The Walled City Page 6

  That’s my Plan B. There is no Plan C.

  Most of the shops are dark as I glide past, but a few are still lit, their keepers hard at work. A clock on the far wall of a dumpling shop tells me it’s three fifty. Early morning. If I don’t hurry, I’ll miss my meeting at the Old South Gate, where I’ll give my report and he’ll remind me in his stern voice that my time is waning.

  I start jogging. The shoestring cinch of my hood taps against my chest as I run through the city, dodging the crumpled, blanket-covered forms of sleeping vagrants.

  The Old South Gate is the oldest, largest entrance to the Hak Nam Walled City. In the daylight hours it looks like the entrance of a beehive, hundreds of people moving in and out. Postal workers lug satchels of envelopes. Vendors carry piles of fruit on their backs or wheel them in carts. A few even balance boxes on their heads. But in the hours between midnight and dawn, it’s gutted and empty, a yawn into the world outside.

  My handler is already here. He leans against the entrance, one foot planted in Seng Ngoi and the other edged into Hak Nam. His cigarette burns bright against the dark, lighting his face like a steel mill. When he sees me, he flicks the butt on the ground, grinds it with his shoe.

  There are two cannons on either side of the gate. Relics from the ancient days, when Hak Nam was a fort instead of a dragon’s den. Before the government left it to rot. The cannons are so covered in rust that they look like giant, weeping boulders. They’re my markers. When I reach them, I stop. Not one step farther.

  “You’re late,” Tsang says when I sidle up to the far cannon. The last dregs of his cigarette slide out of his nose.

  “I was working.” Rain still falls in sheets over the streets of Seng Ngoi. It runs through the Old South Gate like a river, licking the edges of my boots. I pull my hood over my head.

  My handler didn’t bring an umbrella. The storm has soaked him through, but he doesn’t seem to care. “How was the infiltration? Did you get a look?”

  “Not much of one. Longwai’s keeping me on a tight leash.”

  “So you didn’t see it?” Tsang asks.

  My teeth clench together. I’ve got enough pressure without his barbed questions. “Oh yeah. He handed it over to me right after he gave me a foot massage. Gift-wrapped and everything.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Dai,” he growls. “There are things at stake here. Lives. Careers.”

  Tsang’s face is hard to read without the glow of his cigarette. I don’t like it.

  “I don’t see Longwai giving me free rein around the brothel anytime soon. If you want to know the layout, you should ask Ambassador Osamu. Hell, I bet you could walk right in and pay for a girl if you wanted.”

  “What the ambassador does behind this line is his own business—you’re in no position to be slandering his honor.” My handler produces a shiny cigarette case from his coat pocket. “You saying you can’t do the job?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I found another avenue. A girl. On the inside.”

  “One of the whores?”

  Whore. The word has never bothered me before. But for some reason, I find my fingers twitching, tapping out Morse code obscenities. “One of Longwai’s girls. Yes.”

  My handler frowns and wedges the cigarette between his teeth. His other hand holds up a lighter. “What have you told her?”

  “Nothing. She just knows I want information on the Brotherhood. She doesn’t know what or why,” I tell him.

  “And you really think you can get her to talk? That’s damn risky.” It takes three tries for the flame to catch the cigarette and hold.

  “Yeah. Well, nothing about this is safe,” I quip back.

  “Fine. It’s your ass on the line,” he says, like I don’t know. Like I’m not spending every waking moment thinking about it. “Test her. Something simple, to make sure she can deliver. Something you can verify so you know she’s not making things up.”

  “I plan on it.” I hate it when he talks to me like I’m stupid or slow. Like I wasn’t raised through Seng Ngoi’s finest, most expensive schools. “But I’ll need to give her an incentive.”

  A bus chugs down the street just a few yards away. Tsang and I both stiffen, watch as its wide lit windows string past. Its only passengers—a tousled university student and a foreign backpacker—have their faces slumped against the glass. Netting precious more minutes of sleep with open mouths.

  Tsang waits until the bus turns the corner to speak again, “Like what?”

  “Getting her out. Safely.”

  “There’s no way I can guarantee that. Longwai’s whores will be the least of our problems when all this shit goes down. I’m already stretching my bounds with what I promised you.…”

  “So what should I tell the girl?”

  “Tell her whatever you want.” My handler laughs. The cigarette shudders, shedding ashes and smoke into the puddle at his feet. “Whatever you think will get her to talk.”

  “You want me to lie?” My whole hand is shaking now. I have to curl it into a fist to stop the trembling.

  “What? Growing a conscience?” Tsang smirks. “You, of all people…”

  I glance down at the swelling river by my feet, the currents of trash and filth. A molding orange peel bobs by my boot, alongside something that looks awfully similar to human shit.

  Just one more step. My ticket out.

  It shouldn’t be so hard to lie. Not when that’s all I’ve done for the past two years of my life. It shouldn’t be, but I think of the girl’s hot bloom cheeks, the stretch in her voice. My insides twist like a rat held by the tail.

  “Need anything?” my handler asks. “Before I go?”

  Anything. Everything. I think back to the voices through the red and glass of the girl’s window. Just after the curtain fell. The girl sounded like one of those caged nightingales that tenants keep on the rooftops. Osamu just sounded like a selfish bastard.

  “Get me a seashell,” I tell him. “A nice one.”

  “Stop shitting me.”

  “No, really. I need a seashell.” I need the girl behind those bars to trust me. I need to give her the things Osamu won’t. I need to stop this sick swirl in my stomach.

  “Anything else?”

  I shake my head.

  “Fine. Tomorrow. Same time. I’ll have your shell.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” I don’t try to keep the snark from my voice.

  My handler slides back into the curtain of rain, into Seng Ngoi. I watch him walk until all I can see is the pinprick light of his cigarette. I watch even when that disappears, taking in every sight I can of my old city. The wide, even pave of its streets. The unbroken glass of its doors and windows. Lights in all neon hues advertising everything from dancing and drinks to jewelry and manicures. The trash receptacles on every corner.

  I watch until the darkness of the streets starts to grow inside my chest. I push myself off the cannon and duck back into the tunnels of Hak Nam. Away from home.

  More shops are open now, getting ready for the dawn rush. Smells and sizzles spill from their doorways, awakening growls in my empty stomach. Fried rice, vegetable rolls, every kind of meat, savory noodles, and garlic. Vendors call morning greetings to one another, borrow ingredients, trade dishes. Most of them nod at me as I pass, calling out the merits of their food.

  “You look like you need some eel this morning, Dai-lo!”

  I always wince a little at this nickname, so close to my real one. Big brother. They mean no harm by it. But it still stings, always stings. Reminds me of what I’m not anymore.

  “It’s hearty food!” The vendor goes on. “Good for winter!”

  “No eel!” The vendor on the other side of the street scowls, pointing to his own steaming pot. “You need snake soup, for strength and cunning!”

  A third seller laughs. “For breakfast? No, Dai-lo! You want rice porridge and tea! It will set your digestion right!”

  Good digestion or not, it’s a bun morning. I decide this as soon as the sm
oky smells of dough, pork, soy, ginger, and honey swim like hot gold through the air. I watch Mr. Kung slide a fresh tray of cha siu bao from his oven’s shimmering heat.

  He gives a knowing smile. “Three?”

  “Six today.” Usually I have breakfast alone. I have every meal alone. But I think of how much Jin looked like a skeleton under those brothel lights. He needs better food, and I need him running fast to keep Longwai’s blade off my throat. Plus I want to make sure Kuen hasn’t torn his camp to shreds.

  Mr. Kung scrapes six disks of dough from the tray and drops them into a paper bag. “Have a good day, Dai-lo.”

  I nod, wishing his words could come true. But I have a feeling that Day Fifteen will be like every other day before it.

  JIN LING

  Rain has leaked into my shelter. Everything is wet and shivering: my teeth, fingers, toes. I strip off my clothes and try to ignore how badly I’m shaking. My bindings stay tight against my breasts, protecting my knife. The orange envelope with my share of bills.

  Chma yowls as I settle in, clawing his way into my lap. He’s warm enough to make me stop shaking. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and watch my breath shimmer in the air. Here, in the dark quiet of night, I can’t help but think of the jade dealer. There was so much blood. I wonder where he is now. If some doctor sewed up the hole my knife made. Or if he bled out, right there in the market.

  It was us or him, I tell myself. A cut in the arm for two lives. A fair trade.

  Us. How long has it been since I used that word? Not since the Reapers pulled my sister from our bamboo mat, and I watched, screaming. My twiggy, twelve-year-old frame helpless against so many men. I couldn’t fight. Couldn’t stop them from taking her.

  Since then, it’s been only me. No one to slow me down. No one for me to protect. No one to betray me.

  But now I don’t have a choice. If I want to keep looking for my sister, I have to keep working with Dai. The idea makes me uneasy, but it’s not all bad. It’ll be nice to talk to someone whose vocabulary is wider than a meow.…

  …

  The sound of footsteps jerks me back into full consciousness. It’s still dark—but my body has that sluggish ache that means I’ve been asleep. I don’t have time to wonder about it. Someone’s coming.

  “Jin?”

  My heart slows its rapid rabbit race. It’s only Dai. Again. “What do you want?”

  “You haven’t moved,” he says.

  “I’ve been too busy,” I tell him. This isn’t completely true—I realize as soon as I say this. It’s actually because I’m not afraid of Dai.

  “I was sure you wouldn’t still be here.”

  I remember, in a panic, that I’m not dressed. I’ve just thrown the still-damp clothes over my head when Dai pokes his head through the tarp’s hole.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Got us some breakfast.”

  New smells slide through the mildew stench of my tarp. Wonderful smells. Dough and sweet, tangy meat. My mouth waters. The hunger that’s always inside me stretches. Roars.

  But why would Dai spend his hard-earned money on breakfast? For me? I never even buy food for myself. Money, when I do have it, goes toward tarps and knives. Things I can’t steal quite as easily.

  “What’s the catch?” I ask.

  “No catch.” Dai’s stare flicks down to my tunic. I realize my hand is tucked there, reaching for my knife. Pure instinct. I pull my hand back out. Leave the blade hidden. “Let’s just call it a thank-you for keeping me alive back at Longwai’s.”

  “Did you know he was looking for permanent runners?” I watch Chma slink closer to Dai. The smell of meat makes him give a long, low whine.

  “No. He made it sound like a onetime deal. I had no idea it would be a test.” Dai sticks the bag of food through the hole in the tarp and waves it around. Chma yowls louder, swiping a paw at the brown paper: Miiiiiiiiiine. “Now, come on. Let’s go eat some buns.”

  “Go where?”

  “You and your questions.” He rolls his eyes, pulls his head out of my makeshift tent. “Come on. It’s stopped raining.”

  I stare through the hole for a moment. Into the dark chill. My body aches for sleep, the warmth of my blanket. But I want the buns more.

  I follow Dai to the end of my alley through the twists and nooks of squalid shanties. We go up and up—up stairs, through hallways of peeling paint and spidery mildew stains, up ladders, across bridges of bamboo and wire. I keep the older boy at a distance, hand always waiting to jump to my knife. He leads me through one more narrow passage to the foot of a rusting ladder. When I look up, my breath catches in my throat. At the top is—nothing. A far, black stretch of sky. If I look close enough, I can actually see some stars. They’re faint and chipped. Broken. Every constellation—both the real ones and the ones I invented—has a piece missing. Torn apart by the overwhelming presence of city.

  I follow Dai up the ladder. By the time I reach the top, the older street boy is already far off, weaving through lines of drying laundry. Forests of antennas. When he reaches the edge, he sits there with his feet dangling, paper bag at his side. One push or hard gust of wind could send him over to certain death. He’s either incredibly brave or really reckless.

  I’m not sure which.

  “Come sit,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I walk forward. The lights of City Beyond shine bright—like stars that fell to earth and got wedged in its streets and sidewalks. The kind Mei Yee and I used to watch for. Some of the taller skyscrapers are still lit. More stars, trying to climb their way back home. Make the constellations whole again.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen them,” I say, and crouch next to the older boy. He’s watching the stars, too.

  The air wrinkles with the sound of Dai opening the bag. A nudge against my elbow causes me to jump. It’s only Chma, rubbing his nose and whiskers over my sleeve. I don’t know how he got up here, but this isn’t the first time he’s appeared in impossible places.

  “I come up here sometimes. When all the stuff down there gets too much.” Dai pulls out a bun and pushes the bag closer to me. I don’t hesitate. “I like to remember there’s a sky.”

  “Those are my favorite.” I point off to a cluster of stars, stronger than most, at the crown of one of Seng Ngoi’s tallest buildings. “They always reminded me of a rice scythe.”

  Dai quirks his head, eyes narrowed, seeing that herd of stars in a whole new light. “That’s a unique way of looking at Cassiopeia.”

  “What’s Cassapeah?” The word is eel-slippery on my tongue. I’m sure I’ve said it wrong.

  “Cassiopeia? She was a queen long ago, in a different part of the world. The stories say she was very beautiful, but very proud. Too proud. She smack-talked some goddesses and got herself stuck up there for all eternity.”

  I look back at the group of stars, try to see this beautiful queen. But only the crescent curve of a blade stares back. Glint and hard hours under the sun. Maybe he’s making it up.

  Maybe. But something in his words makes me believe. Makes me want to remember. Cassiopeia. I tuck the name away. The story that goes with these stars.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “It’s… not important.” The older boy goes to take a bite of his bun, only to find Chma pinned to his side. All rub and purr and please feed me eyes. “Hey, cat.”

  “His name is Chma.” I pull my bun apart. Golden juices leak through cracks in the dough. Run hot down my arm. The meat is still burning, too hot to put on my tongue. I nibble at the bread instead.

  “Chma. How’d you come up with a name like that?”

  “You’re not the only one with allergies. He sneezes a lot.” I toss a pinch of bread in Chma’s direction. He pours out of Dai’s lap the way only a feline can: full of frantic dignity. “You know. Chma chma!”

  The street boy’s stare is almost as withering as the cat’s. “Chma chma? Not hat-chi? Or achoo?”

  “Cat sneezes sound different from human sn
eezes!”

  “Okay.” He takes another bite of his stuffed bun, but even a full mouth won’t hide his smirk. “Whatever you say.”

  “I swear, it sounds like that,” I mumble, and look over at the cat in question. He has no interest in sneezing. Instead, he scours the rooftop for more crumbs.

  We eat fast. Three buns each. By the end, my belly is almost full. I pat it with one hand and lick the juice from my fingers. Chma moves on to the empty bag. He inches in: head, shoulders, body. Only his tail curls out.

  The sky in front of us grows light. No more stars—just a lesser darkness. We’ve been so quiet during our meal that I almost forget Dai is here, sitting next to me. That I’m not alone.

  “What brought you here?” I jump when my companion finally speaks. “You’re a good thief. Not to mention whip-smart. You’d do well in Seng Ngoi. Why stay in Longwai’s territory?”

  I’ve never told anyone about my sister. Not even Chma. It’s too painful to talk about her.

  “I’m not ready to leave yet.” Really, there’s nothing else to tell him. I don’t know the answers. I don’t know where my sister is. I don’t know what I’ll do when I find her. Where we’ll go. What we’ll eat. How we’ll live.

  “What about you?” I ask, pushing those worries into a far, dusty corner. “Why are you here?”

  Dai stares out at City Beyond. Light is coming. Shining soft, clean colors between the skyscrapers: the purple of lotus petals, the dusty pink of Chma’s tongue, and blue. So much blue.

  “I’ve got nowhere else to go,” he says. The want I saw that first night swims in his eyes. Shimmering with city lights and sun fire. Reaching for the skyscrapers. The sea beyond.

  “You look like you’ve got money.” I glance at the bag Chma is buried in. Those stuffed buns aren’t cheap. “Why don’t you just move?”

  “It’s not that easy.” A story lurks behind his words. I wonder if it has anything to do with his scar. With the reason he’s agreed to risk his life every time I run. But I can’t ask him these things without having questions thrown back at me. I don’t want this boy of scars and secrets digging into my memories.