His chest didn’t quite puff out, but his shoulders grew even more square. “It is. My grandfather was among those who killed the Great Blue in the third generation.”
“Impressive,” she said, and meant it. “If you have time later, I would enjoy hearing that story. Where else do we go? You said the bathhouse was first.”
“To Zhu Kongqi. There is a rickshaw waiting outside.”
The phrase he used for “rickshaw,” translated literally, was “wheeled reed packet.” At least, that’s what it would mean in Mandarin. But because she was picking up the meaning with her mindsense, she knew what he meant. What was interesting, though, was that Fang didn’t seem to have trouble understanding her Mandarin. He should have. Even native Mandarin speakers sometimes did. Her accent sucked. “Why does he want me?”
“I do not know. He allows you time to bathe first. You are able to walk? To descend the stairs?”
“Certainly.” Warriors didn’t show pain, so she went down the stone stairs as if her ankle wasn’t screaming at her to cut that out. Good thing it was only one flight.
The sun was down, but not out. If she’d been home, she would have said it was seven thirty or eight on a summer evening. The temperature suggested it might be summer here, too. Lily settled into the rickshaw—“wheeled reed packet” was a good description—and asked about the other cells and their occupants.
“Currently,” the Fist Second told her, “we are holding thirty-one violators of heavenly law.”
She’d counted twenty-five barred doors. That included the cell allotted to her and Cynna. Thirty-one violators of heavenly law plus her and Cynna—assuming the two of them weren’t part of Fang’s count—minus the four men in that holding cell equaled twenty-nine prisoners behind those twenty-five barred doors. They were full up. “I don’t think I’ve violated any laws, heavenly or otherwise.”
Fang Ye Lì agreed that probably she had not, but of course if one of the Zhuren wished for her to be locked up, then she must be.
As she seated herself in the rickshaw, she considered the numbers. Some of the other prisoners must be doubled up, but they could still have split up her and Cynna easily enough by putting her in with someone else. They hadn’t. Maybe they were just really considerate and wanted her to be with her buddy. Or maybe they wanted her and Cynna together so they’d talk. Maybe, like Cynna thought, one or more of the guards knew more English than they were admitting.
The rickshaw’s wooden wheels were noisy on the cobbled path and the ride was bumpy. Turned out the women’s bathhouse was on the other side of the compound, and they’d be going the long way, following the paths rather than cutting directly across. That was okay. It gave her time to ask questions.
By listening to Fang’s mind as well as his speech, Lily understood everything he said when he was addressing her. When he spoke to someone else, the flow of mental speech cut off. She didn’t learn what the Frisbee-topped tower in the center of the courtyard was, save that it was “of the Zhuren,” but the oversized gazebo was a combination of market and check-in point. Everyone who visited the city had to register their presence and the reason for their visit. Did Lang Xin have many visitors? Yes, for was it not the bright heart of the world? And of course all who visited came to Xīnzàng de Jiā—literally, Heart’s Home, which seemed to mean the courtyard and all the governmental buildings.
More to the point as far as Fang was concerned, the law was born in Lang Xin and flowed outward like a heart pumping blood. And the law was his passion.
There were two levels of law: village law and heavenly law. Village law varied, being enacted and administered in the various villages. Heavenly law came from the spawn. Magistrates were appointed by the Zhuren and sent to the larger towns, where they were responsible for approving village law and arresting those believed to have broken heavenly law. Anyone accused of violating heavenly law was brought to the Court of Heavenly Justice for trial, hence the cells on the second floor.
The spawn rotated all of the key administrative positions among themselves, including that of judge—a position they called Father of Law. Some of them weren’t very keen about that particular duty. Not that the Fist Second put it that way, but that’s what he meant. Depending on which of the spawn was serving as Father of Law, months might go by before someone was brought to trial. The prisoners probably didn’t mind the delay. Almost everyone accused of breaking heavenly law was found guilty. Guilty meant dead.
“What is heavenly law? Can you give me examples? I would not wish to break it out of ignorance.”
“Paying the annual tax is first. Most of our prisoners are guilty of failure to pay, but we do have one man accused of killing a prostitute who displeased him. She was pregnant.”
“Murder is against heavenly law?”
“Murder in general is a matter of village law, but it is an offense against the Zhuren to cause the death of a pregnant woman or an unweaned babe. So, too, is lying to the magistrates. Rebelliousness. Failure to present deformed infants. Failure to educate—”
“Your pardon, Fist Second, but what was that one about deformed infants?”
“Infants born with visible deformities must be presented to the magistrate, who will determine if they should be killed immediately or allowed to live until their third birthday, when they will be evaluated more fully. This is an important law.” He spoke sternly, as if he expected argument. “Many deformities do not prevent a person from contributing.”
“Hmm.” High-magic realms produced more mutations. Deformities might be common here—and something to hide, out of shame? Or something to be killed, out of fear. “What about failure to educate?”
“You needn’t worry about breaking that law,” he said as if making a mild joke. “It applies to village elders or councils, not individuals. Children must be taught courtesy, after all, as well as history and heavenly law. We have arrived.”
The building in front of Lily was small, stone, single-story. The roof was thatch. A woman stood outside, bowing as they came to a stop. She was shorter than Lily by a good four inches and looked like a strong breeze would blow her away. She wore what Lily thought of as traditional Chinese women’s garb: a wraparound top with a long skirt sashed high. Top and skirt were a light blue linen with dark blue bindings on the sleeves and lapels. No shoes, Lily saw, but she wore a straw hat shaped like a flattened pyramid that shaded her face . . . her white, wrinkled, Chinese face. White as in lacking pigment entirely. Her eyes were so pale a blue that the irises almost vanished. Her eyebrows, too, were all but invisible.
She was an albino. A true albino, not an imitation like Alice Báitóu. A world worried about mutations might not be kind to albinos.
To Lily’s surprise, the Fist Second ordered one of his guards to remove the rope binding her wrists. As the guard did that, Fang looked at her. “We will await you here, by the door. Understand that it will not help you to harm the attendant or attempt to take her hostage. We would regret her death, but it would be laid on your account, not ours.”