Turning her back on the dying man, Xinying moved through the service corridor toward the heart of the palace.
Between the second and third gates, a guard stepped into her path. He was young; the green sash of his armor was tied a little too tight. His hand jerked toward his sword, but he failed to pull it out. The iron would not answer him now.
He blinked at his hand as he continued to tug the handle of the sword, confused, and looked up, ready to shout.
A hairpin that was no longer a hairpin sped from her sleeve with a thought and settled in the hollow of his throat. He dropped like a stalk of millet, not knowing that he had died until long after she had passed.
By the fourth gate, the musicians were playing again. Xinying shook her head as a slow smile appeared on her face. They weren't playing because the fear had passed, but because the master of ceremonies had snapped his fan and hissed that nothing was wrong.
