Ying dove toward the scroll like a bird of prey after a garden snake, but a tiny hand got there first.
Malao let out a screech and leaped at one of the walls, out of Ying's reach, the scroll in one hand. Ying watched Malao grip a stained windowsill with his free hand and hoist himself up, then spring from windowsill to windowsill, higher and higher, until he was on the roof of the building.
Malao looked down at Ying and giggled, waving the scroll over his head. Blood trickled from the wound in his shoulder, but he didn't seem to notice.
Hok stared coldly at Ying. “Do not try that again. If you attempt another attack, you will face all of us.”
Ying hissed. He pointed up at Malao. “Is that a dragon scroll?”
Fu took a step toward Ying. “What if it is?”
“Then it belongs to me,” Ying replied. “Hand it over.”
“Why don't you fly up there and get it yourself?” Fu challenged. “Or did somebody clip your wings recently? That attack was pitiful.”
Ying snarled, and Hok stepped between him and Fu. Ying locked eyes with Hok. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Keeping peace,” Hok said. She glanced up at Malao, then back at Ying. “I have a proposition. You know as well as I do that you'll never catch Malao, even if he is injured. I might be willing to show you that scroll, though, if you agree to help us find my friend Charles.”
“Show it to me?” Ying said. He shook his head. “You will give it to me.”
“I can't do that,” Hok replied. “It's not mine to give. However, a few moments with the scroll will be enough to satisfy you. I know how intensely you've trained in the ways of memory enhancement.”
“I am good,” Ying said. “But not that good. No one is. The one dragon scroll I do have took days to commit to memory.”
“This one is different,” Hok said. “It's much simpler.”
“How simple?”
“It is a map.”
Ying blinked. “A map?”
“Why are you telling him this?” Seh asked.
“Because we need his help,” Hok replied.
“We don't need it that bad,” Seh said.
“I believe we do,” Hok said.
Ying stared at both of them, then at Fu, and finally up at Malao. It was clear that none of them had any idea where the map led. If they did, they would never have told another soul. Least of all, him.
Hok looked at Ying. “I can tell by your reaction that you are interested. Do we have a deal?”
Ying paused and a drop of water fell onto his nose. He glanced up into the night sky and several more pelted his carved face. It was beginning to rain.
Seh cleared his throat. “We need to take cover. I sense this rain will be heavy.”
Ying looked over at Malao again, a tiny figure fidg eting on the rooftop. Hok was right. He would never catch Malao, especially in his own weakened state.
Ying nodded to Hok. “We have a deal.”
Hok wiped rain from her brow. “Then it is agreed. I propose we meet at the wharf in two days’ time. There is a small, well-cared-for skiff docked alongside the large seafaring vessels in the central section of docks. It is clearly visible from the main street. I will meet you there just after sunset. I will wear a disguise.”
“Show me the map first,” Ying said.
“No. We can finalize the details when we next meet.”
Ying was about to argue when he heard Malao scurrying about the rooftop. Malao called down in a whisper, “Soldiers are coming!”
Ying frowned at Hok. “Get out. I'll see you in two days. Turn right out of this alley and follow the street for several It. It leads to the river.”
Hok nodded and signaled to Malao to follow her from above. She disappeared into the gloom with Seh on her arm and Fu at her side.
Ying hurried over to the corner where he'd placed the qiangs and sank down, taking a deep breath of stagnant, sewer-fumed air. He stifled a cough and pulled the wet, tattered blanket over himself and the qiangs, then closed his eyes.
Ying was confident that he wouldn't be found in this dismal location. He was even more confident that he would not get what he needed most—sleep. Between the talk of memorizing a map and the mention of Luk, Ying knew sleep would be impossible.
It seemed sleepless nights were the price he would forever pay for mastering the one thing that only he and Grandmaster had ever managed to master: memory intensification. It was a powerful skill, but with it came a great burden.
The trouble with remembering everything was that you never forgot anything. Even if you wanted to.
Ying was fourteen years old when his best friend, Luk, died. Killed by a qiang as Ying stood and watched. Ying seemed doomed to replay the scene over and over in his mind, trying to determine if he might have done something differently. The memories were especially vivid after smelling the smoke from a freshly fired qiang, or after someone had mentioned Luk's name. Tonight, Ying had experienced both. He knew he would never be able to dam the flood of images, so he let them flow.