Spirit Hunter (15 page)

I stare at her, frozen with sudden fear. I feel as if all my most secret thoughts are laid bare before her. But she does not know the truth of it. I was not just any young girl, giddy and raw-headed. I am shaman, or at least I was, and I had a duty to my people – to care for them and guide their spirits. Instead, I chose not to tell my kin that White Swan’s pretty brother followed me that day in Samarkand. I led him straight to the Gathering: a foolish mistake that even a child of six summers would not make.

“I do not understand,” I say at last, desperate to turn the flow of talk elsewhere. “The Empress has Horse Tribe fighters in her army, yet how did your mother’s kin come to be in Chang’an?”

White Swan raises an eyebrow. “Autumn Moon must have been keeping you close by her side, child. Have you never been to the city wall in the Eastern Quarter? Go there and you’ll learn something new. The Tribes are scattered further than you, a girl stolen from so far in the west, might suppose.”

Somewhere close, I hear the thud of a closing door. There is not much time.

“Autumn Moon sends me to learn what news you had of the Persian ambassador when last he came to your chamber.” The words come out in a rush.

White Swan sighs. “Tell her it is as we expected it should be: the King of Persia says we shall have the finest of the plants, but really they keep the best for themselves, sending our beloved Empress only the inferior ones.”

“The finest of what plants?” I ask, before I can stop myself. I am meant to be on my way back to the Forbidden Garden already.

She smiles. “The less you know, little Shaolin, the safer you will be. But in this case it can do you no harm to learn that the King of Persia possesses the secrets of a flowering plant called indigo: it dyes cloth the finest, deepest blue – brighter and richer than the sky. The Empress longs for her gardeners to grow the stuff themselves so she need not send her courtiers to spend so much cash in the Persian market each fall-of-the-leaf.”

I hear footfalls coming closer.

“Go,” White Swan tells me, “and tread carefully among the Shaolin, Horse Tribe girl.” She smiles, but there’s an odd, shadowed look in her eyes as she turns away, back to her mirror of polished bronze, back to her curtain of shining hair and the painting of her face.

Once outside, I crouch beneath the window, listening to the door opening and closing, White Swan speaking kindly to her maidservant. I did it: I can move without being seen. I can take on the spirit of tiger, wolf, swallow, scorpion. I am Shaolin. I cannot help smiling. Autumn Moon does not know it yet, but she has taught me how to kill the Empress: silently. I will come for the Empress quiet as a ghost, but I will kill her as a Horse Tribe girl – with my knife, and her eyes shall be open to see it coming.

With each day that my skills swell, I am a step closer to revenge, the Empress a step closer to her death. And hand-in-hand with the Empress’s death, there awaits my own.

I must be away from the House of Golden Butterflies; I could still fail in my task if someone spotted me here. But White Swan has a spirit-horse. I long for another sight of it. Softly, softly, I rise up on my knees till I can see over the windowsill. White Swan sits facing away from me as a maidservant in white robes combs out her shining river of black hair.

White Swan’s spirit-horse is nowhere to be seen. Moments slide by as I wait for a glimpse of it, but there is nothing. Unease settles over me like a cold wet blanket laid across my shoulders. First it was so faint, so shadowy, and now it has gone, faded to nothing. Her spirit is weak, broken. What great wrong has she committed?

It’s none of your concern,
I tell myself. If I don’t get away from here now I shall be caught.

Back in the garden, I slink through the forest of bamboo, moving fast. I do not like this House of Golden Butterflies. I want to get as far from it as I can, and from the concubine inside who sees my most hidden thoughts as if they were painted on my face. But as I run, my heart sings: the Empress will die by my own hand; she will pay.

I have chosen my path.

I cannot go back.

I can only go on.

H
e knew the way. Flags emblazoned with Lord Fang’s name were mounted on lances outside the gate, but Swiftarrow did not need to read them. He had been here before, many times. Just to look. This close to the Xingqing Palace, the streets were full of Gold Bird Guards. He kept out of their sight. Lord Fang employed his own men to guard the homestead but they did not see Swiftarrow walk past the shadow-wall outside the main gate, built to keep evil spirits from passing through into the courtyard.
Your shadow-wall is not enough to stop me, O Father
. Swiftarrow swarmed straight up the gate, dropping down to land in the main courtyard. The white-clad maid who ran by was blind to him, too, hurrying in from the rain. She disappeared into the cook-room; the door slammed shut behind her. Lord Fang was well known for granting his servants the liberty to wear a yellow or red tunic beneath the death-white commoners’ robes they all hated so much. But it was not so today.

So it is true,
Swiftarrow thought:
Lady Fang is dead
. If the gods had chosen differently, she would have been as a mother to him. Would she have been a kind stepmother, or a cruel one? But fortune had turned another way, and Lord Fang’s wife meant nothing to him. Nor did her tribe of daughters, not one of whom he had ever met and who, if the market talk were true, lived out their days in a country manor house thirty days’ ride to the south because their moon-faced lack of beauty bored Lord Fang out of his wits.

My half-sisters,
Swiftarrow thought.

He paused outside the weather-worn cedar door. Standing in this place of death, the clamour of Chang’an seemed far away – the braying of a jackass whipped along the road, the chatter of folk waiting to hear the masked fortune-teller who plied his trade beneath a drooping willow tree at the street corner, shrieking children. Making sure he remained unseen, Swiftarrow waited in the courtyard of his father’s house, listening. He heard the low chatter of servants, the clink of a clay spoon against a pot, a distant zither playing “Mournful Summer of the Fading Peony.”

Music in a house of mourning?
A crime punishable by beating and exile. Swiftarrow swallowed his shock. It was clear Lord Fang chose to believe he lived above the law’s reach.
And maybe he does.
Following the sound, Swiftarrow opened the door. Once inside, he paused, looking around. Another white-clad servant ran by, but she did not see him, even though she passed so close that the breeze she stirred up stroked Swiftarrow’s face. She was gone, closing the door behind her. In the hall, the windows were all shuttered, and it was dark. He smelled the freshness of clean rushes on the floor. At the far end, an oil lamp glimmered at the feet of a gold-wrought statue: the Enlightened One, sitting peaceful and calm.

I will be calm, too,
Swiftarrow swore.
I will not step from the Path of Peace for the sake of Lord Fang.
He chased the music, running quick and quiet through the darkened hall. At last, he came to another door. When he laid his hands against it, he felt the coolness of jade tiles inlaid into the wood.

This might have been my home: our home, White Swan’s and mine.

Behind the door, the zither played on. “Fading Peony” drew to an end and another song began, one Swiftarrow had not heard before. It would be easy to go in unseen, keeping to the shadows. But this time, he did not want to. He pushed the door. It was unlocked and swung open before him.

The music stopped.

The chamber was in half darkness, lit only by a single lamp resting on a table scattered with flasks and jars. Rolled-up scrolls were stacked on every table, even the windowsills, blocking the light: a library. The sour smell of wine hit the back of Swiftarrow’s throat, sickening him. Clad in robes of mourning white, Lord Fang was sprawled on a wooden couch strewn with tiger-skins and bolts of heavy silk. His hair was loose about his shoulders, long, grey-streaked. The girl sitting at his side wore nothing save the peacock feathers in her hair, clutching the zither as she stared at Swiftarrow, mouth half open.

Lord Fang took a sip from the silver cup in his hand. “My dear girl,” he said, “get out of my sight. Cannot you see how my son will look at nothing but the floor?”

Swiftarrow glanced away as the naked concubine walked past, still holding her zither. The door closed behind her with a slight creak. He had sensed her watching him. It was just past noon and in the marketplace gossip would spread faster than a fever.
Before sunset the whole of Chang’an will know I am here. White Swan can stop her worrying.

He dropped to his knees, bowing low, letting his forehead rest against the fresh rushes on the floor.

“Get up.”

Swiftarrow sat back on his heels, head bowed.

“So, it pleases you to grace my home at last.” Lord Fang spoke with such cold rage that Swiftarrow had to crush a glimmer of fear.

Swiftarrow met his eyes. “I only wish to serve my esteemed father in whatever manner he deems best.”
What can he do to you? Nothing.

“Enough. Let us be clear with one another,” Lord Fang said with quiet menace. “It seems I must begin to rule you. I beg you, know this: nothing means more to me than the good name of the House of Fang; I will have neither my honour nor the safety of my innocent daughters put at risk by a foolhardy brat I left behind in a whorehouse. Yet you are Shaolin: you move faster than thought. I cannot control you in the manner of most fathers. Therefore why did you allow me to strike your face last time we met?”

It is as if he saw into my mind.
Swiftarrow paused a moment before replying: his father was clearly not only an arrogant man but a shrewd and ruthless one. He would need to be handled carefully. Swiftarrow chose to give him the truth.

“Because I am not much afraid of you, my lord.”

“And you wanted me to know it.” Lord Fang smiled, eyes cold. “So what was a rebuke from me becomes a little lesson from you. Perhaps we are not so different after all. But remember this: I will find a way of punishing you, Swiftarrow, should you choose to annoy me again.”

Swiftarrow looked up at his father. “I do not doubt it.” He thought of that long-ago meeting with the Empress, when she had bidden him cross the western desert with General Li.
Believe me, boy,
she had said,
life as a courtesan is full of danger.
Lord Fang had stood by then, saying nothing to defend White Swan. Would he go so far as to threaten her, too?

I don’t know him well enough to tell.
He would have to watch, and wait, and learn.

“Good,” Lord Fang said. “I am glad that we have reached an understanding. Now leave me. Go to the hall and bid one of the servants show you to your chamber. Remain there until you are sent for. There is much to discuss.”

“Yes, my lord.” Swiftarrow got to his feet and bowed his head.
I will play your little game for now, O Father.

He had reached the door when Lord Fang spoke again. “Twenty years,” he said, quietly. “Twenty years she was at my side, and now she is gone, her corpse packed in ice, waiting to be buried. Our little lives are too short, and it is so cruel.”

Swiftarrow stood still, hand resting on the door. It was not what he had expected to hear.

Lord Fang looked up, face twisted with anguish. “Go!” he hissed.

The eighth bell rang across Chang’an, and Swiftarrow sat cross-legged on a couch bestrewn with leopard hides, facing his father across the table. Lamps flickered, casting long shadows over porcelain bowls of fragrant spiced meat and steaming rice. All lay untouched.

“Eat. It is not my intention to starve you.” Lord Fang drained his cup of wine and poured another. The jug had been painted with dragons and twisting vines by a well-taught but unskilled hand. Swiftarrow wondered if it was the work of Lady Fang.

“I beg you to excuse me: I am forbidden to touch food after midday.”

“Temple rules do not apply in this house,” Lord Fang replied. “But do as you will. Have you been spying on your mother’s kin as Her Imperial Majesty commanded?”

“The Shaolin never speak of a task before it is done with, sir.”

Lord Fang nodded, slowly. “Very well, but remember this: you and your sister mean nothing to the Horse Tribes. Beware of the one who calls himself their leader, this Lord Ishbal. He may be your kinsman, but he is not to be trusted. Spy on him as the Empress has ordered, but do not be drawn in by the barbarians. They are not loyal – even to their own kind.”

“You need not warn me.” Swiftarrow stared across the table at his father. “My grandfather sent Mother to the Emperor as a gift. He was happy to let his own child spend her life pleasing any man who had enough gold. Therefore his son is hardly a man I wish to trust.” It was a satisfying blow, and Swiftarrow had waited many long years to strike it.

Lord Fang put down his cup. It hit the table top with a soft click. “Tell me,” he said; “what is the name of that barbarian girl at the Blind Trial? The one you captured in the west. She had a great deal of spirit. When you caught her at the end, the entire court thought you were going to kiss her. I hope she does not meet with any danger, running errands for the Empress.”

It was a threat.

“You will have to spin a love-tale about someone else, O lord. Girls are forbidden to me, Father, so I try not to pay them too much heed. But I still would not wish Asena any harm. I have done her enough already.”

“So pious, child.” Lord Fang laughed, with what sounded like genuine amusement.

Swiftarrow glared at him. “Someone is coming.” He listened to the footfalls growing louder. Lord Fang might have won the skirmish, but the battle was still undecided.

“A servant,” Lord Fang said. “Well, it seems you have been granted a reprieve from this line of questioning. Wait.”

A round-bellied man came in, clothed in bone-white robes of mourning. He bowed. “Your lordship, have you all that is required? More meat? I take the liberty of remarking that Cook has roasted the deers’ tongues exquisitely well.”