Fu growled, softer this time, and Charles saw that he was holding his right hand. Fu's palm was swelling fast. Charles realized that the stone shard Fu had thrown was burning hot.
“I can't believe you threw hot stone,” Charles said as the others hurried over. “Thank you, Fu. Nice throw.”
Fu shrugged.
Hok took Fu's injured hand in her own, inspecting it. “You'll be fine,” she said. “Go dip it into the cool water of the creek. I'll make a salve and wrap your hand as we walk to Ying's mother.”
Fu grunted and headed for the creek.
Hok shifted the waxed sailcloth bag containing her herbs and turned to Charles. “Are you okay?”
“I'm all right,” Charles replied, “but I'm worried about Fu. Malao, too. He was jumping around barefoot on those hot roof tiles.”
Malao hobbled over, grinning. “You're worried about me? Don't bother.” He lifted a small dirty foot and wiggled his toes. Other than black ash on his sole and a few blades of burnt grass wedged beneath his toenails, Malao's foot looked fine, though its smell left something to be desired.
“It would take a lot more than a little heat to get through my thick soles,” Malao said. “Besides, I've danced across hot roof tiles before.” He giggled. “The same thing goes for Fu's hand. All his years of Iron Palm and Tiger Claw training have thickened his skin and killed most of his nerve endings. I bet he didn't feel a thing.”
Charles shook his head. He never would understand these foreigners.
“Thanks for saving me, by the way, Charles,” Malao said.
“No, no,” Charles replied. “We should all thank Fu. If he hadn't—”
Ying stepped up to the group. “You can congratulate each other later. Right now, we need to keep moving.” He glanced down at the sniper and paused, bending over. He seized the sniper's left forearm and said, “Did you notice this?”
Charles looked down and saw that the man had a jellyfish tattooed on the inside of his left wrist. “Does it mean something?” he asked.
“This region is controlled by the Southern War lord, a man called HaiZhe, or Jellyfish. I was introduced to him at a fight club once. This man works for him.”
“What is he doing here?” Hok asked.
“I have no idea,” Ying said. “We'll have to figure it out later.”
Ying led them back to the ruined house, where he had assembled several torches. They were fashioned out of furniture legs wrapped with cloth and soaked in some kind of liquid. Beside the torches was a small container that held a glowing ember.
“There is one bedroom that didn't burn,” Ying said in response to Charles’ questioning glances. “In it we found a pot of lamp oil, plus some bedsheets and a few wooden chairs. That's how I made these.” He picked up the torches. “I want to save them for inside the cave, so let's try to reach it while there's still daylight.”
After nearly an hour of climbing in the waning daylight, they reached the small back entrance to the cave where Ying's mother lay. Charles volunteered to guard the entry with three muskets that they'd taken from the fallen sniper, while the others lit the torches and rushed into the cave, armed with thick tree branches to use as levers.
Charles sat down with a heavy sigh and glanced about in the dim light. The coast appeared to be clear. With one corner of his robe, he began to clean his pistol as best he could and felt like kicking himself for not having brought additional shot, powder, and wads for reloading.
He had hardly finished wiping down his pistol when the others came plodding out of the cave. They were dusty and sullen, and Ying's mother lay limp and motionless in Ying's arms. Charles saw streaks running down Ying's cheeks where tears had wiped strips of his dirty face clean.
Charles knew better than to ask questions. They had arrived too late. Bitterly disappointed, he grabbed his pistol and the muskets and followed the others silently down the steep hillside. It took them longer to get back to the house in the dark. Fu went in ahead of them to investigate with his extraordinary low-light vision and declared that all was secure.
Once inside the house, Charles stood with his back against one of the brick walls, which was still warm from the house's demise. It provided some relief from the ever-increasing chill of the night. His clothes, like everyone else's, were still damp. Fu and Malao set about gathering kindling for a fire, while Ying took his mother into the undamaged bedroom. Hok walked over to Charles and began to rummage through her herb bag. Where they stood, a sliver of starlight shone through one of the gaping holes in the roof, providing at least some light.
“This is really sad,” Charles said.