Zhihao was still staring at the woman when she dropped the sword on the table and put her arms through the blouse, and tied it together to hide her chest. When he finally looked up from her breasts he found her staring back with a flat gaze. She could think whatever she wanted, he wanted no piece of her.
"I have decided you will be in charge of the group," the boy said as the woman sat down. Zhihao moaned and slumped in his chair.
She nodded at the boy and turned her attention to Zhihao. "Something you said?"
Zhihao shrugged. "Can't you put that sword somewhere else? Shouldn't you have buried it with the old bastard or something?"
The woman shook her head. "I have a plan for this sword. And I'm happy with it on the table. Why?"
"Because I can still remember what it felt like inside my heart." There was a bitter edge in Zhihao's voice and he was fairly certain he was allowed to be bitter. Just the sight of the blade made his chest hurt.
He expected her to poke fun at him, maybe call him some sort of cowardly name-- it was certainly what the men of Flaming Fist's warband would have done. Instead she picked up the sword, and placed it on the bench next to her, out of sight.
"Uh, thank you." Random acts of kindness confused Zhihao and made him nervous. He pushed his half-finished bowl towards her. "Here, try this."
She looked down at the bowl.
"It's just egg soup. I think the cook put some vegetables in it. I hope that's what the green things are."
The woman spooned some into her mouth, grimaced, and quickly spat it back out. Then she turned that hostile gaze back on Zhihao. He held up his hands and pointed a finger at the saucer of wine in front of him. "Try that next."
"No."
Zhihao sighed. "Just try it. We're both already dead so why would I poison you?"
"You're not dead," the boy said. "You're mostly alive."
"Just try it. Please." It occurred to Zhihao then that he couldn't remember the last time he had said please to anyone.
She picked up the saucer and sipped at it, again grimacing. "How can anyone make rice wine taste so bad? It must be off."
Zhihao shook his head. "At least it isn't just me."
"You're only mostly alive," the boy repeated.
Zhihao let out a growl that was all frustration and no words. "I'm starting to wish you hadn't brought me back. Will all food and drink taste like this?"
"Yes."
The woman shrugged and pulled the bowl of egg soup closer, tucking into the cold, starchy liquid. The table lapsed into a sullen silence that almost convinced Zhihao it was worth leaving them both and suffering the consequences of his separation from the boy. Then he remembered the feeling of his heart tearing open, blood spilling down his chest, and decided he could at least try to lift the mood a little before condemning himself to a second painful death.
"Did he really slay a dragon?" Zhihao sipped at his wine, wincing at the taste. Last time he had been to the inn the wine had been sweet with an odd heat that reminded him of cinnamon on the way down. Now it tasted like dry ash. Still, he rarely drank for the taste alone; there were other benefits to a bottle of wine.
"Yes," the woman replied in between slurps of soup. "Messimere, a great serpent, by all accounts."
"How?"
"How does anyone kill a dragon?"
Zhihao shrugged at that. He'd only ever seen one dragon, Cormar, the Onyx Serpent, as it slithered through the sky in search of prey. It was a truly monstrous thing, longer than any creature had cause to be, and somehow flying without the use of wings. Zhihao was not ashamed to admit, at least not to himself, that he had hid under a chicken coop until he was certain the thing had passed on. "I have no idea how anyone could even try."
The woman smiled at him then, a sly tugging of her lips she tried to suppress. "Exactly."
Zhihao rolled his eyes. "This is why I dislike you people, you answer questions with riddles."
She cocked an eyebrow at that. "You people? So it isn't just me, you hate all Ipians?"
"What? No. I meant women. And I don't hate women, just dislike them. As a rule."
She laughed at that, a quiet chuckle, but her eyes never left the soup. "He had a technique, one he refused to share with anyone. He could rain a hundred swords from the sky. Maybe he used that."
"Now that's something I'd have liked to see." Zhihao sipped at the wine again, still hating the taste. "How did he do it?"
"How do you disappear, leaving a mirage of yourself to blow away like petals on the wind?"
Zhihao shook his head. "I'm not telling you that. It's a trade secret."
The woman spread her hands over the table. "And the Century Blade took his secrets to the grave."
"Wait. Was that why he was called the Century Blade?" Zhihao laughed, spilling some of his wine on the table. "I thought it was because of his age."
She shook her head at him. "He earned that name decades ago, long before old age slowed him."
Zhihao nodded. "That's a good point." He was feeling a little lightheaded and gladdened to discover that he could still get drunk, despite the cursed taste it left in his mouth.
"How are we paying for this?" the woman asked, still spooning soup into her mouth. "I thought your friends robbed you while you were dead?"
"They did. But they didn't do a thorough job of it. No one ever thinks to look in the crotch pocket."
The woman shot him an incredulous glance.
"It's true. Many men do it, hide a small purse down their pants where no one is willing to look."
"Except you?"
"In desperate times. Don't worry, I've long since given up robbing inns. It's bad for business."
The woman pushed the finished bowl of soup away, washed it down with a swig from Zhihao's wine bottle, and belched into her hand. Then she fixed her gaze on the boy across the table, and there was a glint in her eyes, something hard and determined.
"I'm in charge, you said?" the woman asked.
"As long as we move towards my goal. The emperor must die."
The woman nodded. "We will. But I have a duty to perform along the way." She turned to Zhihao. "You know where Flaming Fist is? Where his camp is?"
"Yes." Zhihao had a sudden feeling he didn't like where the conversation was going.
"Take us to him."
He laughed at her. "Vengeance, is it?"
"Justice."
"There's no such thing in Hosa. Justice of the sword is just murder by another name."
The woman's stare was as hard as the line of her lips. "I don't care what you call it. For the oath that I swore the Century Blade, I'm going to kill Flaming Fist."
Chapter 8
One thing Cho liked about inns in Hosa was that people never cared if you slept in the common room, in fact it was expected. There were usually some rooms available but as long as you bought some food and wine, most innkeeps were happy to let you pass out there amidst the other customers. Of course those same innkeeps took no responsibility for any loss of goods while you were asleep. Luckily for Cho the only other guests were merchants and not likely to rob them. Of course, neither Cho nor her two companions carried anything of worth other than their weapons, and few people knew just how much her swords were truly worth. Some prices could not be paid in gold. Some prices could only be paid in lives.