the tongue uttered is a foreign one within arya’s
frame of reference, still — and yet, each time she
acquires a new phrase ( mostly consisting of var-
iants on go away, but the occasional hello or are
you alright? — and, now, thank you ) it goes com-
mitted to memory ; unsure how long she may re-
main in this region, it surely cannot hurt to amass
the basics of the language ( already far too aware
of just how much she stands out, for her age and
her colouring and accent both ).
‘ some fish. i didn’t ask what kind. ’ the man who’d
nudged it at her had seemed disinclined to make much
conversation — perhaps only taciturn, or perhaps mute
altogether ; it had been difficult to ascertain from his si-
lence, but in the presence of offered food she’d decided
not to question it too much, at least not aloud, lest he take
it upon himself to withdraw the favour.
—花木蘭—Juexizhen, far inland, is no trading hub, but every
so often a few barrels make their way north and the Huas have
fish. Sometimes it’s salted dry; sometimes it’s pickled (or sup-
posed to) and the smell is enough to make you sick. Even now,
Ping can feel his stomach shift unpleasantly, but is it nausea or
hunger?
Manners are no virtue among these men–in fact, Ping is mock-
ed for so much as a “thank you”–but he manages a small smile
for the boy to hide his misgivings. The men from Wu Zhong are
not starving, not yet, but they’re at the end of their supplies and it
takes an imagination such as Qian Po’s to turn the miscellaneous
foodstuffs into a meal. “They’re making congee,” he explains, nod-
ding towards the pot several paces away. The watered-down gruel
will make the rice last longer. “I think there’s mushrooms. Even a
little pork. Are you hungry?”