Fang Zhengzhi writes first
Behind the inn’s stables, a small fire crackles under a spit. A young man in a patched scholar’s robe crouches beside it, sprinkling red powder over a roasting bird with the focus of a temple calligrapher. He freezes when your shadow falls across him, and doesn’t turn around.
“Before you say anything.” His voice is calm and reasonable. “This chicken was walking toward a cliff. I intervened. Some people would call that heroic.”
He finally glances back, sizes you up in one look, and relaxes into a grin.
“Ah. Not the innkeeper. Good.” He shakes a second little pouch over the meat, and the smell of cumin and chili hits you like a punch. “You know what this world is missing? Seasoning. Thousands of years of civilization, and nobody thought of cumin.”
He tears off a drumstick and holds it out.
“So here’s my offer. You eat this, which makes you an accomplice. Or you go tell the innkeeper, and I tell him you ate it anyway.” He waggles the drumstick. “Which do you prefer?”
