The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Jun felt as if he were running in place, like a fish struggling against a powerful current and getting nowhere. In the narrow passageway, he could hear his own breath, rougher and louder in his ears than even the clamor of pursuing soldiers.
He ran hunched over, lamp held in front of him, afraid of hitting his head on the low ceiling or taking a tumble on the uneven floor. The walls of the tunnel were rock and packed dirt; his feet splashed through occasional puddles that made him think the tunnel sometimes flooded when heavy rainfall glutted the lake around the Island. The oil in his lamp was almost depleted; once the light was gone, he’d be left feeling his way out.
At least he was unlikely to be trapped down here to die; it was morbidly reassuring to know that Cobu’s soldiers would get him first. They could only chase after him in single file and would be slowed down by armor and weapons, but he had no doubt they were motivated. None of them would want to report his escape to the general.
Blessed Lady of Many Hands, help me.
A faint breeze touched Jun’s face. With a surge of hope, he redoubled his speed. Where there was a breeze, there was an exit to the outside. His lamp swung back and forth, then with a final, feeble gutter, went out. Jun stumbled to a halt, cursing, as his vision cut to black.
A minute passed, his eyes straining to adjust as he crept forward blindly. Then the surrounding darkness faded; the pale gray afternoon sky beckoned, the circle of salvation widening as he dropped his useless lamp and rushed forward, arms stretched out to the walls. The breeze grew stronger, tantalizingly cold and fresh. As he drew closer to the exit, the tunnel narrowed until he was crawling on his hands and knees. Jun tumbled out onto a narrow spit of dirt and rocks, nearly falling face-first into the water that lapped up against his toes.
Steward Tang had told the truth; he’d emerged from underneath one of the four bridges connecting the Island to the rest of the city. Glancing back over his shoulder, he couldn’t see the tunnel entrance anymore; it was cleverly positioned so as to be hidden by the bridge’s stone supports and wouldn’t be visible from the opposite bank. The lake stretched calmly before Jun, the dark reflection of the bridge’s arch wavering gently on the water’s surface.
Relishing the bliss of being out of that awful tunnel and in open space breathing fresh air, Jun momentarily forgot his pursuers. The sound of men’s voices behind him made him whirl around. Jun’s mind raced with indecision; he could fight the soldiers here, one at a time as they emerged from the tunnel. But he was in no shape to fight. He had no weapon against the soldiers’ swords and armor, and the commotion might quickly attract attention from the city watch.
Taking a deep breath, he dove into the lake.
Cold water closed over his head, and he was submerged in darkness once again. Fear hit him, worse than it had back in the tunnel. Jun wasn’t a strong swimmer. As children, he and Sai had learned how to swim in the placid river near their home, where his father had sometimes taken them to catch fish. Jun had learned to swim first, of course, but within six months, his twin was faster and more at ease in the water. Afterward, they would lie on the bank in the sun until they dried off, then play games of hide-and-seek until their mother called them in for supper.
Sai had won those games, too. He found Jun no matter where he hid.
That had been a long time ago. Jun had been a city dweller since moving to Cheon; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to swim. He fought the overwhelming urge to push his head out of the water and gasp for breath.
Stay calm, Sai’s voice counseled. He was in a man-made lake; there was no current to take him out to sea or over a waterfall, and no watery creatures that could harm him. He was in far more danger out of the water than in it. Floating still for a moment, he found and centered his energy, took a deep mental breath in place of a literal one. Muscle memory guided his arms and legs. Knowing any splash could give him away, he swam below the surface, kicking for the other side of the lake. His lungs began to protest, then to demand, and then to scream with fiery need. He couldn’t tell how far he’d gone; whether he was near the city side at all, or whether, if he came up gasping for air, he’d be immediately seen by his pursuers, shot down by arrows and dragged ashore like a speared fish.
He held out for as long as he possibly could, chest and limbs burning with agony, until he had no choice but to aim for the surface. Breaking through, he sucked in a deep lungful of delicious air, half expecting it to be his last. Instead, he saw that he was only a few strokes away from the shore. Spinning around in the water to look back at the Island, he could make out moving figures fanning out along the bank and lighting torches, searching.
A shout went up. Lights began to converge on the shore.
Jun dove back underwater and swam the last few body lengths to dry ground as fast as he could, no longer bothering with stealth. Dripping water, he scrambled over slick round rocks to the bottom of the inclined retaining wall that sloped up to the street above. Jun began to climb, hands and feet finding purchase on the jutting stone. Twice, his wet shoes slipped on the slick rocks, and he barely kept his grip, hauling himself up by his arms, thankful for all the conditioning and agility drills the Iron Core school had forced him to do over the years. A splash sounded behind him, followed by a thunk uncomfortably close to his left. They were shooting arrows at him, but in his sodden black clothes, cloaked by the shadow of the bridge and the onset of dusk, he was not as easy a target as he would’ve been just an hour ago.
Jun reached the top of the wall and heaved himself over the edge, rolling and flattening himself to the ground as another arrow whistled across the lake and embedded itself into the wall where Jun had been.
Staying low, he got to his feet and ran in a crouch, darting behind the nearest row of stalls. The sprawling marketplace that had formed for the Guardian’s Tournament had shrunk; merchants from outside the capital were taking down their stalls, packing up their remaining wares, and departing for home, hurrying to make it out of the city before the gates closed for the night. Jun was fortunate that some booths remained, and that the crowds were minimal—people picking up last-minute souvenirs and haggling for steep deals. He jogged, hugging walls and corners, trying to orient himself, at one point running into a dead end and having to double back. He didn’t know the streets of the capital well; he’d memorized how to get to the Golden Gate Inn, but that did him no good. A few minutes of running and he was already winded, his sore body slowing him down. His wet clothes clung to his chilled skin.
“News, terrible news!” A small crowd of passersby paused to listen to the crier on the street corner. “The Scroll of Heaven has been stolen!” A gasp went up from those nearby; more people hurried over to hear the news. “Agents of the East had help from within. Guardian Li—yes, the one we cheered as the Little Dragon—has betrayed the country!”
Exclamations of anger and disbelief rose up at his pronouncement. “Yes, it’s true,” the crier went on, gleeful at the reaction. “Li Jun was born in the East and is in league with the scheming villains who sit on the Council there. He passed the Scroll to our enemies and has fled the Guardian’s Residence. Anyone who sees him must alert the White Phoenix Guard at once. Spread the word throughout the city. Do not let the traitor escape!”
Jun ducked around the nearest corner behind an herbalist’s shop, heart pounding. A bundle of rags stirred next to his feet; an old beggar woman extended a wizened arm, thrusting an empty cup toward him. “A copper yun, a single yun?” she wheezed hoarsely. “Dragon rewards kindness.”
Jun glanced down at her, afraid that she would recognize him and yell for soldiers. But the beggar’s eyes were milky and unseeing, reminding Jun, with a pang, of Sifu Chang, although it was sadly apparent that this woman had no special ability that could compensate for her blindness.
“Do you know how to get to the Fragrant Spring Inn?” Jun asked the beggar.
“Perhaps, perhaps.” She waggled the cup.
Around the corner, the crier was still declaiming. “General Cobu, with the emperor’s blessing, has mobilized the Sixth Division to strike back at the East and bring the Scrolls of Heaven and Earth back to their rightful place! May Dragon and his Blessed Consort protect the great general as he defends our realm!”
Jun tore off the pearl buttons on his sodden embroidered silk shirt and dropped them, clinking, into the outstretched cup. “Please. Tell me how to get there. And give me your scarf.”
The woman rolled one of the pearls between knobby fingers and bit down on it. With a crooked-toothed grin, she pointed down the street behind them. “Go through the entertainment quarter until you reach the theater house, then turn east and go roughly one and a half li into the Twentieth Ward. The Fragrant Spring is the first two-story inn on the Street of Blossoms.”
“And from there, how do I get out of the city?”
The beggar raised eyebrows that were barely there. “The Twentieth Ward is perhaps six li from the southeast gate. Follow the day merchants leaving the city on Meridian Avenue.” She unwound her shawl, a length of ratty fabric in a color Jun could not distinguish beneath the dirt.
“Good luck, young man,” she cackled as he turned away from her. “War is coming, eh? It is a great wind that blows everything in its path sideways and upside down. The high may fall, and the lowly rise, no? You’re wise to leave now. Get a head start before the others who’ll run, yes.”
When Jun peeked around the corner, the crier had moved on to another street, there to repeat his announcements. He’d left behind a bulletin nailed to the nearest wall—a picture of Jun’s face, drawn rather crudely by a hasty artist, Jun thought—and the large characters: TRAITOR. A potent mix of anger and fear surged and boiled in Jun’s belly.
Cobu was wasting no time capitalizing on the Scroll’s disappearance. Yama’s deception had been a boon for the general. All he had to do was twist the facts to pin the blame on Jun, and he was rid of an unwanted Guardian and in possession of a war mandate in one swoop.
“It’s just as the military warned us,” one man muttered to another as they walked away from the wall, angrily shaking their heads. “Enemies hiding among us in plain sight. It’s like the story of Shin Di all over again.” He spat on the ground.
Shin Di, the traitor who’d handed the Scroll of Earth over to the enemy. Cobu and his followers were good at promoting the parts of history that served the narrative they wished to tell. Maybe, Jun thought darkly, he really was just a thread in a repeating cosmic pattern, a mere echo.
Not of Shin Di, though, like the city now believed, but his brother, Shin Ge. The one who’d put his faith in the wrong place and been betrayed. The failed Guardian.
With a grimace and a stifled gag at the smell, Jun wound the dirty scarf around the bottom half of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed below his wet hair. He didn’t look any less conspicuous, but at least his face wouldn’t be recognized. The thought that he was following the example of Ghostface made him smile under his mask at the irony.
Trying to breathe shallowly and move quickly, Jun stepped back out onto the street. Half a dozen people were looking at the posted sign with his face. Two White Phoenix Guards were standing on the corner to his right. As a passing carriage cut them from view, Jun turned left and hurried from the scene as quickly as he could without drawing attention.
You better be there, Yin. Very soon, Yin Yue might be the only one left in all Xicheng who wouldn’t turn him in to the authorities to be disemboweled.