The Young Man from the Great Qin

Outside Xianyang City, on the official road, the locust trees rattled in the wind, their leaves flashing white edges in the night breeze. Xiao Ren opened his eyes. A dull pain throbbed at the back of his head, as if he’d been struck from behind with a rolling pin. His mouth tasted of rust; his tongue scraped his palate, cracked and dry as mud that hadn’t seen water for three days. His right hand was strangled purple by rope, his entire body bound to a crooked locust tree. The bark pressed against his back, its jagged edges digging into his shoulder blades. “Awake?” About thirty paces away, two men in black crouched by a fire, roasting flatbread. Short swords were tucked at their waists, their scabbards worn shiny from use. The speaker had a scar running diagonally from his brow bone to his cheekbone. He poked at the charcoal with a twig, the firelight casting a dark red gleam on the scar. “Stubborn life,” the scarred man said, tearing off a piece of flatbread and shoving it into his mouth. He chewed twice. “Saves us the trouble of dragging a corpse back.” The other young assassin glanced up at Xiao Ren. His eyes were cold as blades, expressionless, but Xiao Ren could feel him measuring Xiao Ren—could he walk back, or would they have to drag him? Two sets of memories churned together in his head: a twenty-first-century chemistry lab, test tube racks and the periodic table; the yellow-dirt official road outside Xianyang City, the exhaustion of two sleepless nights on the run. The original owner was also named Xiao Ren, a scholar from a declining family. Three days ago, he’d stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have at the West Market and had been hunted for two days and nights. “Where are you taking me?” His throat hurt from dryness. The scarred man smiled, his teeth yellow in the firelight. “Sending you back where you belong.” The young assassin drew his short sword, pressing the tip against Xiao Ren’s chin. The iron blade was icy cold, piercing the skin and drawing a single bead of blood. Xiao Ren stared into his eyes—eyes that had seen too many dead men. The chill of the blade seeped straight into his bones. “What did you see back then?” The assassin’s voice was low and flat. “I saw nothing,” Xiao Ren said quickly. The blade tip moved up slightly. Another inch forward and it would have pierced his eyeball. The cold touch stopped beneath his cheekbone. The scarred man spoke up. “Enough. Don’t kill him. Bring him back alive for the report.” The young assassin sheathed his* and turned back to the fire. Xiao Ren scanned the surroundings: trees, dry grass, rocks, a dirt path. The fire was burning locust branches; a half-bundle of dry grass lay nearby. The scarred man was adding firewood, and sparks caught the edge of the dry grass, curling it briefly before it shrunk back. A black powder formula spun through his mind: saltpeter extracted from soil, sulfur hard to find, but the ash from burned locust bark had a high alkaline content. Mixed with dry grass ash, it could produce an effect. It might not explode, but it could cause trouble. “I need to relieve myself,” he said. The scarred man waved impatiently. “Do it here.” “With my hands tied?” The scarred man jerked his chin toward the young assassin. “Untie him. Keep an eye on him.” The young assassin cut the rope. The blade grazed Xiao Ren’s wrist, slicing another cut. Xiao Ren rubbed his wrists and walked behind the tree. The young assassin stood thirty paces away, arms crossed over his sword, watching him. Xiao Ren squatted and ran his hand over the ground. The soil was dry, with white salt alkali efflorescence on the surface. He scraped some into his palm and tucked it inside his clothes. Then, crouching, he palmed a half-burned branch from beside the fire and slid it into his sleeve. The broken end still held warmth. The young assassin hadn’t noticed. Xiao Ren stood and walked back to the tree. The scarred man retied him, tighter this time, knotting two dead knots. “Stay put until dawn, then we move out.” The scarred man added a stick to the fire, leaned against the tree, and closed his eyes. Snoring started soon after. The young assassin stayed awake, sitting opposite the fire with his sword resting on his knees, staring at Xiao Ren. His eyes half-opened, half-closed in the firelight. Xiao Ren leaned against the tree, eyes closed. Inside his sleeve, he crushed the half-burned branch into powder, mixed it with the soil from his bosom, and kneaded it into a ball with the sweat on his palm. No sulfur, no saltpeter. This wouldn’t explode. But it would smoke—thick, choking smoke. A night breeze blew, leaning the flames toward Xiao Ren. The young assassin raised a hand to block the wind. The bundle of dry grass beside the fire was less than two feet away, its tips already curled and yellowed from the heat. The scarred man’s snoring was steady. The young assassin bowed his head, sword still on his knees, his eyelids drooping. Early morning is when a person is most vulnerable to sleep. The moon climbed to the treetops. Finally, the young assassin’s head drooped. Xiao Ren waited a little longer, confirming their breathing had evened out before he moved. The rope was tight, his wrists bruised purple, but he could feel the position of the knots—on the outside of his left wrist, two dead knots, but the rope ends hadn’t been fully tucked in. He slowly rotated his right hand, hooking the rope loop inward toward his palm. The rope loosened a fraction. He pulled again, loosening it more. After a few breaths, his right hand slipped free. The rope on his left was easier to loosen. Biting the end, he tugged, and it came completely undone. He lay flat on the ground and crawled slowly toward the fire. The dry grass pile was within reach. He grabbed a handful and stuffed it into his bosom, then took another handful, crushed it, and mixed it with the ash-soil ball in his sleeve, rolling it into a compact lump. The young assassin’s breathing shifted suddenly. Xiao Ren froze, motionless. After three heartbeats, the breathing evened out again. Xiao Ren threw the ash-soil ball into the fire. The flames dipped, then flared up again, emitting gray-black smoke with a pungent, acrid stench. The wind blew directly toward the young assassin, smothering his face in smoke. The young assassin’s eyes snapped open. Choked by the smoke, he coughed twice and raised a hand to rub his eyes. Xiao Ren moved. He snatched the short sword from the ground and drove it into the man’s throat. The young assassin’s eyes widened, his mouth opening, only a string of blood bubbles rising from his throat. Xiao Ren pushed the blade another inch forward. The tip emerged from the back of his neck, then he withdrew the sword. The scarred man woke. As his eyes opened, Xiao Ren was already pulling the blade free and standing up from the young assassin’s side. The two men locked eyes across the fire, the smoldering black smoke between them. “Damn it,” the scarred man cursed, rising to his feet. He drew a dagger from his boot—shorter than the short sword, but narrower and sharper. “You’re looking for death, kid.” Xiao Ren bent down, grabbed a handful of dry grass mixed with ash-soil, and threw it at the scarred man’s face. The man turned his head to dodge, but Xiao Ren was already charging. He kicked the hottest burning locust branch in the fire, sending sparks, embers, and ash flying onto the scarred man. The scarred man was forced to retreat two steps, raising his arms to shield his face. In that moment, Xiao Ren switched the short sword to his left hand, grabbed a glowing red-hot coal from the ground with his right, and pressed it directly onto the scarred man’s exposed neck. The scarred man screamed, the dagger flying from his hand as he fell backward. Xiao Ren didn’t stop. He lunged forward and drove the short sword into the man’s chest. The scarred man convulsed twice, then went still. Xiao Ren knelt on the ground, gasping for breath. His palm was red and raw, the burning pain shooting from his hand up his forearm. He sat down to catch his breath, then stood and began searching their bodies. The young assassin had nothing on him. The scarred man had a leather pouch on his belt, containing a few copper coins and a black iron token. Xiao Ren flipped the token over. Carved on the back was a bird with three legs. The “Three-Legged Crow” token. Something resonated in his mind. The original owner’s memories didn’t contain this symbol, but his instinct told him this thing didn’t belong here. In the distance, the sound of many footsteps approached. Xiao Ren tucked the token into his bosom, picked up the dagger from the ground, and turned to slip into the woods. He hadn’t run twenty paces when voices rose from beside the fire behind him. “Dead. Two of them.” “The guy got away.” “Chase.” Xiao Ren gripped the token in his bosom, his feet not slowing, plunging deeper into the forest. Behind him, the footsteps drew closer. The sound of bushes being pushed aside and heavy panting mingled together, like a pack of dogs hunting a rabbit driven into a dead end.