The ragbone-meat quarter had its own market, a gregarious collection of carts assembled at the confluence of several streets. Unlike the main market square, with its artfully arranged displays and slackcraft-powered signage, the ragbone market pulsed with barely contained chaos. Rolls of dried goods flanked battalions of preserves heaped upon trays. Craftswomen rubbed elbows with men selling candied nuts in paper cones. Children in assorted shades of brown darted to and fro, hawking pots of spiced tea and fruit on sticks. Laundry flapped in second-floor windows, soaking up the perfume of incense and hot oil and roasting chestnuts.
Looking at this bright and symphonic scene, someone from out of town—a traveling farmer who did not buy the news scrolls, perhaps—would never guess that just a few days ago, the ground they stood on had been glutted with sitting bodies, living and breathing, arms locked in protest, boldly facing down lines of Protectorate troops. The city’s tiny Gauri minority was often characterized as hardworking and easy to please, but the past week had clearly shown that they had limits.
That limit was this: seventeen of their compatriots killed in a silk factory fire and the factory owner exonerated from blame, even though it was clear the fire had been the fault of his greed and carelessness. Minor riots had broken out before more calculating heads swept in and organized sit-ins. For days the arteries of Chengbee’s southern quarters had been obstructed by clots of protesters, singing and obstinate, arresting the flow of commerce.
The Protector finally defused the situation by executing the factory owner. Official pronouncements declared the incident over, justice served, and harmony restored. But the acid stares of the crowd as the twins plowed through it told a different story. Even if the people did not recognize them, Mokoya and Akeha looked Kuanjin and wore clothes of fine quality. That was enough to draw their ire.
It was far from an inspiring endorsement of Mother’s rule.
Mokoya reached into the fold of their robes and extracted a picture scroll. It was the same one they’d woken Akeha with in the morning, exclaiming, “I knew I’d seen him somewhere!” Rolled on its inner surface was a crisp light capture of the Gauri protesters: a row of calm, determined faces, most half bowed or eyes shut as if in prayer or meditation. The lone exception was a young man who had been looking right at the woman who had tensed the light capture into permanence. Frozen in a semifrown, he stared intensely, his mouth a disapproving, unyielding line. Their mysterious future abbot.
Mokoya scanned the crowd as they threaded through it, looking for easy targets. Most avoided their gaze, ducking their heads as they saw Mokoya, some less subtly than others. But one woman—a vendor of straw mats and slippers and other woven things—was too slow, and Mokoya caught her eye.
“Honored aunt,” they said, approaching the woman respectfully, “could you tell me if you’ve seen this man?”
They showed the picture scroll to the woman. She waved her hand and made inaudible excuses.
Unfazed, Mokoya moved on. Akeha followed quietly in their wake. A strange, glacial distance had swelled between them, a kind of false peace, the tangles of arguments to come writhing under the surface. As Mokoya accosted passerby after passerby, Akeha watched the crowd instead. Watched the way people’s movements changed in the orbit of their twin. Watched the way Mokoya deformed the world around them. Over the years, and perhaps by necessity, Akeha had learned the trick of sliding quietly into the background, drawing as little attention as possible. Very different from their twin.
So Akeha watched. And it was through watching that they noticed the old man who was watching back. He was a shoe mender, crouched on a stool under the sign advertising his services. Instead of fear or disdain, his expression was touched by something resembling hope. And that interested them.
They let space and bodies come between them and Mokoya. Casually, incrementally, Akeha walked up to the watching man.
Their eyes met, and Akeha nodded at him. The man didn’t return the gesture, but he didn’t look away either. He had the tanned skin and wide cheekbones of a southerner, the look of someone who lived farther downriver than Jixiang. And he wasn’t as old as Akeha had thought. Just weathered.
“Busy day, uncle?” Akeha asked.
“As if.” The man snorted. “If you think this is busy, you should have seen this street before all those troubles came.” He gestured in front of him with hands that were blunted by his craft. “Normal days, I get four or five customers by morning. Today, nothing. It’s been like this for a week. A man needs to eat, you know?”
“Of course. There’s been a lot of trouble in this quarter lately. Were you here during the protests, uncle?”
“Where else would I go? I live here, I work here. Of course, those people don’t care.”
“That must be difficult.” As the man huffed in agreement, Akeha said, “We’re looking for somebody connected to the protests.”
“Hah.” The man slapped a thigh. “Hah! I knew you were Protectorate. One look, I knew.”
It occurred to Akeha that recognition of the prophet child of the Protector might not be as widespread as they’d assumed. “We’re not here for trouble. We just want to talk to someone.”
“Which one of them? Hah, you know, they all look the same to me sometimes.”
The man’s laugh, Akeha decided, was markedly unpleasant. “A young man. Very tall, big beard. He sat in the front row at the protests.”
“Oh, that one.” The man muttered something inaudible, shook his head, and gestured. “Go to the circus. Behind, over there. Ask for the doctor.”
Akeha looked where the man pointed. Their mind turned this information over and over. A doctor?
“Thank you for your help, uncle.” The monastery had taught Akeha to express gratitude for favors granted, no matter what unpalatable form the favor came in.
They caught up with their twin. Mokoya had cornered a woman selling jars of pickled vegetables and was on the verge of convincing her to give them directions to the circus. But the woman looked up, saw Akeha approaching like a shark, and changed her mind, waving Mokoya off with a muttered excuse.
“Honored aunt, it’s really important,” Mokoya said. “The future of this land could depend on it.”
The woman stared blankly at them.
“Come on, Moko,” Akeha said. “I’ve found out where he is.”
Mokoya narrowed their eyes. “How?”
“Talked to an awful old uncle. Come on.”
Mokoya fell behind in the viscous crowd, a half dozen steps’ worth of reluctance between them. Akeha slowed until they were both abreast. “Are you all right?”
“I am.” Mokoya squeezed their hand once, quickly and tightly. “Thank you for coming here with me.”
“Why are you thanking me?” The idea of Mokoya sneaking out alone was unthinkable. “Who else is going to take care of you if you get into trouble?”
Mokoya punched them lightly in the arm. A couple of loping steps later, they said, “I thought you were still angry with me.”
“I wasn’t angry.”
Mokoya glanced sideways at them, and a small smile tweaked the corners of their lips.
Conversation lapsed into pensive silence. As the clamor of the market subsided into the burble of a busy street, Akeha said, “So how come you decided to be a woman?”
Mokoya’s puzzled frown revealed everything they thought about this question. “I didn’t decide anything. I’ve always felt like one. A girl.”
“I see.”