Free Beneath an Opal Moon by Eric Van Lustbader

taken a look, the man’s eyes had already slid away. Now he was careful not to glance their way. He seemed deep in conversation with his companion. “I find myself more and more these days thinking of home, I am afraid.”
    â€œBut that’s all to the good, don’t you see?” Kossori popped a last bit of vegetable into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Time you went home.” He smiled. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have a family.”
    Moichi had changed his angle slightly but he still could not see their hands. He reached into his sash, withdrew some coins. “Finished?” he said, and, not waiting for an answer, spilled the copper onto the table.
    â€œYou’re leaving way too much,” Kossori observed. “Wait for the change.”
    â€œGet up,” Moichi said in an intense whisper. “We are leaving here right now.”
    He kept the Greens in sight until they had closed the tavern’s door behind them. On Iron Street, with the crowds already somewhat thinned by the lateness of the hour, he took them left then left again. They moved quickly and silently. Into an alley which led out onto Green Cricket Lane. Darkness closed about them within the alley’s dense shadows. At either end, the brief yellow flickering of the wider streets’ night lights.
    â€œAll right,” Kossori said as they paused for a moment “What did you see?”
    â€œThose Greens.” He was peering ahead, then behind. “I think they were looking for me.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œOffhand I can think of several reasons.” He told Kossori about the early-morning attack. “Let’s go.”
    But they had only taken several paces when he stopped abruptly, put his arm across the other’s chest. He nodded. “In front of us.”
    The sounds of boot heels rattling against the ground, scraping against refuse. The skittering of rats.
    â€œWho goes there?” Moichi called, drawing his sword. Beside him, he felt Kossori’s muscles tense as he readied himself.
    For a long moment, there was absolute silence. Even the tiny scavengers were still, sensing the tension in the air. Moichi saw his shadow and Kossori’s flickering along the dank walls in front of him, elongated past all human recognition, limned by the night lights along Blessant Street behind them. They seemed grotesque and monstrous in the terribly confined space.
    â€œMoichi Annai-Nin.” Out of the darkness in front of them. “We have come for you.” A solid voice, used to command.
    â€œBy what authority?” Moichi inquired.
    â€œBy the supreme authority of our tai-pan, Du-Sing of the Ching Pang.”
    â€œLet’s take these scum,” Kossori hissed in his ear. But Moichi ignored him.
    â€œWhat is it your tai-pan wishes of me?” he inquired.
    â€œThat is for Du-Sing to say,” the voice replied from the darkness.
    Moichi saw that now there was no light coming from the exit ahead to Green Cricket Lane.
    â€œPlease do not attempt anything foolish,” the voice said. And at that moment, their shadows disappeared on the wall as bodies blocked out the light from Blessant Street behind them.
    The room was lined all in bamboo, split lengthwise and lacquered clear so that it gleamed in the low light emanating from the constellation of small oil lamps scattered about on low tables and mantelpieces. Above, the skylight had been drawn back revealing the icy brilliance of the glittering stars, remote, seemingly as hard as diamonds. The moon was in another quarter, unseen.
    The man who sat facing them was so enormous that he seemed to overflow the bamboo chair, despite the fact that it was so outsized that it was obvious it had been constructed to order. He wore saffron silk pants from which, it appeared, an entire tent might have been woven and a short wrapped jacket with wide sleeves, also saffron silk, quilted and low cut in front