Chapter Thirty-Five
THE SHOEMAKER stirred. And groaned. His head thumped with an ache that covered his crown like a leaden cap.
How many huanjiu had he had? He’d been trying to limit himself— the drinks made his hands shake and affected his work with the needle and thread.
Boom, boom.
Song Lim rubbed his head, his thoughts moving slowly as a spoon through porridge.
There must be a storm outside; the thunder was relentless.
‘Damned fool, you overdid it.’
He sat up to search for his lantern. Pausing a moment as his world spun in darkness.
He pressed his lips against the rise of unpleasantness from his belly; waiting for the sensation to pass before he searched for his lantern.
It should have been right beside him, just within reach of his sleeping mat, but his hand touched only air.
His hip ached, the sort of pain that came with sleeping too long upon one spot.
Lim patted his hand against the ground, searching, and found packed dirt instead of his mat.
The thunder crashed again, and again.
‘What the…’
He rocked onto hands and knees, bitterness hitting the back of his throat. One or two pats of his hand and the truth was startlingly obvious. This was not his home.
Panic arrived in a torrent, streaming from his aching head to the tips of his toes. Memory bubbled like a pot reaching the boil — the laced noodles, the salve that had made his wound burn.
The two shǎ dàn who decided he must be a monster because he could make a decent pair of shoes, and loved a cursed prince. Morons was not a good enough insult for Chen and his herbalist.
But they’d not killed him.
Another crash of relentless thunder arrived. The pitch dark cloyed at his eyes; thick as congee but not half as pleasant.
How long had he been unconscious?
‘Merciful Maidens, tell me it is not past midnight.’ Lim sank back onto his heels. ‘Master Chen! Do you hear me? Let me out!’
With his aching hip protesting, he moved to stand, but he was not even close to straightening when his beleaguered head struck something solid.
Fear, sharp as the blades that cut his leather, rose to find him.
‘Master Chen,’ he bellowed, thrusting his arms up into the darkness, striking wood. ‘Let me out of here now, you blasted fool.’
His pulse galloped as the events of the afternoon resurfaced.
Chen, huffing and puffing as he dragged Lim’s body across the workshop. The sense of falling that he’d thought was his descent into the underworld. He hadn’t died, but he’d been buried.
‘I’m not dying under your gods-forsaken floor, Chen.
’ He rammed the side of his arm against the wood.
What was the time? Had Xian given up trying to find him?
Lim punched at the wood, sickened to imagine the prince thinking himself abandoned.
He hissed at the pain that struck through his knuckles.
Hitting the wood was idiotic. Lim flattened his hands, pounding at the flooring with his palms, listening for the telltale rattle of a latch.
‘Arrogant, conniving, stupid egg, Chen,’ he muttered, changing tactics to lie on his back, letting his feet do the hard work.
He kicked upwards, shuffling in the dirt as he edged around, testing every yard of wood.
But trying to gain some sense of direction in the absolute darkness wasn’t easy.
A pity he wasn’t a yaoguai—capable of shifting himself into something thin and fine enough to slip through the cracks.
If there were any damned cracks at all. The carpentry for the workshop must have been beyond reproach, for no hint of light slipped through between the planks. Or…there was no light…Chen had left for the celebrations…all the lanterns extinguished.
Lim drew his knees back against his chest, hugging his arms around them.
He fought the pressure of the panic building at the back of his skull.
He was a man of the open air. Even in winter, his workshop stayed wide open until his hands grew so cold they barely worked.
Now he was trapped in a space too low to stand, too dark to see his way.
The thunder cracked open the sky again. Then another rumble, and another in quick succession. Lim’s heart thumped.
Idiot. That was no storm.
Fireworks. It wasn’t midnight; it was beyond midnight.
With a cry of frustration, Lim rocked onto his knees, quickening his search for the trapdoor that had sent him here.
He shuffled along on his knees, hunched like an ancient hermit, his hands raised above him, fingers tracing the wood — searching for the contrasting grooves in the wood that would betray the entrance.
Lim worked feverishly; the explosion of the fireworks was an unwanted accompaniment.
He’d not moved far when he bumped into something.
A barrel, two, his searching hands told him, stacked side by side, with several caskets, holding who-knew-what, nearby, their lids tightly sealed.
Edging on, he found several rolls covered in light fabric, the texture and weight suggesting that either scrolls or paintings were rolled up in the protective layer of the material.
Tea bricks were his next find; the waft of green tea strong when he pushed his finger through the cotton covering and dug beneath.
Hardly the wares expected in the storage space beneath a shoemaker’s workshop. This was more like a treasure trove. Mandarin Feng was not the only collector in Manhao, then.
He grumbled as he went back onto hands and knees, trying to recall which direction he’d come from; difficult when there wasn’t a pinch of light to take guidance from. A rare silence fell between blasts of the fireworks, and the unmistakable creak of timber intruded.
Not in the hellish pit with him. It was further afield.
There. He swivelled his gaze towards the sound, behind him, and above. Feet on floorboards?
‘Chen?’ he shouted. ‘Chen, are you there you miserable hùn dàn? Enough with your games, or I’ll start opening all your caskets down here and pocketing your treasures.’
The creak of timber returned, higher now though, with a disturbing cracking noise joining it. He scowled into the darkness. ‘What is that?
Lim’s nostrils flared at the harsh waft of smoke.
He let loose every ribald curse he knew and pounded at his prison roof. ‘Let me out! Someone help! I’m in here, Master Chen’s workshop.’
But the damned fireworks insisted on carpeting his cries. The momentary silence that had revealed the fire was vanquished by a wave of new eruptions. The tempo of the explosions was manic — as though someone had put matches to Feng’s entire stockpile at once.
He froze. He’d heard talk while he waited at the gates; residents boasting that their lord had shipped in so many crates the spectacle would be the greatest in the entire province.
He’d almost stepped on the woman with the eels, for how she was hidden by a towering stack of those same crates.
But Lim had watched many spectacles in his time; none sounded so wild as this.
So out of control they might burn down the residence they were meant to glorify.
With paper lanterns hung from every eve, and chunlian upon their paper scrolls decorating every doorway, fire would have a monstrous appetite here.
‘Help me! Help me!’
He gave up using his hands, and instead put his whole shoulder into the task, shoving at the low roof with all the strength he owned.
Lim threw his weight against the wood, desperate for the trapdoor now; trying to stifle the nagging voice that told him it would be locked, even if he was lucky enough to find it.
Panic grabbed him by the collar, tightening his throat. The air grew danker, tasting of ash, and he coughed more often than he could take a full breath. Sweat coated his face; he feared the cellar itself had grown warmer.
Another shudder of fireworks almost hid the snap and crackle that came from above.
A coughing fit struck him, thanks to the thickness of the smoke; invisible in the pitch dark. He felt it wrap around him; the pressure smothering his face. The heat was unmistakable now.
Lim dropped to the ground, searching for cool air. He went down onto his belly, frantic to find a hint of breathable air. He lay panting, tears streaming from his eyes, even as he held them squeezed closed.
An awful groan preceded a tremendous crash that had Lim crying out; certain he was to be crushed. The floor above him shuddered, and dust rained down, coating his body; Lim refused to imagine it was ash.
‘Help me. Help…’ His cry was too feeble for any but the earthworms to hear.
Another coughing fit struck him; searing his lungs and straining his ribs.
The press of heat and smoke drove him into the ground, draining the fight out of him; an invisible beast that ran its flaming tongue over his skin, ready to devour him.
Song Lim was no hero. What a fool to imagine himself otherwise. Now he’d burn, leaving Xian alone; believing Lim had not meant a word of his affections, and that the great truth he’d revealed about himself had sent a cowardly man running.
Lim covered his face and screamed into his hands. Or, he tried to. His body bucked and shook with the violence of his failing lungs. He was going to cough himself to death before the flames got to him. A mercy, he supposed.
Mercy.
He moaned.
With all the carp had done to bring him to Xian, this was how Song Lim repaid her. Dying in a zealot’s cellar.
‘I’m so sorry…Keshun…’ He whispered Xian’s mother’s name through dry lips.
Another giant crash—the collapse of structure — resounded as the fireworks continued to punch the air; the cool, sweet, breathable air beyond this firepit.
Lim’s clothes clung to him, the sweat wrung from his body. He’d given up trying to keep his eyes open; he’d almost given up trying to breathe.
The pain was too much.