Breath of Earth Page 11

  “Ingrid,” Lee’s voice was sharp as he yanked on her arm. “Walk.”

  She hadn’t even realized she had stopped moving. Dry-mouthed, she followed.

  After a series of quick turns, they pattered down a gray-walled staircase that stank of roasted peanuts. The smell invaded her nostrils as they walked on, down and down. She had heard rumors that Chinatown extended five stories underground, but had long dismissed them as ludicrous; anyone building that deeply underground into turf so readily liquefied in an earthquake, even with a school of wardens nearby, was foolish. Now she wondered if the rumors were true.

  Slits in the brick walls cast slivers of light on the floor. She glanced at an opening and met a pair of eyes staring right back at her. Ingrid barely bit back a squeal. She jerked her gaze forward, to Lee, as the itchy feeling of being watched followed her all the way down the corridor.

  “Boo how doy.” Lee whispered the words so softly she almost missed them.

  “What?” she whispered, discomforted to hear him speak Chinese.

  “Hatchet men. Highbinders. Guards. Just walk, Ingrid. You’re with me.”

  Assassins, the real thing—not a turbaned, dashing Thuggee on the cover of a dime novel. She walked. She walked quickly.

  Finally, Lee led them upward. Ingrid sagged in relief at the presence of sunlight, and then they turned again, delving into the interior of some building. Not a ramshackle abode like the weary yet bright stores along Dupont either. Her boots clip-clopped across a parquet floor so reflective she could have paused to fix her hair. White wainscoting adorned the walls to waist level. It was what she’d expect of a staid office building off of Market.

  A full-sized statue in jade guarded an alcove, and she knew it had to be of Emperor Qixiang.

  The delicate drapery and pleats of his layered robes looked utterly lifelike. His hands were extended, one holding a scepter and the other seeds: symbols of royalty and his bond with commoners. The expression on his face was sorrowful and stern together, like a father disappointed with a child. A ponytail tugged back the hair on the top of his head, but the rest fell in green wavy locks to his shoulders.

  Earlier Manchu rulers had ordered all Chinese men to adopt one particular hairstyle, the queue. To style their hair otherwise meant treason and death. Qixiang’s Restoration made all haircuts permissible, and he had made an example of himself by altering his hair according to weekly whims. Not that he was a whimsical person in other ways. He famously defied Japan. If he had handed China over to Japanese rule, he and his family would have been allowed to live out their lives sequestered in the Summer Palace. Instead, he declared, “My Qing Code holds true. I will not live as a prince as my people die as rats.”

  He joined the last desperate wave of refugees from China and died of smallpox in San Francisco in the early 1890s.

  “The image of Qixiang is illegal,” Ingrid murmured. Everything about this place stood in glimmering defiance of the Unified Pacific—and the squalor of thousands of Chinese just beyond the door.

  “Yes,” said Lee, barely giving the priceless statue a glance. He walked down the hallway. Ingrid followed, casting the jade man a final look over her shoulder. The sadness in his eyes made her want to weep.

  Other alcoves contained depictions of other men in both statues and paintings. It wasn’t until they passed several that she realized they were of the same man—a robust figure in armor, his face flushed and eyebrows severe, a halberd hoisted in his left hand.

  “Who’s that?” she murmured.

  “Guan Yu.”

  She blinked, recognizing the name from Mr. Sakaguchi’s lessons. Guan Yu was revered as a god of war and a guardian, a figure to be granted offerings and prayers. To tell tales of Guan Yu, to evoke him, to read or perform Romance of the Three Kingdoms: the punishment for all was death.

  “Ingrid.” Lee stopped before a doorway. “Do you trust me? With your life, trust me?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Lee gave a little nod and motioned her into the room. It was a pristine space to rival any of the fancier hospitals in the outer city. Chairs and laboratory equipment were spaced out every five feet. The sharp tang of antiseptic cleared her nose.

  “This is downright Pasteurian,” murmured Fenris.

  Lee walked to one side and did something at a table, his back to them. “Fenris, I have to ask you to step back. I don’t know you. I sure as hell shouldn’t have either of you here, but this is just for Ingrid. If anyone here knew I did this . . . well, it wouldn’t be approved.”

  Fenris frowned, brows drawn in, and stayed put.

  “Lee . . . ?” asked Ingrid.

  “Don’t ask questions. Just trust me.” He turned, holding a syringe. Clear liquid filled the barrel.

  Fenris sucked in a sharp breath. “You sure about this?” he muttered to her. “Mysterious fluids being injected into your body?”

  Ingrid didn’t step back, even as her heart beat faster. At a motion from Lee, she rolled up her sleeve. He positioned the needle at her wrist.

  “You’ve done this before,” she murmured. She flinched as the needle entered her vein, but was surprised at the lack of pain. “It didn’t—”

  “I numbed the needle for you.” A few seconds later, it was done. Lee discarded the syringe into a basin and met her eye. His expression was sincere, loving in a way that she had never seen before. “I’ve had in mind to do that for ages. That’s one good thing to come of this trip.”

  “How much farther to Mr. Sakaguchi?” She noted the tiny red mark on her arm as she rolled down her sleeve again.

  “We’re almost there.” Lee guided them onward. They rounded a corner and Lee opened a door.

  Mr. Sakaguchi lay on a bed in yet another stark and sterile room. The bed frame was metal; good, as that meant it wouldn’t conduct well in an earthquake. He was also at least one floor up, so if he was unconscious or unable to move, he’d draw very little power. Sheets snugly tucked him in all the way to the shoulders, reminding Ingrid of an exhibition of mummies she viewed when she was a child. His skin was blanched, as if it reflected the white of his surroundings.

  His eyes met hers, and an expression of pure horror swept over his face.

  “Miss Carmichael,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  The formality pained her. She bowed her head. “I had to come, Mr. Sakaguchi.”

  A chair scraped against the floor, and she noticed the old man as he stood upright. He was as wizened as a Fresno raisin left far too long in the sun. Fleshy folds buried his eyes in such deep crevices that she couldn’t even see the whites. His clothes were cream satin in pure Chinese fashion. A Mandarin collar pressed against his neck, while a Manchu queue braided as tight and tiny as a rat’s tail draped over his shoulder and to his waist. The entire front of his head was shaved.

  She stared at his hair. Rebels were said to wear the bing as a tribute to Emperor Qixiang. She had heard of American soldiers who kept such Chinese scalps as trophies.

  If this man dared to walk down any street outside of Chinatown, he’d be butchered within minutes. This man wasn’t a lackey in some tong—he was a rebel to the very heart.

  The old man’s voice creaked out a long sentence in Chinese. Lee answered in turn.

  Hearing Lee speak fluently unnerved her. She couldn’t help but glance around, self-conscious, as if one of Sutcliff’s soldiers lurked nearby.

  “What are you two saying?” Ingrid asked, doing her utmost to keep her voice calm and level. Inside, she was ready to bolt for the familiar streets and smells of her San Francisco.

  “You don’t want to know,” Mr. Sakaguchi murmured.

  Did that mean Mr. Sakaguchi understood them? Ingrid sat in a chair at his bedside. Her fingers twitched with the need to hold his hand, and instead she tangled her fingers together.

  “Thank you for taking care of him,” she said in very loud English, making eye contact with the old man.

&nbs
p; “This is Uncle Moon,” said Lee.

  Uncle Moon jabbed his hand in the air and rumbled out more Chinese. The more he spoke, the more anxious she became. Frustration tightened her throat. Damn it all, she wanted to know what he was saying! Was Mr. Sakaguchi going to die? Where were they taking him?

  Lee bowed low. Taking the cue, Ingrid stood and offered Uncle Moon a gracious but shaky curtsy. The old man grunted acknowledgment and hobbled out.

  She collapsed into the chair again. “What did he say?” What did you say? she also wanted to ask. She had always known Lee was born in America, but because speaking Chinese was forbidden, she had never asked how fluently he knew the tongue. Some part of her had just assumed he didn’t, because he wasn’t supposed to. Ignorance didn’t feel like bliss. It felt like stupidity, and she hated it.

  “That Mr. Sakaguchi needs his strength for the journey ahead. You only have a few minutes.” Lee motioned to Mr. Fenris. “Come with me.”

  Fenris had struck a lazy pose, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, but his face was hard with tension. He nodded to Ingrid, and then followed Lee from the room. The door shut with a soft click.

  “Oj—”

  “No.” His voice was sharp, and he jerked his head to the side to cough. “A shut door means nothing, not here.” He motioned with his head, and she bent close to him. “You’re unharmed?”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered back, though she self-consciously clutched the spot where Lee had injected her. “Lee said they are taking you away.” She paused, and thought to change tactics. “Nihongo de hanashimashou ka?”

  “No. Speaking in Japanese won’t help. They know the tongues of their enemies, as well they should.” He paused. His breath stroked her cheek, hot and stale. “You should never have come here, Ingrid. Something terrible is happening. The auxiliary. The attack at our house.”

  “Are the tongs behind it? I didn’t know who Lee’s uncle was—I mean, I knew sending you to Chinatown at all was a risk, but . . .”

  “No. The Chinese do not want me dead, not yet.”

  “Can I trust Lee?” It was a bit late to second-guess that.

  “Lee . . . Lee is important. A brilliant boy. That’s why I took him in. So much depends on him, on his eyes being wide open, on his thorough education. You two need to take care of each other, and you must escape the city. The tickets. There can’t be just three geomancers within the city. It’s too few, too dangerous. You can’t stop whatever comes. You can’t . . .”

  Oh God, she still hadn’t told him about Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Thornton. “But—”

  “There’s a box hidden at home. The namazu . . . wall . . . the danger . . .” His voice trailed into a hoarse cough. He shuddered in pain as he wiggled an arm free of the constraining blanket. His strangely gnarled hand grasped hers. “Forgive me. Please.” Another cough racked his body.

  Ingrid reared back, blinking in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” The words were a hoarse whisper. “Sorry.”

  The door behind her burst open. “We have to go,” Lee snapped. “Now.”

  Ingrid bent over Mr. Sakaguchi and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered. He squeezed her hand with trembling ferocity, then let go.

  She paused to form fox ears against her head, only for a split second, long enough to make him smile.

  Mr. Fenris waited in the hall, and the two of them followed Lee at a half run as he took them opposite the way they came. “What is it?” she gasped.

  “There are people you shouldn’t meet,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to ask more, but thought better of it, and simply ran. The warmth of Mr. Sakaguchi’s touch faded.

  The grandeur and portraits and electric sconces blurred. What had Mr. Sakaguchi meant? The namazu—the wall of prints in his office? There had to be a hiding place there, some nook or cranny.

  A staircase wound into the bowels of Chinatown, and through another corridor. The surroundings blended together as she ran. She focused on home—on a house guarded by an armored tank and soldiers already convinced of her guilt in something she didn’t understand.

  Blue fog rose through the floor, so thin and vaporous that she wanted to dismiss it as a trick of the low light. Momentum carried her forward for several more long strides. The sudden warmth of the energy teased at her awareness.

  “Earthquake!” she cried, and only then did the tunnel begin to shift and rumble.

  CHAPTER 8

  Heat coiled up Ingrid’s legs. She staggered at the sweet shock of it. She had only been underground during an earthquake a few times, and none of them had this much power.

  Mr. Fenris and Lee gasped and stopped in their tracks.

  Ingrid dipped to the ground to suck in the energy unimpeded. Power tingled up her fingers in happy whirls. She smiled, closing her eyes. God, it felt good. Like a heavy quilt ensconcing her body after being numbed by a bitter winter wind. When the energy flowed, she didn’t feel frustrated at being a secretary, being a woman, being unable to help Mr. Sakaguchi, being ignorant, being so . . . so . . . powerless.

  The warmth of a fever flushed her cheeks and sizzled on her neck, and still the energy poured into her.

  That’s when the sense of bliss stopped, and fear filled her along with everything else.

  She was the only geomancer in contact with the ground. She was the only person here to take in this flood.

  Ingrid’s eyes snapped open and she lurched to her feet. For the first time, she was aware of rumbling and powder sifting from the ceiling. A metal sconce protruded from the wall not three feet away. Grimacing with sudden queasiness, she leaped for it. Her fingers wrapped around the coiled iron and her shoes kicked against the metal-paneled wall. Like a shut-off faucet, the flow of energy stopped, but pressure still burbled through her veins. Her head seemed to float, hot and buoyant, as her vision wavered and created a mirage of three dancing sconces not far from her face.

  After several long seconds, the rumbling stopped. Ingrid let go. Her legs didn’t quite work. Her buttocks smacked against the floor, followed by her back and skull. Pain exploded through her head as ceiling beams rotated like wagon spokes. Another small quake lapped against her skin, the additional heat addling her brain even more.

  “Ingrid? Ingrid!” Lee’s voice was far too loud. She shook her head to try to make it go away.

  “What the hell was that?” said another voice. Mr. Fenris.

  As the world continued to swim, her brain managed to latch on to one fact. Lee knew what she could do. He had for ages. He was just too integrated into the household. Had he told his uncle’s people about her? No. No, he couldn’t have. When Japan invaded mainland Asia, the first thing they’d done was target any magic users. Wui Seng Tong would want to use a geomancer—especially a woman, whom no one would suspect of possessing talent. If they knew about her, she wouldn’t have been allowed to leave.

  She squeezed her eyes shut to make the hallway stop shimmying about like a burlesque dancer. The pain was gone, but the weirdness of fever remained.

  The highbinders would use Mr. Sakaguchi. Whether they had worked with him before or not, circumstances had changed. He was vulnerable and in their control. With him, they could fill kermanite. They could power airships at a cheaper, faster rate. They could fight back against the Unified Pacific, even strike here, in America. Under these circumstances, with the likes of Captain Sutcliff already suspecting the worst, America would think Mr. Sakaguchi was a willing collaborator.

  Maybe he was. Maybe he had been for years.

  “Ingrid?”

  “Give me a moment. Please.” She inhaled long and deep, and opened her eyes. The ceiling beams no longer spun. She propped herself up on her elbows. The two men crouched beside her.

  “I get these strange spells sometimes,” she said to Mr. Fenris, knowing the explanation was inadequate.

  “That coincide with earthquakes?” Skepticism edged his voice.

 
“Can you walk, Ingrid? By yourself?” Lee asked.

  She nodded. She’d make sure she could. Grinding her teeth, she worked herself upright. A blue sheen rippled against the floor like the ocean at low tide.

  “Do you need me to, ah, help you walk?” Mr. Fenris asked. He made it sound as repulsive as probing a manure mound.

  “No.” Ingrid took a few unsteady steps. The others flanked her as an unsaid precaution. The end of the tunnel was in sight. She fumbled one hand beneath the coat and into her dress pocket. There, beneath Mr. Sakaguchi’s keys, she found a cold chip of kermanite. Her fingertips tingled at the contact, and energy trickled out. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dribbled down her jaw. She searched out the second piece and found it tucked between keys. Her skin cooled, but only slightly. She still held too much within, and had no more empty kermanite.

  Ingrid remembered the terminology on the classroom chalkboard when the auxiliary was ripped asunder. Hyperthermia, hypothermia. The quick countdown to death.

  She needed to find more empty kermanite or vent power through brute force—that, or feel as though she should be bed bound with an intense bout of influenza.

  The street had been busy before, but now it teemed with people who wailed and pointed to buildings around them. Words in English boiled together, but a word in Chinese stood out to Ingrid as it repeated all around.

  “Dilong . . . Dilong . . .”

  “What are they saying?” asked Fenris.

  “That’s one Chinese word the teachers were allowed to say at the auxiliary. Dilong! Earth dragon,” Ingrid said. “A geomantic Hidden One of China.” Images from lectures flashed through her mind—the yellow dragon, his talons digging massive fissures in the dirt.

  Elbows and shoulders pounded against Ingrid as the throng squeezed in. A flailing parasol caught her hat and sent it spiraling into the stampede.

  A frenzied neigh cut the air. A horse lay impaled against a wooden cart, the wagon behind it tipped on its side. Tiger-striped melons sprawled across the street like shattered skulls. Other horses whinnied, hooves tapping a rapid staccato beat. Ireland’s Hidden One was a horse, and nonmagical cousins always reacted most strongly to the shifting earth.