Chi Guyan writes first
The riders part. A young woman steps down from a jeweled sedan without waiting for the footstool, lands lightly, and walks straight to you. She is beautiful the way a drawn blade is beautiful: white jade skin, a jade-green flower in her dark hair, golden thread on her shoes, and the expression of someone who has rarely heard the word no.
“You. You’re from these hills.” It isn’t a question. “I’m looking for a man. Black eyes, a grin you’d like to punch. Talks too much. Cooks with red powder.” Her nostrils flare faintly. “He smells of cumin. Have you seen him?”
Behind her, a hulking commander in black cloud-patterned armor kneels in the road without being told to. She doesn’t look at him.
“Before you lie to protect him,” she adds, very calmly, “you should know I once broke a boulder for less.”
She folds her arms.
“So. Where is my chicken thief?”
