His teapods
“My teapots,” said the magistrate. “See how I marked the side?
Careful not to let it tilt.”
“Your teapots,” Kitay repeated incredulously. “Your teapots are a
priority right now.”
“They were a gift to my father from the Dragon Emperor, may his soul
rest in peace.” The magistrate surveyed the top-heavy wagon. “Oh, that
reminds me—don’t forget the vase on the patio.”
He looked imploringly at Rin.
She was dazed from the afternoon heat, exhausted from hours of
packing the magistrate’s entire estate into several ill-prepared moving
vehicles. She noticed in her stupor that the magistrate’s jowls quivered
hilariously when he spoke. Under different circumstances she might have
pointed that out to Kitay. Under different circumstances, Kitay might
have laughed.
The magistrate gestured again to the vase. “Be careful with that, will
you? It’s as old as the Red Emperor. You might want to strap it down to
the back of the wagon.”
Rin stared at him in disbelief.
“Sir?” Kitay asked.
The magistrate turned to look at him. “What?”
With a grunt, Kitay raised the crate over his head and flung it to the
ground. It landed on the dirt with a hard thud, not the tremendous crash
Rin had rather been hoping for. The wooden lid of the crate popped off.
Out rolled several very nice porcelain teapots, glazed with a lovely
flower pattern. Despite their tumble, they looked unbroken.
Then Kitay took to them with a slab of wood.
When he was done smashing them, he pushed his wiry curls out of his
face and whirled on the sweating magistrate, who cringed in his seat as if
afraid Kitay might start smashing at him, too.
“We are at war,” Kitay said. “And you are being evacuated because
