“THAT MUST BE Foochow,” Shao said. In the distance, farmland was interrupted by scatterings of houses, and beyond lay a landscape of peaked roofs. A light haze rose from the city, smoke from charcoal fires.

“Probably just another two hours to get there,” Sparrow said. They cut through a field, keeping to a windbreak of poplar trees.

“Take a big step here,” Lian said, “it’s a ditch.”

Despite this warning, Shao tripped and fell. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I wasn’t watching.” He got up and knotted his scarf more tightly around his neck. He’d stumbled a lot over the past six days. “Getting colder, isn’t it?”

On the final mile to Foochow Shao could no longer deny something was very wrong with him, something more than hunger and fatigue. His legs were unsteady, and he went off the path into the shrubs twice, heaving up his last meal.

“Stomach cramps,” he said, wincing. Sparrow found him a stick to lean on and he was able to keep walking. The first houses were coming into focus now, smoke rising from chimneys.

“Is it malaria?” Lian asked Sparrow. “Should we get some quinine or qinghao?”

“I don’t think it’s malaria,” Sparrow said, “but definitely some sort of infection, something serious. That herbalist in Changsha didn’t know what he was talking about. We need to get you indoors, Young Master. We have enough money for a room somewhere.”

“It’s just a cold,” Shao said, trying to suppress his shivers.

Sparrow put a hand on his forehead. “You’re running a fever. It’s more than a cold.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

When they reached the first house on the outskirts of Foochow, however, Shao was beyond arguing. He could barely put one foot ahead of the other. He was dimly aware of being helped indoors, of falling into a pile of straw, shaking from chills. And then he slept.

SHAO HEARD SNATCHES of conversation, low, worried voices.

“I’ll go into town and look for Daming’s friend.” That was Lian. “Where’s the letter of introduction he gave us?”

Then he was retching again. Spewing what remained in his stomach. He was soaked in cold sweat, every bone and muscle ached, and his head was in a vise. His bowels gave way and a foul stink filled the room. He whimpered from the humiliation.

He woke up. Someone was spooning a bitter liquid into his mouth.

“It’s from the army doctor in Foochow, Daming’s friend.” Sparrow’s voice. “Drink it all.”

Shao tried keeping his eyes open but his head lolled on the mattress. Or perhaps it was just straw bedding. But it was all right. Sparrow was taking care of him. He felt a warm, damp cloth wipe between his legs, smelled his own shit, and vomited again.