. She shivered. Her head felt hollow and cold. They didn’t have to go for the ears, she thought.

Are you okay? Rén signed to her.

Guess. Huā kept herself composed as the Caesar slipped his hand into his pockets. He pulled out what looked like a big silver coin. It looked unlike anything Huā had ever seen. Chang Mul handed it to her and she stared at it. A carp was indented on one side of the coin; the other side was plain and smooth. She ran her thumb along it. ‘What is it?’ she said, addressing Chang Mul directly. ‘Sir,’ she added.

‘It is part of your punishment,’ he said, glowering at her. ‘An old friend of mine lives along the walkways in East Gulpahar, near the city’s dry port district. Stop there tomorrow and deliver this to him. Take your—’he tapped his ear—‘with you. Dragon boy, accompany her. Ask anyone in the vicinity for Luhan Son and they will direct you to him. That is all.’ He raised a hand in dismissal. ‘Leave. And, Bàn Rén…’ Chang Mul’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the boy. ‘Remember where your duty lies. I trust that you will report to us in four days.’ He nodded at him. ‘Good luck.’

Rén remained quiet as he and Huā walked out into the courtyard, bowing to the guards at the palace gates as they unlocked the huge, iron doors for them. By now, the sun was setting. The Old City was empty, the crowds having left what now seemed to Rén to be forever ago. The earth squelched beneath their feet, still damp with rain, and as they walked through the Old City with its untouched, derelict pillars with ramshackle pasts, Rén thought. He thought about the Signet and about the Shadow delivery, the fire dogs and the terrabike races. His head spun.

Why? he asked himself. How? He had never expected his voyeur into city life to lead to all of this, had never even supposed that life would be stranger than it had when he was living life as a nomadic entertainer with the firemen. Who had thought he would ever get a citizenship, of all things? That he wouldn’t be placed in a slaughterhouse the moment he turned twenty, or sent into the military to be used as a dog. The possibility of living a life that was even borderline normal had dazzled him, and now it frightened him. Him, become Caesar? There had to be something else the emperor wanted, to have blackmailed him like that. Had he been planning to have Rén enter the terrabike races since the beginning? Or had it just been convenient for them to force him into it, after all that happened today?

And now Huā. Rén’s heart dropped into his stomach, like a pebble that sent ripples cascading down to his knees. He glanced askance at her, her pale hair stained red near the space where her ears should have been. Sometimes, Rén still found it difficult to believe that the rebellion in the southern province had been only seven years ago, or that it had been four years since the Great War ended. Huā would be fourteen now—she had mentioned she was nine during the raids—although she still looked much younger. Rén had lost count of how many places she had worked at, the people she had lived with, the things she had learnt and done. In his head, she was still eleven years old, and they had met at a lake in the central province during the circus’s summer season, and she had shown him the old, clunky hearing aids she wore and taught him how to sign simple things, and he had heard her hesitant, squeaky voice when she spoke, noticed how it crackled like wet logs catching fire.

It had started to rain again by the time they reached the entrance to the Old City. From beyond the wall, Rén could hear the humming of vehicles, the sound of revving and the glug of machinery, people still talking over each other in the night market. Beyond the wall was everything that was alive, and it filled Rén with relief to be walking into the real world again.

He tapped Huā on the shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ he said, before realising she couldn’t see his lips moving in the darkness. He signed instead. We need to get you cleaned up so your wound doesn’t get infected. And I have … a lot to tell you. He emphasised ‘a lot’ by flicking his wrists with greater force than usual. Huā smiled slightly, drawing her shawl close around her face again. Raindrops caught on her lashes.

Go ahead, she said.

Rén filled her in, gloved hands in constant, fluid motion as they took the ascended into the aboveground. The crowds shifted, people too busy to pay them attention. For a while, they were just two children catching a train home. A boy and a girl, both with stories to tell.

Huā clutched her bloodstained hearing aids tightly the entire ride to the posthouse.

Yesim already knew about it by the time Rén had slogged his way back to the posthouse. He sat at the foot of the stairs, brow crinkled, a small tin cup resting in the palm of his hand. Abalone was perched atop the main counter, having shoved the veritable mountain of bills to a side. He was writing something, his pen between his teeth as he sloshed more liquid from the bottle of baijiu into a jar. He grinned widely at Rén and Huā as the door swung shut behind them. ‘Herro!’ he said cheerily. It was dark; shadows swathed the room like flimsy chiffon capes. The lightbulb above the counter flickered ominously above Abalone’s recently-created mess. Yesim hated it when Abalone sat on the front counter. But the fact that he had not bulldozed Abalone away yet probably meant bad news. Rén gulped. For me.

‘Hello,’ Rén intoned, throwing Abalone a dirty look. He let go of Huā’s hand and thumped towards the switchboard. He flicked on all the lights. Huā shielded her eyes with her hand and collapsed in a heap where she was, leaning her head against the weathered oak door with a sigh.

Rén looked at Yesim warily. ‘I can … explain?’ he volunteered weakly. ‘Though I don’t suppose’—Rén threw Abalone another dirty look, the latter beaming at him in return—‘that you already know?’

Yesim was silent, his eyes vacant as he tipped the liquid out the window. He stood up heavily. ‘Rén. Upstairs,’ he said shortly, his thumbs in his pockets. ‘Huā—make yourself a cup of tea, child. You can clean yourself up in the downstairs bathroom. Abalone, get her a blanket. She looks like she needs it.’

‘I’m not your employee, postmaster,’ Abalone said lightly, scrunching up another sheet of paper and tossing it behind him. ‘But very well. Come with me!’ He motioned to Huā to follow him. As they disappeared into the backroom, Rén heard Abalone exclaim, ‘However did you manage to get yourself hurt?’ The false incredulity in the writer’s voice made his blood boil.

‘I’m going to punch him some day,’ he hissed. Yesim ignored him, flicking the lights on as they walked up the narrow assemblage of steps into his office. He clapped and all the inlaid light squares along the corridors dimmed. Walking towards his desk—one of the only pieces of furniture in the otherwise bare room—he switched on his lamp. ‘Well?’ He rolled up a cigarette. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to enlighten me any time soon?’

‘You’re not angry.’

‘No.’ Yesim shrugged. Rén’s shoulders slackened with relief.

‘I was afraid you would be,’ he said. The chair creaked as he sat across from Yesim, who was steadily billowing smoke from his nostrils.

‘I’ve spent my entire life being angry about things that showed little desire to change.’ Yesim swiveled in his chair and pushed the window open. The distant hum of nighttime traffic filtered through, along with the smell of smoke and dust, and a steady chill. Rén dumped his satchel in his lap and pulled the Signet’s letter out, placing it in front of Yesim. The postmaster raised his eyebrows, stubbing his cigar out and tossing it into the ashtray. ‘What is this?’ He leaned forward and picked up the letter. Under the light of the lamp, his face looked ashen and grey, deep-set eyes cast into shadow.

‘Don’t read it just yet,’ Rén said, hesitating. ‘I don’t know how to explain.’

‘Let’s start with’—Yesim took off his watch and set the dial to holographic mode. The time read 10 p.m. ‘Huā. I trust you took her to a healer? How did she get hurt?’ Although Yesim mostly held back with his emotions, Rén could see the genuine concern flurry in his eyes. Rén sometimes felt that Yesim directed the emotions he felt for his daughters towards Huā, the daughters he had left behind in Keiyan and spoke of but rarely, and only when asked. It had been Huā who had directed Rén to the postmaster, who had given him an address and told him to seek him out when he reached Tiangyedan—because Tiangyedan had always been Rén’s destination from long ago. Even when he was a pupil under the Water Quail, whom he loved and admired. Even after he joined the firemen and made a living purely out of what he was, turned himself into a spectacle to be gawked and leered at wherever he travelled with the circus of freaks, where everyone hated everyone for their competition, because their liberation lay only within the precincts of temporarily-constructed canopies. Because they would never be recognized by any audience as people, least of all by themselves.

Rén remembered the nights he would crawl in amongst the other firemen at night, in their shared tent. Sometimes he felt like the smell of it still hung around him, the pungent, acrid smell of urine and sweat and smoke that snaked around their contorted limbs. He would fall asleep amidst that discrepant mass of body bags, haunted with nightmares that frightened him less than the thought of waking up.

He remembered being shackled to the ground for his first performance, how he started out pretending to howl and ended up begging for it to stop. The scars the circus master gave him still glared at him in the mirror every morning, slit-eyed and accusing, as though he were to blame for their having been born.

The holographic dial read 10 p.m. Rén shook his head, trying to clear it. It’s been a long enough day, he told himself sternly, without recalling bad memories. He rubbed his forehead.

‘Huā,’ he said, tiredly. ‘Yeah. You don’t have to ask. I didn’t take her to a healer, I patched her up, but I’ll walk her to the one you said you knew downtown. It’s her ears I was worried about—I disinfected the opening and bandaged her head, but you can take a look later, too.’ He ran a hand through his hair, resting his wrist against the single horn that jutted out of his head like a lonely branch. ‘Abalone sent her in after me—less after me than to get information, the bastard. Just because he knows she can take care of herself, but hell if I’ve ever seen her more vulnerable. I think it was the shock—or I dunno—just the whole situation—’

‘Explain.’ Yesim poured him a glass of water from the jug on the windowledge. ‘Slowly. Abalone told me he sent her in. He also told me you apparently spat a giant firebird out of your nose in frustration at the “intense monotony of the situation”, and of course’—the wheels on Yesim’s chair squeaked as he leaned back—‘I understood everything.’

He paused. Outside, it had begun to drizzle. ‘Tell me what happened, starting from when you left my office this morning.’

‘Well.’ Rén tapped his knuckles against his glass. His eyes burned from tiredness. ‘I picked up a marble this morning and…’

It was 11:30 by the time Rén finished filling Yesim in on everything. There was silence as Yesim thought. Rén slumped in his chair, head thrown back. ‘I need to send a reply,’ he groaned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. ‘This is ridiculous. I don’t even know what I’m walking into. Symphonia whatsit—more like a bunch of crackheads. Or some, I dunno, group of pseudointellectuals interested in the latest weird whatever.’

‘Hm.’ Yesim kneaded the back of his neck. He squinted at the letter. ‘You could always not go. What would you lose?’

‘Potentially?’ Rén sighed. ‘The citizenship. And my right to have a roof over my head. Honestly though, I never said it, postmaster, but—thanks.’

‘For what?’

‘Taking me in even when you knew it was illegal. I knew our contract was all under the table and all, but you risked being prosecuted and … well.’ He rubbed his nose awkwardly as his face turned scarlet. ‘Just, uh, thanks.’

Yesim cracked a half-smile. ‘Well, I got a half-dragon out of it, didn’t I?’

‘Absolutely. Only monetary value out of this one. Although I lost your hat.’

‘You’re an expensive employee,’ Yesim said. He rolled open his desk drawer and pulled out a slip of paper. ‘So you’re going to send a reply?’ An inkpad and pen followed the paper.

‘I don’t have much of a choice.’ Rén scribbled a short note, sealing it with a dollop of red candle wax. Before the seal could harden, he sketched the character for ‘Rén’ in the wax with the tip of his nail. ‘Do you think it’ll work if I leave it outside your window?’

‘I don’t know. Did the letter say you were allowed to share its contents with anyone?’ Yesim clattered around, straightening and sorting the files on his desk as he got ready for lock up.

Rén shrugged. ‘Not strictly. But…’

‘Don’t take chances.’ Yesim looked up from his work and nodded at him. ‘Good night.’

-

The sound of rain had dulled by the time Rén reached his workroom, so much so that he found it easy to pretend it was static, the familiar buzz of electricity that carried through the airways on quiet weekend nights. He had left the curtains parted open earlier that morning. An opalescent glow seeped in through the glass, cold and silver, and shadows from the house-next-door’s wall fans careened across the wood-panelled walls. Strewn across the floor were various magazines—guides on the newest technology in Tiangyedan, history books, manuals for solar buzzers and electric submarines, and piles of paper that Rén had taped together in his efforts to draw a comprehensive map of the country insofar as he had seen it. The top of his desk—a squat, black-polished cube in the corner of the room—gleamed in the moonlight, all but empty aside from an odd assemblage of spare parts and an alarm clock’s bare skeleton.

Rén thumped across the room and flicked on his lamp. He drew open the window, deftly unbraiding the tassels that held the Water Quail’s letter to the lintel. A cloud of smoke wandered in with the rain-speckled breeze. Carefully, Rén placed the letter aside, wrapping it up in a spare tunic and pushing it with his foot so that it wouldn’t catch the rain. He climbed onto the windowledge, breathing deeply. Puddles had formed along the ledge. By the time Rén had finished successfully tying his reply to the Signet on the outside of his window—making sure it was shielded by the serrated tin awning—his pants were soaked through. Don’t slip, he told himself, biting down on his lip as he tried to keep his balance.

Thunder growled in the distance. Rén jumped slightly, swearing under his breath as his hand slipped and the knot came loose. A sudden strong gust of wind tore the cord he had been holding. He watched with dismay as it fluttered into the sewerage that surged emphatically from the open gutter in the alleyway below. He swore again, swinging his legs out over the edge of the window and squinting up into the rain. What now?

Should I just sit here and wait? Rén thought. He shivered, trying in vain to blink the tiredness from his eyes. This is stupid, he thought. What the hell kind of messenger would scale a building at this time of the night? In the dark, the rain reminded Rén of tar, sloppy and thick where it streaked the walls. The spaces between the buildings were so narrow that Rén felt he could brush the wall of the opposing building with his feet if he tried. No way was a deliverperson—let along any other being with a sound mind—going to venture into a place like this.

His stomach rumbled. The sweet potatoes he and Huā had bought on their way out of the station seemed to have dissolved long ago. He yawned. Should I just leave it here? He looked at the sealed envelope in his hands and shrugged, turning to climb back inside.

He was standing with one foot on his desk when a … something vapourised behind him. He yelped when a smoky, almost intangible arm draped its way over his shoulder. His foot struck his dismantled alarm clock and he yelled, his elbow knocking against the windowframe. A jolt of electricity rippled up his arm like lightning on a lightning rod as he fell inside, face first, against the bare, cemented floor. No sooner had he struck the floor, Rén whipped around to face the thing in the window. His mouth fell open, his breath lapping shallowly in his lungs. The thing did not speak, its dilated black pupils hovering above an almost amorphous beaked nose. Heavy, velvety paws rested against the spot where Rén had sat only moments ago, and its mouth hung open, cavernous, its tongue poking from within like a fat black leech. A trail of fire danced around it—a tail, Rén realised belatedly. The rest of the fire dog’s form was shadow, a constant billowing of dust and black smoke.

It was nothing like anything Rén had ever seen. He stared at the creature.

The creature stared back.

‘Mr … Bhool?’ Rén asked tentatively.