Strategy 2030

The fire blazing down that street was no witchcraft, nor an accident.

          Zhi knew this. So did most others sensible enough to connect simple dots. The bakers of Zhouyuan would sooner use their own bodies to smother a fire than let one get out of control and snatch their livelihoods from under their feet. Jobs were all people had. And they ruined not just the Jiangs’, or the treats of Zhouyuan.

          They ruined Zhi’s life, too.

 

          Yet again, Zhi’s carving had stolen the day away. It carried her far past the imposed curfew and renewed her nightly fear of a witch coming by, snatching her work and her youth and maidenhood. She set off as soon as she realised, tidy pieces in her bag, unfinished figurines abandoned. She would come by tomorrow.

          But as she caught the whiff of an argument, curiosity carried Zhi from her usual back-alley trek home. Her slippers muffled her steps, and her sweeping gaze snagged on everything that moved. Most times, it was a loose missing person poster, every face a different girl who had vanished without a trace, stolen by the marsh witches beyond Zhouyuan’s safe walls.

          That alone was enough to give Zhi pause, to examine her surroundings for old crones and their cat familiars hunting for youths, but her need to know more about the shouting urged her onwards with its gentle touch. Come morning, it will have died with the arriving storm of citizens. And these girls will still be missing regardless.

          Zhi crept along. She dipped into an alleyway not far from the Jiang Bakery as soon as she heard the multitudes of voices and from there, with her back pressed against moist stone, she watched.

Jiang Yong yelled at one of the guards. Zhouyuan’s favourite—and only—baker had pinned-back greying hair, a soft powdered beard and round eyes as soft as the dough he kneaded. His wife was a plump little thing, always wearing a hanfu of light greens or reds and whites. She was nowhere to be seen.

The shouting grew. Seconds ticked into minutes. Zhi glanced at the opposite alleyway — it was no use getting caught before she tended to her grandfather — and was about to leave when a scream cut through the tense air.

          Jiang Su came rushing from the bakery, shrill cries forming curses no lady should ever speak as the guards crowded around the pair. Jiang Yong, forever the protective, noble husband, stepped between his wife and the crowd of guards.

          One of them shoved him, toppled him like a domino, and pummelled the baker out in the open, sneering and laughing as bones broke and groans subsided. Zhi trembled at the sight. Three others spared poor Jiang Su no mercy as they hauled her inside.

          Despite her yearning, Zhi stood rooted to the spot. Chills of fear ran through her blood. The guards had more armour on them than the rest of the city had coin in their purses and food in their cupboards. They starved while these men stole. There was nothing she could do but bear witness.

The guards came out minutes later, cotton sacks for wheat full of their winnings, and torched the place as they left.

          Jiang Su never came out.

          Jiang Yong never got up.

          Zhi was no stranger to death. It plagued the streets of Zhouyuan; bodies piled high in gutters and swung from branches. Some burned in the name of Guan Yin, in the name of peace and order in that dishevelled city, and others starved to death in their homes or out in the choking mist.

But that… from where she cowered, Zhi could see the blooding spilling into the fire-lit stone streets, the flames turning the red into shining streams of gold. Not a sound, not a cry or scream, came from the burning bakery.

          Biting her lip, Zhi eased herself away from the wall. Jiang Yong did not move as she crept closer, flinching away from the fire. And then Zhi stood over him, staring into his wide eyes, blood from a deep gash edging them like eyeliner.

Then she ran.

          Cold puddle water, gathered by that morning’s rainfall, soaked through Zhi’s slippers as she sprinted. Her bag bounced against her hip and her shawl fluttered behind her, threatening to fly away with one gentle breeze. The thunking of wooden trinkets echoed through the dark.

          Zhi wheeled around a corner.

          She slammed straight into a tough leather chest-guard, the same that hid witch-offending silver.

          “It’s curfew,” a rough voice growled, a similarly natured hand shoving Zhi back. “What are you doing out?”

          As she steadied herself, Zhi took in the man before her. Silver hairs infiltrated a dark-brown beard, and his hair was hidden under a glinting silver helmet. Witchfinder. I bumped into a Witchfinder.

          The man’s hand drifted to his side; to the sword resting in its scabbard. “Answer me, girl.”

          “I-I—” Zhi swallowed. “I just saw—”

          “You should be at home.”

          “I—yes, but…”

          The man shoved his torch behind him—to another guard, standing so close the flame illuminated the steeled schadenfreude in his rock-grey eyes—and grabbed Zhi with his now-free hand. “Come with me.”

          A cry rose in Zhi’s throat, but never left her mouth. The guard dragged her along, his little troupe trailing behind him with mutters and snickers, the mist thinning as they drew away from the winding backstreets of Zhouyuan to the square.

          The closer they got to the centre, the more torches flickered with life along walls and in holders. They did next to nothing in the mist, and with dark cloaking the city, you could say they were almost useless. Not in burning down the Jiang Bakery, though.

          Zhi swallowed against the cry threatening to escape.

          “I want to see the General.”

          The man dragging her along snorted. His men followed with their own chortles. “You’re not seeing anyone.”

          Zhi licked her dry lips. “I demand to see the General.”

          Despite the effort, a small squeak escaped Zhi when the Witchfinder drew up to a halt, his nails like blunt knives digging into her forearm. “You’re testing my patience, girl.”

          “Then… then let me speak to General Guan.” Zhi turned her gaze to her soaked slippers. The only pair she had. One glance at his face and all of her shaken confidence would have crumbled to the ground. “Please.”

          The Witchfinder’s grip could have crushed a stone. Pain burst through her arm as he asked, “And what do I get out of it?”

          Dignity? A free conscience? The echo of a sharp slap long gone spread across her cheek. Girls shall make no such threats. Instead, Zhi’s hand slid to her bag and, after some fumbling, pulled out a commission. A small wooden figure.

          Again, the greying man snorted. “A toy?”

          “A figment of hard work—” Zhi fought to keep the snap out of her tone, sneaking a peek at the ragged hand on her arm. “—that will sell well in Nantong.”

          “Why should I believe a little girl?”

          “My grandfather sold them there.” Not a complete lie, at least, and after some considering Zhi stammered an addition; “sir.”

          Grunting, the man took the commission: a tiny horse and rider. Heat—from frustration, fury, embarrassment, Zhi could not tell—rushed to her cheeks. His thumb and forefinger, in mere moments, left trails of dirt over the hard work she had spent long weeks on, with nothing but a blunt knife.

          “Give me all you have,” he drawled, bending down to come to Zhi’s eye level, “and I’ll let you see the General.”

          “Only if you take me to see Guan.”

          “Isn’t that what I said?”

          No, it was not. Zhi chewed on her lip. The tang of blood washed away the quips and insults. Girls shall behave at all times. So, she nodded.

          From her peripheral, Zhi watched as the man smiled, flashing teeth crooked from years of life and blackened by the food he ate. More food than the rest of Zhouyuan, she had no doubts about that.

          But don’t say that.

          “Now, girl.”

          With trembling hands, Zhi lifted the strap of her bag over her head and held it out. Its comforting weight, the threadbare flap keeping her hard work safe, the little flowers sewn onto the bottom right corner of the bag by her grandmother, it all left her hand in a few seconds.

          It took clasping her hands together to keep from snatching it back and running off.

          The man did not say anything as he swung it over his shoulder and began yanking her onward once again, no gentler than before. Zhi’s foot dove straight into a deep puddle but the cry in her throat wilted as the Witchfinder propelled her forward.

          Straight through the front door of the guards’ quarters.

          Light flooded Zhi’s eyes. Blinking away the brightness, she glances around.

          A corridor stretched before her, red doors dotting either side, none of them particularly revealing. While the Witchfinder ordered his men through two different doors, more of them going through the one closest to the main door with its peeling paint and rusty iron hinges, three of them went through a door further down the hall. One of them sneered at Zhi as he went by.

          A chill racked her spine as her gaze snagged on the thin scars covering his face like vines to a home.

          The Witchfinder shoved her forward. “Move.”

          Forever the obedient girl, Zhi nodded and stumbled along, guided by his rough hand to the one door that most fitted the building: freshly painted with a grate towards the top, like it was made for a cell.

Zhi’s heart dropped.

          “In.”

          “Is… is this the—?”

          The Witchfinder huffed, threw open the door and sent Zhi, spluttering on her protests, stumbling over the threshold.

          Zhi landed on the floor with a hard thud.

          “General Guan—” The Witchfinder abandoned her by the door to stand in the corner of the room. Her precious bag looked tiny on him. All of her hard work, nestled inside, will be sold at inflated prices or burned as kindling. “—this girl wanted to see you.”

          Zhi wrenched her eyes from the bag and, with a painful slowness, settled her gaze on the General, who said, “And you remember I did not want to be disrupted, Witchfinder Han?”

          The rest of their conversation drifted away. The General sat behind an ornate wooden desk, pen and paper resting to one side, the other painfully blank. A uniform of black leather and cloth — the gear of the times, with swords of silver at each soldier’s side and prayers on their tongues — merged with the dark stone wall behind.

          A smack on the desk brought Zhi back to the present. The General had not moved from the desk, only looked down at her with a look of mild disgust.

          Zhi stood up, dumbfounded. “You’re… you’re a—”

          “Woman?” the General finished. Her expression curdled further. “Hardly. I’m not like your kind.”

          Zhi, despite her desire to fight the obvious with this woman-man infiltrator, bowed her head. Black hair fell from its twist and curled before her eyes.

          “Don’t waste my time, girl,” General Guan snarls. She had no voice of a woman, that was for sure. Too rough, like gravel forced into a field of softness. “What do you want?”

          “I… saw some of your men—”

          “And why—?”

          “—they burned down a bakery.”

          Whatever General Guan had wanted to sneer, it faded with Zhi’s words. Her—his?—expression faded into some form of dangerous neutrality, like the sword at her—his—their—whatever—’s side. Nothing but a weapon ready to be yielded.

          “That’s impossible—”

          The General raised a hand to silence Han. “You saw them?”

          Zhi nodded. More hair fell loose.

          “There’s a curfew,” General Guan stated. Zhi shrank back from the dagger hidden in that voice. Be as small as possible; never take up room. “Why were you out?”

          “I had to get back home and help my grandfather—”

          “I don’t believe you.”

          Zhi swallowed her objection. She was not there to argue her reasons. “I saw them charge into the bakery, General, and they just— they burned it down. They killed the Jiangs.”

          “Killed them? How can you be so sure?”

          “Jiang Yong, he’s in the streets and when they set the bakery on fire, Jiang Su was inside.”

          “How can you be so sure?”

          Heat began to claw up Zhi’s neck. “Because I—”

          “Snooped.”

          Zhi stalled and, this time, braved a proper look at the General. Known as Guan Fen, once. Beloved by many, and from a long line of General Guans, the people prayed now not to Guan Yin but to Guan Fen of Zhouyuan. Peace in human form. You would not have guessed it, then. Not with a scar across the cheek, thick and deep, many more hidden under the Witchfinder armour.

          The chair General Guan sat on scraped against stone. It gave way to that impeding presence, the same closing in on Zhi no matter how much she tried to step away. A gloved hand grabbed her wrist, tightening as she yelped, and pulled her into the snare of General Guan’s deadly attention.

          “My men,” the General hissed, low and sharp, “would do no such thing.”

          “But… they did, General. I swear on my honour!”

          Offence, bright and hot as magma, flickered in General Guan’s eyes. Hand still on Zhi’s wrist, a dagger flashed in her peripheral. Zhi’s eyes began to burn as it drew closer to her bare skin.

          Girls shall behave at all times.

          “What did you just say?”

          “I saw them,” Zhi whispered. “They killed them. I wouldn’t—”

          “My men would do no such thing voluntarily.” The dagger tip, chilled despite the warm room, found the back of Zhi’s hand. General Guan leaned closer, wisps of short-cut black hair tickling her cheek, and snarled, “You’re a witch.”

          Zhi started. The dagger cut her skin. “No! I saw them—!”

          “My men are more honourable than your kind,” General Guan hissed. “You’re nothing but a harlot who stole their minds and made them do your bidding.”

          “No—!”

          “Women are liars.” The dagger dug deeper, drawing a hiss. “You’re all insufferable, pitiful liars with no sense of true honour.”

          Zhi glanced at the window, the closest exit. Witchfinder Han stood before it, then, with a disgusting snarl. “But I didn’t do anything—”

          The dagger flew to Zhi’s throat, the tip pressing hard enough to mark. “Say that again, and I’ll give you a fate worse than the one coming for you, witchling.”

          When the tears started running down her face, Zhi could not have told you. She noticed them only when General Guan backed away from her with a mix of disgust and fury. After muttering something about emotional, vile creatures, the General faced Witchfinder Han. “Take her.”

          “But—” The Witchfinder began crossing the room, ignoring Zhi’s plea. “—wait! Your men, they—!”

          “They would never have done it if you hadn’t plagued their minds.”

          Witchfinder Han grabbed Zhi’s wrist as she screamed, “They killed the Jiangs!”

          “Because you made them.” General Guan sat back down as Zhi tried to wriggle free, wiping the dagger on a patch of cloth. “They’ll give testimony at your hanging, witchling, don’t worry.”

The door slammed shut on Zhi’s face.

          As soon as it did, the Witchfinder smacked Zhi across the face, sending her sprawling into the wall. A blistering ache formed almost immediately.

          “You fucking bitch,” Witchfinder Han spat, his saliva splattering on Zhi’s bare cheek. “You tricked my men and had the audacity to talk about honour?”

          Zhi shook her head. Her twist continued to fall loose, and her family’s pin tumbled to the stone floor. A sob forced her protestations aside.

          Witchfinder Han grabbed Zhi’s hair. She cried out, more sobs spilling free, as he forced her to look at the fury in his eyes. More spittle landed on Zhi’s lips and nose as he snarled, “You’re just a fucking whore.”

          “Please,” Zhi managed, lip trembling, tears blurring her vision. “Please, I did nothing—they killed—”

          Zhi’s next words faded with her breath. Witchfinder Han slammed her into the stone wall directly opposite General Guan’s door. His free hand grabbed her chin to force her gaze on him. Rage twisted his expression, turned his grip into a monster’s claw, the nails drawing blood. Her useless flails did nothing to him. “Don’t you disrespect my men, you fucking harlot.”

          The Witchfinder allowed Zhi to writhe for a few moments, weeping, begging him to realise before he murmured, “If you weren’t a witchling, I’d have much better plans for you. Pity.”

          For a second, fear stopped Zhi’s pathetic wriggling, her mind racing to consider the opposite.

Witchfinder Han drew Zhi away from the wall by her hair and, ignoring her yelps and cries, dragged her through the door the sneering man went through. Stairs spiralled down into the dark, and the slippery cobblestones would have sent her tumbling if not for the Witchfinder’s agonising hold. In some cases, a curse can be a blessing, but not for long.

          When they reached the dim bottom, barely eased by the dimming torches, all of Zhi’s fight left her.

Women stared, wide-eyed, from behind their barred walls, clothes stained with muck and shit, children curled up in their laps and hugging their arms. Zhi knew who they were as soon as she saw them.

          The missing girls.

 

          Witchfinder Han threw open the door to one of their cells and shoved Zhi inside. She tripped over some poor girl’s leg, slammed into the wall opposite before her brain could focus on the present. The missing girls are all here. And no one noticed.

          Or cared.

          “She’s going up first,” Witchfinder Han hissed, as he turned the key to their cage, to the guard on duty. It was the same one who curled his face at her. “Her and the other bitches.”

          Zhi did not—could not—hear the rest of the conversation. Her blood pounded in her ears. They’re here. The missing posters, the hollering of cornermen, the demands from the guards the first few nights each girl went missing… they were all fake.

          No one had cared. Not even Zhi.

          Another, harsher, quieter sob escaped Zhi as she slid down the damp wall, clutching at her jacket and shawl as if they could save her. Some women crowded around, brushing her hair back with soft fingers, hushing her with gentle words like they would make everything better, but it all did little to distract her from the heartbreak tearing her soul into tiny shreds.

          The Jiangs were dead. Murdered.

          And Zhi was going to die for witnessing it.