Beneath Ceaseless Skies #224 Read online

  Issue #224 • Apr. 27, 2017

  “That Lingering Sweetness,” by Tony Pi

  “A Marvelous Deal,” by Kate Dollarhyde

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  THAT LINGERING SWEETNESS

  by Tony Pi

  “Welcome to the Plum Season, Master Deng and Tangren Ao, such as it is,” said the widow Yi to us, understandably sullen. Her tea-and-wine shop should have been as thriving as the street outside, yet it stood eerily empty. “My new hires tried to kill the magistrate on the same night that ghostly rats infested my establishment. Now all my customers stay away.”

  “Which is why I brought Master Deng, in hopes we can turn your fortunes around,” I said between coughs. “His teahouse was well-loved before the arson. If you let him join your business, his old customers would surely follow.”

  I didn’t tell her that I had, in part, caused her misfortune. Besides hawking blown-sugar candy for a living, I was also a conjurer and worked for Magistrate Gongsun in secret. To foil his assassination on that night of the riddle contest, I had conjured those rats out of wine and tea to help me, but in so doing I’d ruined the reputation of the teahouse.

  I had come to fix this wrong.

  But before I could say more, my dog Worry bounded past us, jostling my friend Deng and almost making him drop the small bundle he carried.

  Pup-Brother Aoooooo, howled the spirit of Dog through Worry’s shadow, in a voice that only I could hear. This place reeks of curses. I’ll sniff them out. Follow me!

  Please wait, Most Vigilant One, I cried with my mind’s voice. That was the only magical skill I had left: talking to the twelve shengxiao animals of the zodiac. My power to inhabit caramel figurines and to shape animals from water had been taken from me, mere days ago. But the dog had already vanished up the open staircase in a blur of white.

  “Sorry about her!” I said to the widow Yi. “She has a mind of her own.”

  The widow sighed but managed a half-smile. “Your dog chooses well. Our best tables are in the gallery above. Rest there, gentlemen, while I prepare powder tea and await your proposal.”

  “If I may be bold, madam?” said Deng. “Your teahouse is famed throughout Chengdu for your loose leaf tea.”

  “Loose leaf it is, then, and you’re far too modest,” said the widow. “Your family teahouse was the king of whisked tea in the city... before that ungodly fire. Set by a monkey-shaped flame, they say?”

  Deng knitted his brows. “Yes. It seems we both have grievances against the strange spirits that plague Chengdu.”

  Guilt gnawed at me for that disaster, too. I had shaped a dragon from river water to fight the spreading flames set by a monkey made of fire, but I was too late to save Deng’s teahouse. Yet another wrong to right.

  “There’s an opportunity here for you both,” I said. “Madam, your patrons and staff have abandoned you. Sir, yours await a new teahouse to rise from the ashes. Why not work together?”

  “What of the taint from assassins and rats?” said the widow with resignation in her voice. “I’m cursed, Tangren Ao. I’ve known it since my husband’s death.”

  She excused herself to tend to the tea.

  “She has doubts, as do I,” Deng whispered on the stairs. “What if our bad luck doubles?”

  I huffed as I climbed. “It’s a gamble, whether you languish apart or make a try together. Given the choice? I’d take work.”

  “True. People like us aren’t made to be idle.” He wiped his brow with a blue-gray sleeve. I liked Deng very much. He was earnest and always put his customers’ happiness above his own. “How’s your cold, by the way? Must be hard on sugar-shapers, being ill.”

  “No one buys candy from a man with a cough.” I paused at the top and leaned on the gallery railing to catch my breath. Deng believed it a cold, and I didn’t correct him. It was easier than explaining the wound to my soul, sustained when a man from the Ten Crows Sect jabbed me with an enchanted arrow. Though I had survived, the cough was a result of it, and without strong breath I couldn’t inflate caramel bubbles to shape into zodiac animals. The same fear that had eaten at me for days returned. What if this never healed? What would I do if I could never craft or conjure again?

  The Plum Season Tea-and-Wine Shop was the grandest teahouse in Chengdu, with a wide upper gallery that encircled the atrium like a balcony. Empty birdcages and artful hanging scrolls adorned the walls, with great windows open to the streets on the north and the east sides. We found my dog by the eastern overlook, sniffing the floor beneath a table with her pink nose. As Deng and I approached, I greeted the spirit of Dog echoing within my mind with a reverent thought. Your visit surprises yet honors me, Lord Dog.

  Dog’s gruff voice barked in my mind. You guard this Xiasi and I guard you, as I vowed. Do you smell the two powers here?

  I took a deep breath and caught a mix of scents on the breeze. Dog stink from Worry. Fragrant porkbone soup from the noodle shop nearby. A hint of herbs from Medicine Lane. But the spirit said ‘powers’. I closed my eyes and tried again.

  Faint they were, but there. Two shengxiao powers, though I knew not whose.

  Why would an animal spirit curse the teahouse, let alone two?

  Ask Monkey and Goat. These are their stinks, Dog said and growled. Or pry the secret from the dowager.

  Deng leaned against a window and watched the afternoon crowd down on Market Street. “My daughter said you were here for Matchmaker Tan’s riddle contest that night. Did you see the rats? Or the attack on the magistrate?”

  “I was too deep in the wine,” I said, which was half-true; I had not drank of it but had sent my soul into wine and tea, to make liquid rats to defend Magistrate Gongsun. “But I did help Matchmaker Tan calm people down afterwards.”

  “I’ve always envied the Plum Season for its location, Ao. Thank you for suggesting I work with Yi. I will try it. If this venture succeeds, know that you’ll always be welcome.”

  “That’s a kind offer. Thank you.”

  The widow Yi crested the stairs with a tray of cups, teapot, and three kinds of tea in bamboo scoops. “Our best teas, gentlemen. Yellow Mountain Fur Peak, Ba Mountain Bird’s Tongue, and White Hair Silver Needle. Which shall I brew?”

  Wary of my cough, I examined them from afar. Earthy green, bright green, and pale-haired yellow. I favored none above another, but Deng chose the white tea without hesitation. The widow approved and set the tea to steep.

  Deng proffered a small brick of tea wrapped in silk. “In return, please accept this gift of pu’er tea, madam. May it bring you good fortune.”

  The widow took the tea from Deng. “You are most kind.”

  I wondered if the curses had to do with her husband’s death. Could I earn her trust and convince her to tell me what had happened to him?

  My father had a knack for that. As wandering candymen, we never stayed in one place for long, so we needed to make quick allies to survive. So too did we need to read our customers to best make a sale. He had trained me to watch people and deduce their birth sign from their appearance and personalities. “Some passers-by will buy any caramel creation for the novelty, but more will buy the zodiac animal of their birth year,” Father had once told me. “Thus you must learn not only the clues to a person’s age by their frailty or youth, but also play the part of fortune-teller.”

  Could I do it as skilfully as he?

  “Madam Yi,” I said, “you say you are cursed, and I believe you. We Tangren masters have a deep connection to the shengxiao and their fortunes, and I feel something amiss here. Perhaps if you explain why you think there’s a curse, I can hel
p.”

  The widow raised an eyebrow. “I mean no disrespect, Tangren Ao, but may I ask that you prove you’re no charlatan? Naming my birth year animal will do.”

  After years of practice, I could pinpoint a person’s age within a span of three years. I observed her face, adding new details to what I’d already seen of her gait and bearing. How gray was her hair, how pronounced her wrinkles, how stained her teeth from years of drinking tea. That and more told me she was between fifty-three and fifty-five. This was the Year of the Monkey, which meant she was born Ox, Tiger, or Rabbit. But which?

  I didn’t know her personality well enough to guess her sign. From what I’d seen, she could be any of those three: persistent like Ox; tense like Tiger; cautious like Rabbit. But there was a risk in basing my choice solely on birth-year traits. A person’s fate was determined by the Four Pillars of their birth time: year, month, day and hour. For instance, my year animal Rat, my inner animal Horse, true animal Ox, and secret animal Dog. That was why people born in the same year might have much in common yet differ vastly in quirks and fates.

  I had another trick to try. For we are told all our lives that our birth year ruled our destiny, the mere mention of the shengxiao animal might wrest a reaction from her, however subtle. I just had to watch for her tell.

  “I understand your caution,” I continued. “You trusted your servers, only to be betrayed by two hidden tigers from the Ten Crows Sect. I heard that one fought as stubborn as an ox unto death, while the other fled like a rabbit when the tide of battle turned.”

  The widow’s left eye made the slightest twitch when I mentioned ox. “I did trust them....”

  “What’s that old saying? Bitten one morning by a snake, fear the rope by the well for ten years. There was no way for you to know.”

  I closed my eyes and recited the names of the twelve zodiac animals in the order they had come before Buddha, thrice and thrice again. Then I opened my eyes and spoke.

  “You were born in the Year of the Ox, which is why you aren’t ready to give up this place.”

  The widow Yi nodded. “You’re either clever or lucky, Tangren Ao.”

  “Please, ma’am, tell us what you know of the curse,” I said. “Does it have to do with this table? My dog was drawn to it.”

  She whitened. “If you would, gentlemen, shutter all the windows?” she said in a hushed voice.

  Deng and I rose to attend to the task.

  “So there really is a curse?” whispered Deng to me as we crossed the gallery.

  I coughed. “We’ll see.”

  He went downstairs to close the shutters below while I began with the ones on this floor. Most people in the streets looked up at me and simply hurried past without a second glance, but some patrons at the Cloud Chariot Noodle Shop stared and whispered. I closed the shutters on the noise and the brightness below, dimming the teahouse gallery but for trickles of light.

  When Deng returned, the widow asked us to move our table, tea and all. We set it down again where she instructed. Worry pawed at a particular floorboard in the vacated space, but the widow shooed her away.

  “Tangren Ao, please remove that panel. You’ll need these.” She opened her hand to reveal two coins.

  I took them and knelt to examine the plank. It had angled slots cut into it on opposite ends, which fit the coins part-way in, turning them into makeshift handles that allowed me to lift the panel. Hidden beneath was a box wrapped in yellow silk.

  The scents of shengxiao power—of Monkey and Goat—swirled around the bundle, growing even stronger as I gripped the silk and pulled it out.

  I could now hear clearly two whispered curses, one in each ear. In my left, a plaint that this stolen tribute must be returned to the authorities. In my right, a prod to steal the power of the tribute for my own. Had it been but one imperative, I might have yielded to its coaxing, but the two opposing urges made me unsure that I ought do either.

  Deng reached towards the bundle but then caught himself. “Is that the emperor’s tea that went missing last year?”

  “Yes.” The widow solemnly poured tea for us. “Meng Peak Sweet Dew. Tribute tea.”

  Dog spoke in my mind. Unlike you and me, Pup-Brother, they cannot hear the whispers. But nonetheless the curses bite and hold their will, one pulling this way and the other, that.

  I loosened the knot in the silk. Within was a stately wood-and-lacquer tea box, skillfully made and unmarred. I put it on the table to better admire it. I’d heard of tribute tea years ago from Eighth Uncle, blood brother to my father. In his youth, Eighth had been a chef in the imperial kitchens of the East Capital before it fell, and he had traveled the Jianghu as a vagabond ever since. He had told many tales of the imperial court, the tradition of tribute tea among them. Each year, the finest tea leaves from seven sacred trees on Meng Mountain would be sent to the Emperor, who would make ceremonial offerings only with that tribute.

  The widow sipped from a cup in her trembling hands. “My late husband came into possession of it on the night of the Double Ninth Festival. Two patrons had drawn swords in argument and slew one another. He found the tribute tea among the belongings left behind.”

  I drank from my cup. “How was it stolen in the first place?”

  “Meng Mountain is southwest of Chengdu. On his way east to Lin’an, the Tea Commissioner always stays a night here,” Deng explained. “A thief broke into the inn and took the tribute. You weren’t here then, but there was a city-wide manhunt that yielded nothing but rumored sightings.”

  “My husband and I argued over what to do with it,” the widow Yi said. “We thought of returning it to the Tea Commissioner, but Meng Peak Sweet Dew was said to heal all. What if our eyes begin to fail in our old age, or our bones begin to ache? We could only agree to hide it. Yet nightmares began plaguing my husband, driving him mad.” The widow choked back a sob. “He would crouch under a bridge and stare into the water, rambling on for hours on end about how his reflection was not his own. Not long after, they found him drowned in the river.”

  “If it’s cursed, why not return it to...?” asked Deng, but he didn’t finish his thought. He knew why, as did the widow and I: the urge from the curses to claim it for ourselves was equal to the urge to turn it in.

  Worry growled, her fur a-bristle. Startled, I listened and heard a stair creak. I grabbed the bundle and shoved it under the table, where Worry curled up around it.

  “Madam Yi?” A middle-aged woman in a coral pink robe ascended the stairs to the gallery, all smiles. “Ah, there you are. I was worried when I saw your windows shuttered, and thought I should come by.”

  We rose to greet her.

  “How kind of you to worry, Missus Pan, but all is well,” said the widow. “My guests and I were simply having a quiet tea.”

  Missus Pan, a shrill woman who I’d seen and heard many a time welcoming guests to her noodle shop on the opposite corner of the intersection, nodded sagely. “I told everyone you’d have customers again, Big Sister. Greetings, Master Deng. So sorry to hear about your teahouse burning down.” She turned to me. “And you, sir? I don’t believe we’ve formally met, but I’ve seen you in this neighborhood before, selling sugar animals. My husband and I own the Cloud Chariot Noodle Shop on the other corner.”

  “Greetings, Missus Pan. My name’s Ao. I’ve heard wonderful things about your noodle shop.” Strange that we had not heard her enter, but then we had been entranced by the cursed tribute tea. Had she seen the tea box, or heard Madam Yi talk about the Meng Peak Sweet Dew? We hadn’t put the plank back, either.

  Missus Pan sniffed the air. “Oh, is that white tea? How delightful! Would you mind if I joined you?”

  That wouldn’t do. “Master Deng and Madam Yi were about to discuss business, Missus Pan,” I said with a cough.

  “Business?” Her smile thinned. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re selling the Plum Season?”

  “I’m not,” Yi replied. “We were discussing tea.”

  “Missus Pan
,” I said, “perhaps we should let them talk in private? Let me walk you back to the Cloud Chariot.”

  “I suppose it’s the courteous thing to do. Please accept my apologies for my intrusion. Perhaps we can gossip later, Big Sister.”

  From her polite smile as she allowed me to escort her down the stairs, I couldn’t tell if she had noticed the bundle or not.

  * * *

  Missus Pan and I left the Plum Season together. Not five steps out the door, Worry dashed up to my side.

  “Where are you from, candyman?” asked Missus Pan as we walked.

  “I grew up in the east, going from town to town with my father.” I nodded at a passing city guardsman. Roadside, hawkers peddled diverse wares like gourds, charcoal, and old bean curd with rhyming calls or drumbeats. A few, like the sword juggler and the fanmaker, put their talents on display. If not for this cough I’d be among them, pleasing the crowd with my sugar opera. There was so much I once could make with a bubble of hot caramel: pinching candy into coxcomb and wattle for a rooster, or pulling mane and tail to give shape to a horse. I hated that I couldn’t anymore.

  “Hm. Word on the street is that you’re from Ji’nan. Isn’t that in the part of the empire lost to the Jin invasion?”

  So, she knew more about me than she had let on. “A misunderstanding. My father’s from Ji’nan, and fled south with my grandfather when he was a boy. I’ve never been that far north, and have never called one city my home.”

  “Forgive my questions. They say Jin spies have infiltrated the city, and we must all be vigilant. Chengdu’s just a stop on your wanderings, then?”

  “Perhaps. The city intrigues me, and I may stay awhile.” I was wary of telling her more. I had met her kind many times. Anything I said would become gossip, and I disliked how she soured at the thought of the widow Yi selling the Plum Season to Deng. The long line of patrons waiting to eat at her crowded noodle shop made me wonder if Missus Pan coveted the grander teahouse space to expand her business.

  “When your cough’s better, come by for our signature spicy noodles.” Missus Pan bowed and pushed past her customers and vanished inside her restaurant.