Lightning cracked the skies above Rhu Shu Street, briefly illuminating the signs of the demon lounges and apothecaries and bringing with it the smell of hot metal, like a blade through the humid air. Former Bloodmaster Tso walked slowly, bowed down with the wallowing weight of the blood-filled sack. He counted each step: three hundred and fifty-one, three hundred and fifty-two. . . only another two hundred to go. It was a long way from the loading dock to the end of Rhu Shu Street and the square where the Blood Emporium lay, and Tso's feet hurt. They'd never been the same since O Ji had reversed them, so that the toes now pointed to the front—nothing more than a fit of malice, in Tso's opinion, and an action which had had very little to do with his unfortunate family's scandal—but it had caused endless hardship for Tso. He'd always been proud of his feet. Great-grandfather Tso's feet had also faced backwards, and Tso himself had apparently inherited this prestigious gene; a legacy from some unimaginably distant ancestor of the Imperial Court. No one else in the family had backwards feet; not his brother Ghu, not his sister Inari. . . At this thought, Tso's mind cringed from its own memories. If it hadn't been for Inari, he'd still have his old feet, and come to that, he'd still have his old job: working behind the counter of the Ru Shu Blood Emporium, the respected proprietor instead of the lowliest delivery boy. But it was too late to worry about that now. Now, he was working for the epicene O Ji, whose august magnanimity had bought the Emporium from Tso to pay off his sister's promised dowry, and who had re-employed him at a somewhat lower level. . . Tso's thoughts spun in their familiar and depressing groove. Four hundred and ninety-two. . . He was nearly at the door of the Emporium, for the seventeenth time that day. With the utmost care, he levered the sack from his back and cradled it as he stepped across the threshold. The slightest drop of lost blood would, he knew from bitter experience, cost him a corresponding deduction in wages; O Ji might look like a languid fop, but he had eyes like those of the wu'ei themselves and he didn't miss a trick. Tso waltzed the sack of blood into the back regions of the Emporium, where two gagged servants slaved above the steaming jars. Taking the sack from Tso, and nodding their thanks, they emptied the fresh consignment of blood into the sealed trough. Tso watched resentfully as it gurgled through the pipes to the filling mechanism. In his day, when he was proprietor, there had been no need to gag the staff. He had trusted the servants not to abuse their privileges, and if a stealthy tongue had snapped out to sample a taste of the delicacy on which the Emporium depended, it only made for a happier workforce. This was the trouble with aristocrats, Tso thought: they did not understand the basic principles of industry. Sighing, he turned and was about to make his painful way back to the loading dock when the door to the Emporium jangled open and O Ji stepped through.
Tso immediately bowed low, teetering a little as he did so. The reversed feet made balance difficult, and he was forced to steady himself against the counter.
"You may rise," O Ji said, reeking of smugness. Tso did so, and saw with disgust that O Ji had treated himself to a new suit. He was resplendent in ivory silk, with collar and cuffs of some kind of thick, pale fur, which provided a rough match to his own carefully blond mane. A tracery of scarlet veins formed a labyrinth across his waistcoat. Tso suppressed a frown. O Ji was rich, it was true, and a slave to fashion, but Tso had never seen him looking quite so—well, expensive. O Ji's smile grew as Tso covertly eyed the suit.
"My latest acquisition. You like it?"
"Magnificent," Tso said, even more sourly because it was the truth.
"It's by way of a little celebration, I suppose. I have wonderful news, Tso. Would you like to hear it?" He spoke patiently, as to a child, and Tso inwardly seethed.
"Sir?"
"Today I signed a new contract for the Blood Emporium, Tso. One that will add to my already extensive coffers, and make us the envy of the district." He paused, as if for dramatic effect, then continued: "We're going to be the primary suppliers of blood to the Ministry of Epidemics. Isn't that great news? On a regular basis, for a new project they're developing. Science, my dear Tso, is truly a marvelous thing—but Art must take precedence. Our first order is for a consignment of delicacies—blood sorbets, candies, liqueurs, all the usual kind of thing—for the wedding." O Ji floated around the reception area, flicking idle fingers in the direction of the display cabinets.
"The wedding?" Tso echoed.
"That's right, the wedding. Between Lord Dao Yi of the Ministry of Epidemics and your sister."
Tso gaped at him. O Ji said kindly, "It seems your sister's come home at last, Tso. And Dao Yi's decided to forgive her. In a manner of speaking. Of course, it won't be as though she'll be First Wife this time, but still, you can't have everything. What a pity you're no longer manager here. I should think your family will be needing all the help it can get, what with the revised dowry and the penalty fees, after all. Perhaps," O Ji said with a languid, glittering smile as Tso stood motionless in the middle of the room, "we should think about giving you a pay rise." The smile widened. "Or then again, maybe not."