Ken Liu - The Grace of Kings

Well, Jia, as you can imagine, we went to Cogo’s house right away.

Gin Mazoti is a small man, thin and wiry. He has leathery, dark-brown skin, black hair cropped close to the skull, and dark-brown eyes that dart around, taking everything in.

Cogo had told me that I needed to be respectful, so I didn’t act like the king, just a man in search of a great warrior. That was easy — I’m always doing that anyway. So I bowed down to him and asked if I had the honor of meeting the famed Master Gin Mazoti.

“It’s Miss Gin Mazoti, actually.” And she bowed back in a woman’s jiri , her hands folded across her chest. “I came back in part because I heard that you’re even willing to consider the talents of the weaker sex. But if you’re going to pay me the honor of an audience, I should at least let you know the truth about myself.”

Well, imagine the expressions on Cogo’s and my faces. (And how prescient of you, my Jia!)

Kisses for Toto -tika and Rata -tika .

— Your Kuni, Ecstatic

DIMUSHI: A LONG TIME AGO.

No one ever called her Gin- tika . Her mother was a prostitute who died giving birth to her, and she didn’t know who her father was. “Mazoti” was just the name of the indigo house where she was born.

Growing up in a whorehouse meant that Gin was the property of the house. She fetched water and welcomed the guests, mopped the floors and rinsed out the chamber pots. She was beaten because she was too slow (“Do you think I’m feeding you to crawl around like a snail?”), and she was beaten because she was too fast (“What makes you think you can just loll about because you finished your chores?”). When she was twelve she overheard the madam speak of auctioning off her virginity. During the night she cut her way out of the closet that the madam locked her in, took all the money that was in the house, and escaped into the streets of Dimushi.

The money didn’t last long, and she was faced with a choice. She could sell herself, or she could steal. She chose to steal.

A gang of thieves took her in.

“When it comes to being a thief, young girls like you have certain advantages,” said Gray Weasel, the leader of the gang.

Gin said nothing because her attention was entirely taken up by the feeling of warm porridge filling her belly. It had been three days since she had eaten.

“You are quick, and you don’t look threatening,” continued Gray Weasel. “Many people instinctively cross the street when they see a group of boys, but they pity a lone girl begging for food and let their guard down. You can relieve them of their possessions while smiling and pestering them to buy a flower.”

Gin thought his voice sounded kind. Perhaps this was because he was the first man who had ever looked at her as a student, as a colleague, as a person , not just a piece of flesh.

It wasn’t always that easy, of course, and Gin also learned to fight — sometimes others tried to steal from her, sometimes she was caught and the constables had no pity. The gang taught her that because she was a girl, she had to learn to make the best of her meager advantages.

Her greatest asset was that people didn’t expect her to fight, though this only conferred a fleeting opportunity that she could make use of, once. She could not posture and taunt and boast and display the way the boys did. She had to behave as though she was helpless and then unleash her strike in one overpowering burst of fury. She went for the eyes, the soft tissue under the lump in men’s throats, the groin. She had no qualms about sharp nails, teeth, hidden daggers. She could choose not to fight and yield, or she could choose one flash of deadly force. There was nothing in between.

One day, the gang robbed a caravan making a stop at a cheap inn. Their haul consisted of gold and jewels and a carriage filled with a dozen frightened boys and girls, none older than six years.

“Looks like this ‘merchant’ is a child trafficker,” Gray Weasel said, looking at the children thoughtfully. “Probably snatched from their parents in faraway lands.”

The children were brought back to Gray Weasel’s home, which was also the thieves’ den. They were fed and put to bed. Gin stayed in the room and told them stories until the last boy sank into an uneasy sleep.

“Good job calming them down,” Gray Weasel said to her, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I was sure some of them would try to run away the first chance they got. You’ve got a way with these kids.”

“I’m an orphan too.”

In the morning, Gin awoke to the sound of children screaming. She rushed out of the house. In the backyard, a few of the children lay on the ground crying. One had a bloody bandage wrapped around his right shoulder, his arm gone. Another sat with gauze wrapped around her head, two spreading red stains marking where her eyes had been. A third had lost his feet, and he crawled slowly, trailing blood on the grass. The other children, still uninjured, were held by members of the gang against the back wall. They screamed and kicked and bit, but the men stood as still as statues, not loosening their iron grasp.

In the middle of the backyard was a stump used for splitting firewood. A girl was tied to it, her left arm laying across the stump. She was so frightened that her voice no longer sounded human, but like the cries of some wild animal. “Please, please! Don’t. No!”

Gray Weasel stood next to the stump, a bloody axe dangling from his hand. His expression was as calm as his voice, as though this was the most routine of mornings. “It won’t hurt for very long, I promise. I’ll just take off your arm from the elbow down. People can’t resist giving money to a pretty, maimed little beggar girl.”

Gin ran up to him. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Making enhancements. I’ll drop them off around the city every morning and collect them in the evening. They’ll bring in a lot of money from begging. Compassion can be a valuable thing to steal too.”

Gin moved to stand between him and the girl. “You never did anything like this to me.”

“I thought I saw in you the potential of becoming a good thief.” Gray Weasel’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t let me regret my decision.”

“We saved them!”

“So?”

“We should return them to their parents.”

“Who knows where they’re from? The traffickers didn’t keep records, and these kids are too young to give precise directions. And how do you know their parents didn’t sell them because they couldn’t afford to feed them?”

“Then you should let them go!”

“And allow another gang to snatch them up and make use of what ought to be my property? Are you going to suggest next that I feed them and board them with me for free? Should I abandon my profession and take up Rufizo’s work of doing charity?” He laughed, pushed Gin aside, and swung the axe.

The girl’s scream seemed to go on forever.

Gin jumped on him and tried to scratch out his eyes. He yelped and threw her to the ground. But it took two men to finally subdue her. Gray Weasel slapped her across the face and then made her watch as the rest of the children were, one by one, maimed in various ways. Afterward, he had her whipped.

That night, Gin waited until all the men fell asleep, then she got up and tiptoed her way into Gray Weasel’s room. Through the window, the moonlight cast a pale white pall over everything. Next door, she could hear the pained murmurs of the children.

Slowly, very slowly, she reached into the bundle of clothes next to the bed and retrieved the thin dagger Gray Weasel always kept on him. In a single lightning-quick thrust, she plunged it into his skull through his left eye. He screamed, and Gin pulled out the dagger and thrust it into the soft spot under the lump in his throat. With a bloody gurgle, the scream stopped.