Chapter 12: The Ferry King

They came up the cellar steps into a night full of water.

The river had climbed over the dock.

It lapped at the doorsteps of the waterfront houses, black and silent and smooth as oil.

The great bronze bell on the dock post swung and tolled above it.

Every villager in Qinghuai Ferry stood on the high street in their nightclothes.

Auntie Xu was at the front, with her cleaver hanging forgotten in her hand.

The Bureau priests were crowded together near the fish market, with their torches shaking.

Even Inspector Shao had stopped smiling.

Pingan came out with his bandaged hand against his chest and Zhuoran's arm around his waist.

Nobody looked at them.

Everyone was looking at the river.

Out in the middle of the black water, something was getting up.

It rose slowly.

It was made of the river itself, a column of black water as tall as the ferry post.

It was wearing scorched black and crimson cloth.

The cloth hung off it in long wet ribbons.

It had arms, and shoulders, and a head.

It had a face.

Pingan stopped breathing.

It was a tall man's face, pale and sharp-boned, with short ash-grey hair plastered to its forehead.

A scar of old fire ran down the left side of the neck.

The eyes were red from corner to corner.

The mouth curved up into a long, crooked smile with a sharp corner on the left.

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