The Dreamweavers Page 9

  “Don’t just stand there like a lump!” the crane-like man barked at his companion. “The chefs need help preparing the pickled vegetables!” He turned to the twins and demanded, “Aren’t you supposed to be at your assigned posts?”

  “They are with Master Fu-Fu,” the other man replied with a slight bow.

  The first man spread his arms in exasperation, looking more crane-like than ever. “Fu-Fu, I’ve told you the servants are not your personal playmates,” he said sternly.

  “Fine,” the boy grumbled. He pointed the sharp end of his stick at Mei. “You can let her go. But the other one has to fetch my dinner.”

  “Fine, fine. Go, take him!”

  In one fluid movement, the crane’s companion grabbed Yun’s hand and escorted him inside the hall. The crane-like man watched them leave with a shake of his head, then turned to Mei and ordered, “Get back to the maids’ quarters. The empress’s fourth daughter is waiting for someone to sew her robes.” He added to Fu-Fu, “And you, go get dressed!”

  The man must have had higher authority than the first servant, because Fu-Fu didn’t argue with him. As he turned to leave, he asked, “Can these—uh, servants—be in the children’s show later this week?” He smiled innocently. “They’re great actors.”

  “Yes, yes, that can be arranged,” the man replied dismissively.

  And just like that, the twins were shepherded in opposite directions in the vast Imperial City.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  十三

  Chefs and Chopsticks

  The sounds of sizzling pans and pounding knives greeted Yun as he followed the servant into the palace kitchen. His jaw dropped when he saw the size of the space. At least fifty people were scurrying around the large room, to and fro, chopping vegetables and mixing soups, fanning the wooden stoves, handling elaborate-looking porcelain platters, and carrying woks the size of the twins’ entire table back home. The aromas from the foods would’ve normally made Yun’s mouth water, but his stomach was filled with such dread that he probably couldn’t have swallowed anything. All he wanted to do was curl in a corner.

  Someone whipped an apron at him. He hastily put it on, then stepped beside a nearby chef who was slapping a large dead fish back and forth.

  “You have to smack the seawater out of them!” the chef boomed. The chef had a round, strong body and pink cheeks. He looked like someone who’d grown up eating plenty of meat. The chef examined Yun with a raised eyebrow. “You’re a bit young to be cooking. You some new chef-in-training?”

  “Kind of,” said Yun. “My, um, grandpa loves to cook.”

  The chef aimed a blow at the fish’s head. Bits of fish grime sprayed Yun’s cheek.

  “Stop chewing your fingernails! No disgusting habits are allowed in my kitchen. I’ll smack the seawater out of you too, you hear?” the chef roared again.

  “Y-Yes, sir,” Yun stammered, wiping the wet pieces from his face.

  The chef threw the fish on a plate and bowed. “The name’s Chef Fan.”

  Yun politely returned the bow. “I’m Yun,” he said, realizing too late that he probably should’ve used a fake name.

  “This kitchen’s not for the weak, you hear? You have to show the food who’s boss. Anything can be made into a delectable dish. Give me the hardest things to work with—quail eggs, crab legs, water chestnuts.” Yun must have looked worried, because the chef said encouragingly, “Don’t worry, practice makes perfect. Once you do something once, it becomes much easier the second time, and easier still the third.”

  Over the next hour, Chef Fan taught Yun how to gut a fish, how to pickle cucumbers, and how to test if a pot of water was hot enough. (“When you put your hand in and say ‘Ouch,’ then it’s perfect, you hear?”)

  As odd and boisterous as Chef Fan was, there was no denying he was a master at his craft. He had Yun taste-test his duck soup with yam.

  “This is incredible,” gasped Yun, who rarely said this about anyone’s cooking besides Grandpa’s. He tried to take a few more spoonfuls of the rich broth, but the chef whipped the bowl away.

  “Of course it’s incredible,” Chef Fan said proudly. “Every dish I make is, you hear? Know why? I put my secret ingredient in each of them.”

  “What’s the secret ingredient?” asked Yun.

  Chef Fan looked around with what seemed like exaggerated shiftiness. He motioned for Yun to come closer. Yun leaned in.

  “The secret ingredient...” breathed Chef Fan.

  Yun listened closely.

  “...is NO LONGER A SECRET IF I TELL YOU, IS IT?” the chef roared into his ear.

  Afterward, his ear still ringing, Yun followed the chef to the adjoining room, which was much quieter and less chaotic. Whistling teapots in different colors steamed from each side. The air bloomed with the earthy aroma from all kinds of teas—green tea, jasmine tea, chrysanthemum tea, black tea, ginger tea. Several people were carefully measuring tea leaves and herbs in little spoons.

  “Great place to visit if you’re sick,” Chef Fan said. He fanned out his collar and added, “But stuffy and hot.”

  Yun agreed. Already, he could feel the sweat from the steam forming on his brows. He also felt drowsy from all the different scents. A long nap would be nice right about then.

  Chef Fan spent several moments examining a jar of spices. As he explained the different types of spices and which parts of the body they affected, a squawking noise startled Yun.

  “Did you hear that?” he said.

  “Yes, ginger is good for the throat, you hear?” the chef repeated louder.

  “No, I heard a noise...”

  “Squaw-aw-awk.”

  “There it is again!” shouted Yun, bolting upright. His startled yell made the others in the room give him a dirty look.

  Chef Fan’s face darkened. “Oh, it’s just Bendan.” He reached into his coat with a grimace. The next moment, he held a small red-and-yellow parrot in his hand.

  The parrot squawked. “Just Bendan. Squawk.”

  “It can talk!” gasped Yun. Then, slightly embarrassed, he quickly corrected his mistake, “I meant it can mimic the sound of words. I don’t believe parrots can actually communicate the way humans do. It’s—”

  “Squawk! Communicate! Squawk!”

  “He’s an idiot, is what this bird is!” Chef Fan boomed, going red in the face. “I have to keep him stuffed in my clothes. Otherwise, he causes—no, Bendan, stop!”

  Bendan had flown to the other side of the room and was now circling a servant who held a tray of tea. “An idiot, squawk! No, Bendan, stop! Squawk!” Startled, the man dropped the tray with a loud clatter.

  Chef Fan hurried after the bird, whistling and calling, “Come back here, Bendan, come back!”

  The others in the room rolled their eyes and grumbled under their breaths. Apparently, this scene was nothing new. The parrot weaved through the crowd, then rose out of reach. He dove toward an open teapot, presumably to hide inside. A nearby servant pulled it away at the last second, spilling hot liquid everywhere. There was a clamor of angry cries. Teacups shattered. Unattended teapots rattled as their water reached a boil, and the room reverberated with the shrill scream of their whistles. The bird shot off in search of a new target, nipped the hair of one servant, squawked in a laughing manner, then disappeared into one of the shelves.

  “Emperor’s breath smells, squawk! Like black fungi, squawk squawk!”

  Chef Fan’s face went from dark red to white. A servant nearby shot the chef an angry look and hissed, “Tell your silly bird to stop saying those things at once! Do you want us imprisoned for treason?”

  “I’m trying to stop him! Here, Bendan, here!”

  Two broken teacups and another chase around the room later, the pointy-faced man with the long neck from earlier stomped into the room. “Chef Fan!” he shouted above the commotion.

  The room suddenly fell silent.

  “Yes, sir?” squeaked the chef.

  “If I see that idiotic b
ird loose one more time, you’re going to have to fry it and feed it to the stray cats outside!”

  Chef Fan managed to grab Bendan from the window and stuffed him in his pocket. He gave a shaky bow. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  After things settled down, Chef Fan wiped his shiny forehead. He motioned for Yun to follow him out to the quiet hallway. There, Chef Fan paced and muttered for several moments, kicking imaginary things, before heaving a sigh.

  “This bird has given me more trouble than deboning a chicken,” he said. “He’s gotten me into hot water multiple times—literally!”

  “Why not get rid of him?” suggested Yun. He quickly added, “Not fry him, but release him into the wild?”

  Chef Fan winced. “No can do. He belonged to my littlest girl, you hear?” Chef Fan gently took out the parrot again and stroked the bird’s tiny red head. His voice fell. “She died of a fever a few months ago, and before she died, I promised her I’d always take care of her bird.”

  Yun understood. He and Mei had always felt protective of Smelly Tail because she had been their mother’s cat. “What was that part about the emperor having fungi breath?” he asked.

  “Just a harmless joke,” Chef Fan chuckled. “He eats lots of mushrooms. Some of the other chefs and I were kidding around last night...stupid bird repeated it for all to hear. Shouldn’t have brought him, but where else can I take him?”

  “Can’t you leave him in your quarters while you work?”

  “No, because stupid Bendan here has offended enough people to get him killed in two seconds if I ever left him alone.”

  “Hmm, that’s a dilemma,” agreed Yun. He tried to come up with a solution. But none seemed to work. As Chef Fan explained, Bendan hated cages, hated the gardens outdoors, and had too many enemies watching him to be placed in a pet sitter’s hands. Short of giving the parrot away, Yun didn’t see how Chef Fan could solve his bird problem.

  “Nah, I’ll just have to cope with it,” sighed the chef. “Cope and stay positive, you hear? It’s hard, no doubt about it. My knees aren’t as good as they used to be. And my aching back, it feels like a tiger is trying to claw its way out.”

  Doctor Po had always been good at curing the creaky bones of the older villagers. He’d prescribe special ointments and correctly identify the muscle joints that needed treatment. Yun’s heart sank when he thought of the doctor. How was the village faring? Was everyone still buried in snow? How was his grandpa? He needed to find Mei.

  “You must think I’m a puny excuse of a chef, eh?” The chef slapped Yun’s shoulder with a roaring laugh, jolting him from his thoughts. “Cheer up! Sometimes it’s better to be a salamander than to be a babbling commander, you hear? Come, you act as if someone you knew has been kidnapped and taken on a long ride through the mountains.”

  “That’s not a far-off statement,” Yun murmured.

  The chef cracked his knuckles and motioned for Yun to follow him back to the kitchen. “Watch, I’ll show you how to prepare braised pork. Have you ever smacked a pig snout?”

  On the other side of the palace complex, Mei stood as still as stone in the quarters of the emperor’s fourth daughter. She didn’t move a muscle, not even when the heavy cloud of perfume in the air made her want to gag. There were thirty sharp pins clamped between her lips, and she did not want to accidentally swallow any.

  Now thirty-one pins. The maid next to her had placed another one in Mei’s mouth. The new pin pricked her tongue, but Mei forced herself to remain still.

  “You are being very helpful, darling,” the maid sang. With one pudgy hand, she held a spool of blue thread. With the other, she stretched out the right sleeve of the silk robe worn by the princess, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

  “I don’t remember seeing her before,” the princess said with a skeptical glance at Mei.

  “Now, now, Your Highness, goodness knows how big the Imperial Palace is, what with all the royal family members and officials and servants and military officers and...” The maid swung her arms wide to show how big the palace was, nearly hitting Mei’s forehead in the process. “Why, there are at least...at least...” The maid scrunched up her eyebrows, deep in thought. “There are at least twenty people.”

  “Over eight hundred, actually.”

  “So you see, it’s unlikely that one would know everybody!”

  “But I do,” insisted the princess. “I’ve memorized every single person in the palace.”

  The princess looked to be a little older than Mei, but not by much. She sat with perfect posture, her elegant sky blue robe draped over her legs and feet. Her hair was tied in a small bun and held in place with decorated chopsticks. She matched the rest of the room in its richness and finery—pearls glimmered on the small dressing table, which was lined with lacquered jewelry boxes and floral fans encrusted with precious stones. Mei had no doubt that just one of those lavish boxes or fans would translate to an entire week’s food for the village back home. She began doing similar calculations with the other luxuries around her. Beads of jade equal three pigs. Enameled hairbrush, three dozen chicken eggs. It was a good way to keep her mind off the fact that she and Yun had been separated, and that she was now standing in a royal bedroom, mere feet from a real princess.

  The maid reached for a pair of silver scissors on the dressing table. After she snipped the thread and sewed it onto the sleeve, she suddenly trilled, “Oh, no! No, no, no!”

  “What’s wrong, Miss Sha?” the princess asked calmly.

  “I sewed it over the gold pattern here....Oh, no, what should I do?”

  “You should get the gold spool, Miss Sha.”

  “Yes, yes! I must get the gold spool!”

  “Go. I’ll wait.”

  The maid gave a deep bow, nearly tipping over in the process, then hurried from the room, leaving Mei alone with the princess. As soon as the maid was gone, the princess said helpfully, “There is a pincushion in the first drawer.”

  Mei blinked. She slowly removed all thirty-one pins from her mouth, squeezing them between her fingers, and carefully walked across the plush carpet to the drawer. A dainty purple cushion sat inside, poked with needles and pins. It looked like a silver porcupine.

  Mei felt her cheeks flush. “Why did she make me hold the pins in my mouth, then?” she couldn’t help blurting.

  “Miss Sha’s actually quite bright...when she pays attention,” the princess said. “She’s been distracted lately because she has to substitute for one of the other nursemaids, who caught the stomach flu. But even at her most scatterbrained, she isn’t the worst. One time, one of my sisters put soap in my cup of tea by accident. She thought it was honey. I always tell people things will be much easier if they let me do things myself, but no one listens.”

  Mei finished pricking the cushion with the pins, then glanced at the open door. Miss Sha hadn’t returned yet. Now was her chance to escape...except the maze-like hallways outside were lined with watchful officials and servants. And how was she supposed to find Yun? She hoped her brother wouldn’t give them away—out of the two of them, there was no doubt he was the worse liar, obviously. Like the time he and Mei stole some candied nuts from the kitchen cupboard back home. They’d rehearsed beforehand what they’d say if the theft was discovered: “Smelly Tail knocked over the bowl and ate some.” But when their parents asked, Yun had sung the truth like a bird on trial.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” the princess asked.

  Mei nodded hesitantly.

  The princess smiled. “It’s all right, I know it can be overwhelming at first. You’ll get used to it, as all the other maids have.”

  The princess saw Mei eyeing her chopsticks and slid one out of her hair. “For self-defense,” she said, revealing the chopstick’s sharp metal end. “The men around here aren’t the only ones carrying weapons.”

  To demonstrate how sharp the edge was, the princess lightly traced the curtain draped over her bed. The yellow fabric tore under the metal edge
in one smooth easy stroke, as if it were made of flimsy paper. “Made it myself,” the princess added.

  Mei’s mouth dropped. “Did you really?”

  “What?” challenged the princess. “You don’t think I’m capable of such a thing?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Mei hurried to say. “It’s just—it’s so beautiful.” The chopstick had tiny blue-and-pink swirls and patterns, as if someone had painstakingly etched it with a single hair of a paintbrush.

  A whoosh flew by Mei’s ear, followed by the sound of a fine crack. Mei whipped her head. Embedded in the patterned wallpaper was the chopstick.

  “Indeed,” the princess said coolly. “The deadliest mushrooms in the mountains are often the prettiest ones, don’t you know?”

  Mei already knew that, of course. She admired the princess. Maybe they could have been friends, if they had grown up together in completely different circumstances. Her curiosity got the best of her. “Did you really mean it when you said you knew everybody here—Your Highness?” she added.

  “No,” the princess admitted. “I only memorized up to 882, and then I lost track. The palace is enormous. There are exactly 9,999 rooms. It’s impossible for me to keep up with everyone, partly because I can no longer walk well.” She shifted her legs from under her robe to show Mei.

  Beneath the small, ornate slippers the princess wore, Mei saw that the princess’s feet were bound in tight cloths so that they were as small as Mei’s fists. Mei was hardly surprised; Mama once mentioned many daughters of the nobility had their feet altered this way. People think girls ought to be dainty and fragile, she had said disapprovingly.

  Mei murmured an apology.

  “I’ve gotten used to it,” the princess said, tilting her head. “Since I cannot run about and get into mischief with my brothers and cousins, I spend most of my time designing personal weapons and reading.” She motioned to her desk, which was full of half-scribbled notes and scrolls. “So, what’s your name again?”