Brain and bone porridge it is. I stalk over to the mortal. Garlic duty will absolutely be worth the satisfaction of shutting him up, but Bullhead blocks my foot with the flat of his blade. The blue flames tickle my ankles, pleasantly cool against my aching arch.
‘Temper, temper, Lady Jing,’ he says, his blade unyielding. ‘Remember the rules. Breathe, then count to ten.’
I roll my neck from left to right, making the bones crack, then throw him a glare worthy of sinking a thousand ships.
‘Big Wang has been waiting for this delivery with some anxiety,’ Bullhead continues, unmoved by my posturing. ‘He was most clear that no damage should come to his guest. A mortal with half a head will be quite a problem, and we don’t want to upset Big Wang, now do we?’
‘I was only going to bruise him a little,’ I mutter.
Mr Lee stills, turns his head just enough to glimpse the flaming sword keeping my foot from crushing his skull. His gulp is loud in the tense silence.
‘Lord Nioh is quite right, Little Jing.’ A voice of shadow and grit makes us all turn.
Big Wang stands before his gilded terrace doors, a giant figure of a man. Bald with bushy eyebrows, skin the blue-black of inky night, and wild-looking eyes which gleam red when he turns his head just so. He wears his favourite ensemble, an emerald silk robe and matching green baggy silwar gathered at the knee. It’s a style he embraced after returning from the last Convention of Immortals, an international version of our Mahjong Council. Big Wang says he likes that all his bits can breathe. Honestly. There should be a rule about how much sharing is appropriate. He’s tied a saffron yellow sash around his ample waist and his robe is open to his navel, showing off the crimson tattoos of cavorting dragons which crowd every inch of exposed skin.
A cigar dangles from his mouth and he takes a slow drag. The end sizzles white, then red like an angry eye. In one hand he clutches a bottle of cognac. He raises a finger and lifts his chin very slightly. Usually, Big Wang has a dozen or so apprentices standing at the ready, but because tonight is the first night of the Ministerial Mahjong Council, he’s only got one apprentice attending him – the rest are busy catering to the many whims of the ministers, no doubt delivering drinks and messages around the Mahjong Hall. A young woman decked out in Big Wang’s livery – grey robes, silk instead of the usual cotton for indentured servants, tied with a bright red sash around her waist – steps forward at his signal carrying a tray with three cut crystal tumblers. Big Wang places the bottle on the tray and strolls over to the koi pond where the mortal cowers. He leans forward, hands on knees, cigar clamped between his teeth.
‘Welcome, Tony Lee. I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable.’ With a meaty hand, Big Wang yanks Mr Lee to his feet, then drapes an arm over the mortal’s shoulders, which in fairness are sculpted and well-muscled, but Big Wang’s size makes Mr Lee look like a scrawny child.
‘Come, let’s talk.’ Big Wang turns his back on me and heads towards his quarters.
I watch them go. For a moment, I’m curious. What does Big Wang want with Mr Lee? What does Mr Lee want? No mortal comes to Hell to vacation. Then I shake myself – curiosity leads to sharing. Sharing leads to caring. Caring leads to having responsibilities which inevitably leads to boring lectures from a dour-faced Horsey. Why should I bother with all that when no one bothers for me?
The apprentice scurries to the terrace doors and offers Big Wang the tray of crystal tumblers. Two of the glasses are filled with cognac; the amber liquid glints gold in the low light. The third tumbler is filled to the brim with a near black liquid that smells like an overripe persimmon – rich and tangy and sweet. My nostrils flare and my fangs pierce my gums with a soft pop. Big Wang plucks a glass of cognac from the tray and hands it to the mortal. He takes the other for himself, then pauses, turns his head to the side, but otherwise doesn’t look at me. ‘That’s for you, Little Jing. Well done.’
The coppery tang of blood dazzles my senses, and my stomach clenches in anticipation. But I push it away. I can’t let Soo’s insult pass. ‘Wait,’ I say.
Big Wang turns slightly, nods for me to continue.
‘When I came up the wall, I passed Lady Soo talking by a window. She openly insulted you, on top of the usual crap she spews about me.’ This time, surely, he can’t deny me. I won’t stand for this stain on his honour. I stand taller. ‘Let me avenge your loss of face.’
‘Lady Jing,’ Horsey hisses, glancing at Big Wang, ‘we do not throw baseless accusations at the ministers of Tian.’
‘I heard her! She said Big Wang was a fool and an imbecile—’
‘Enough.’ Big Wang faces me. His dark eyes bore into mine, as if trying to scrutinise my very soul.
I want to shrink back, but I know what I heard. I force my chin up. ‘She also said they want the Longnu dragon pearl. Is it really that powerful? Is that why you wanted it?’
‘The dragon pearl is not your concern,’ Big Wang says, dismissing my questions about the dragon pearl as he always does. ‘Do you have any witnesses?’
‘Rotted shit sticks. Can’t you take me at my word? Can’t you care aboutmyface when she insults you?’
Big Wang swirls the cognac in his glass. ‘Do I need to remind you about the importance of tomorrow’s plenary council? I do not want anything to distract the ministers, especially not a repeat of the last time you decided to avenge your own loss of face.’
The too familiar burn rises inside me. Everything goes tight. ‘That was ages ago. Besides, she provoked me,’ I grind out.
‘You threw a burning cocktail on her. The ensuing diplomatic crisis between the Hulijing Court and the Ministry of Hell derailed the plenary session completely. The delays meant we missed our window to host the Convention of Immortals and have to wait until the next centenary cycle.’ Big Wang’s voice rumbles low, slow, and full of censure.
Lady Soo got off easy. I remember her from before my mother sold me. How she’d pinch me when my mother was distracted by some shiny new bauble, leaving little red half-moon marks on my arms. How she’d take the yin silver talismans they made and press them into the tender skin of my underarms. Sometimes she’d catch me in a hallway alone and make up some infraction so she could haul me off and punish me. She particularly liked using rattan canes.
The memory of her screams as flames engulfed her and danced in her sizzling hair brings a smile to my face and warmth to my chest. ‘Flaming Bitches are my favourite,’ I say.
‘Little Jing.’ The warning in his tone wipes the smirk off my face.
I shrug. ‘That was the name of the drink.’
Big Wang exhales slowly. ‘I am still paying restitution for the loss of face you caused the Hulijing Court because you cannot control your temper.’
