He thought about the money that he had so far largely failed to accumulate, and his father somewhere on the south coast, sick and miserable and himself unable as yet to do anything to help. "And I hate that my father has been a complete failure at everything he's tried to do, because everything he's tried to do has been dictated by his duties—as a son, as a student, as a—as a Chinese! Don't you wake up some mornings, Fengzi, and just think that something's not right about the way things are?"
"Pretty much every day," she said. She was, he realized, looking at him in a sort of cocked-head way, as if he'd done something strange like pull a moon-cake out of one ear. "You'd best watch yourself, Captain Wen. Try to do too much and the gods will smack you down."
To hell with the gods, he wanted to say, but allowed something to hold him back. "I don't want much," he muttered. "Just a world in I can make my father well again, and in which I can then be allowed to get rich without having to break my back or get dirt under my fingernails."
"Your father is unwell?" Now she looked alert, almost predatory.
Wen sighed. "As much as I hate it, I am still Chinese and still my father's son. Yes, I have—heard—that he is unwell and very seriously so. But if you tell any of my crew that I'm trying to raise money for doctors I will—well, I don't know what I'll do but you can be sure it will be desperate and unpleasant and the Confucianists will surely misinterpret it and make of me a Good Example."
"You really don't belong in this place then, do you?" Pocapetl had arrived with a jug of his deadly mescal wine and was topping up their cups. "You should travel to my land some day."
"There's freedom there?" Fengzi asked.
"Oh, hells no. But as outsiders you could get away with so much more." Pocapetl grinned, his full lips curling up under his beak of a nose. "Speaking of things being gotten away with, didn't you say that the man who tried to execute you was a magistrate called Li?" Wen nodded, frowning at the memory. "Interesting. Because my sources tell me a Magistrate Li has recently been promoted to the governorship of Beishi. That's just south of Jīn-sè Mèn, Yin Fengzi."
"I know the geography of Fusang," she said.
"The same Li?" Wen chewed his lip a bit. "Not an uncommon name."
"No," agreed Pocapetl. "Though most of your names sound the same to me. But this Li is young, and he was a district magistrate near Měijing. Sound familiar?"
"Oh, yes." Wen winced at the memory of the man blandly condemning him to death for lantern-fondling. The frown melted, though, when he remembered how much he'd enjoyed his exit from Li's courtroom. "Wait a minute. I know something of the schedule for examinations, and there haven't been any provincial or state exams so far this year."
"Interesting, isn't it?" Pocapetl said. "My military and merchant friends are quite intrigued by all this. There's talk, you know, that Prince Yizan is becoming a bit, well, soft-headed."
"How surprising is that?" Fengzi asked. "The man's eighty-two years old! He's been the ruling prince since he was six! The wonder is that his brain didn't turn to congee years ago!"
"Doesn't mean a thing to me," Pocapetl said. "I'm only passing on what I hear. And what I hear is that Li and his mother were seen visiting the prince's compound several times before this promotion was announced."
"Makes me wonder what Madam Li is capable of," Fengzi said. "Or where her training lies."
"Oh, dear," Wen said. "You do realize that if I'd said something like that, you'd be contemplating turning me into some sort of insect or other crawling or slithering thing."
"Of course I realize it," Fengzi said. "How fortunate for you that you realize it as well."
"Exactly how old are you?" he asked. "If I were anyone but who I am, I think I'd be worried about what your years of solitary study have done to your mind."
"I am sixteen," Fengzi said, "which is more than old enough to know a social-climbing mother when I hear of one."
"Sixteen," said Pocapetl softly, "going on sixty."
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