The wisewoman crossed her arms. “Do you have payment?”
“No,” I confessed. “But I’ll owe you—whatever you want.”
Mistress Ming pursed her lips, then spoke as if ordering items at a market. “I want an ounce of rose cuttings. I’d like to try adding flowers to my garden. Ah, but I only want breeds you can’t find in Wen. Also, I’d like a case of candied hawthorn and red bean jellies.”
I nodded eagerly. “It’s a deal.”
“And one last thing,” said Mistress Ming, smiling toothily. “I want a bag of star anise.”
“You can buy star anise from the Ninghe marketplace.”
“Yes, but I’d rather not have to buy my own.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and nodded again. “Very well. A bag of star anise. You’re a penny-pincher, dajie, you know that?”
“Takes one to know one.” Mistress Ming jutted out her chin. “Now, what do you need my help with?”
“Him.” I stepped aside to reveal the body on the ground.
Mistress Ming narrowed her eyes. “What’s the matter with him? Have you forgotten how to control corpses?”
I squeezed my staff and made a face. “No. I’ll explain everything in a moment. First, can you please help me carry him inside? I’d rather not leave him out for the world to see.”
“Is the world so bored as to come peek at my front yard?” But she crossed the threshold and gripped the soldier’s left arm while I held the other. Together, it was much easier to transport the body into the hut’s front room and place him across a handwoven bamboo mat.
I straightened, taking a moment to regain my breath. Around us, shelves of jars, pots, and dried herbs lined the room. A medicinal aroma hung heavy in the air, burning my nostrils. Rusty sunlight filtered in through the blinds, catchingmotes of dust floating about and glancing off a small brass gong sitting beside the wall. The characters forclarityandtruthwere carved into its rounded surface.
“Tell me the story behind this body,” said Mistress Ming, kneeling beside him. “A soldier, I presume, judging by his dress?”
“Yes, from Sian.” I remained standing on the soldier’s other side. “I’m to bring him back to the royal capital, Hulin. But something strange happened when I attempted to reanimate him. He… well, he seemed to come back to life.”
Mistress Ming grasped the soldier’s shoulder and started to turn him over onto his back. “What do you mean ‘back to—’”
Her question hung incomplete in the air as she stared at the soldier’s face. The color drained from her cheeks, the corners of her mouth going taut.
“What is it, dajie?” I asked, scanning the body for signs of movement. He didn’t so much as twitch.
Mistress Ming cleared her throat, leaning back on her heels. In an unusually grave voice, she said, “Start from the beginning, Kang Siying. How did you get involved with this soldier? And what exactly happened when you performed the reanimation ceremony?”
So I started by telling her about the mysterious official who’d sought me out back home and offered me forty thousand silvers to deliver this soldier, who I’d presumed was his son. With my father’s illness and expensive medical needs, I’d quickly agreed and set off for Wen.
I told Mistress Ming about finding the battlefield and locating Renshu. Then I described the events following the reanimation ceremony, the jiangshi attack and the soldier’s interference. When I finished, I said, “I think he might bebreathing, but that doesn’t make sense because he was dead when I found him, I swear it.”
“I believe you,” said Mistress Ming, studying the soldier’s still face. “And I have a theory on what happened, but I’ll need to examine him first.”
I bit my lip. “Will the examination involve cutting him open?”
I took pride in delivering the dead in as good condition as possible, out of respect for them and their loved ones. In this case, I was doubly concerned for the soldier’s comfort, having grown dubious of his deceased state. Though my brain told me he couldn’t possibly be alive—not after lying in that field, unmoving, for so long—it was much less convincing when the signs proved otherwise.
Mistress Ming smiled grimly, shoving up her sleeves. “Don’t worry. It’s a simple enough ritual. I’ll not harm him.” She pointed at the gong behind me. “Bring that over here, would you? I’ll also need a handful of incense sticks from that shelf there.”
When I’d given her all the tools she’d requested, Mistress Ming lit the incense and blew out the flame. Thick trails of smoke drifted from the tips, filling the tiny space. I knelt across from the wisewoman and blinked as the aroma, deep and spicy, flooded my senses. But I reined in any complaints, familiar enough with the wisewoman’s rituals to know to observe in silence.
Moving slowly, deliberately, Mistress Ming swept the incense over the soldier’s head, chest, and legs. The fumes poured over his body like mist from a waterfall, their phantasmal tendrils curling against the floor around him. While chanting under her breath, Mistress Ming used her other hand to softlydrum the gong with its attached mallet, the instrument’s low ring rippling through the smoke. Like the iron chimes I used with my talismans, the gong’s reverberation amplified whatever spell the wisewoman was performing.
I began to feel almost drowsy, as if my soul were unfastening itself from my body, eager to wander out. Just as my eyes started to droop, Mistress Ming finished her chant and looked up.
“Did you feel it?” she asked in the sudden quiet.
