Spirit Hunter (18 page)

The Empress is just like anyone I might meet in the marketplace. Her face is doughy, but the hands resting in her lap are thin, the fingers delicate and whiter than maggots. Her lips and cheeks are not stained red, but her eyebrows have been shaven and painted in much higher so that she looks forever surprised. Her hair is drawn up into a knot. She wears a very plain robe, but it is the colour of fire and I never saw such cloth even in the marketplaces of Samarkand: it’s as if the palace seamstresses have tugged reams of the stuff from the sun’s heart. My heart’s yammering so loud they must be able to hear. Autumn Moon nods at me: I must abase myself again now that I have been marked out for special attention. I bow low, forehead touching the floor, and sit back on my heels, trying not to let the hatred I feel show in my face.

“So, you have trained well, Horse Tribe girl. That is good.” The Empress smiles. Her teeth are blackened: they must be full of rot. “How sad that you will always look like a barbarian, no matter how long you live among civilized people. So tall!” She shakes her head as if she is truly sorry for me. “However, child, I perceive that barbarians are not without their uses. Did you know that some of your kind make their nests outside the walls of our noble Imperial city, just like bears in the forest?”

A cold chill streams down my back – it feels as though someone has just poured a pail of icy water over me.
Does she know where I was last night?

The best lie is always closest to the truth: “I had heard talk of it, O Imperial Majesty.” I try not to show my anger, for she speaks as if the Horse Tribes are beasts, not truly men and women. I would not mind being reborn into the body of a bear when this life is over: bears are brave and powerful. But it’s clear the Empress considers living like an animal shameful. I should like to snatch a handful of that fire-coloured robe and shake those rotten teeth out of her head.

The Empress smiles, treating me to another glimpse of her teeth. Aunt Zaka would say she ought to chew hard cheese to make them white and strong. “For a generation, those barbarians have been loyal to the Empire, but of late my husband and I have been given reason to doubt them. What would you do, girl, in our place?”

Another cold splash of fear soaks through me. The Empress knows everything. Her eyes burn into me: can she see into my mind?

My mouth is dry. What am I to say? I glance at Autumn Moon: she sits stiller than a jade statue, her face calm.
Help me.
No one speaks a word; the Empress is smiling. I hear the guards’ breathing quicken as they talk soft to one another about a woman one of them met in the leather-market. Outside, wind sings through the garden, whispering through the bamboo, rustling leafless branches.

The Empress taps one maggot-white finger against her knee. She is waiting.

I draw in a long breath. “I am not so wise as Your Im­perial Majesty. I am only a foolish girl. Is not the punishment for treason death? Would the tribe outside your walls risk losing their lives?” May Mother Earth forgive the lie I am about to tell: “I am sorry to admit it, Your Majesty, but my people do not value honour. The Tribes will always act to save their own skins. I think it unlikely they shall betray you.”

“I do hope you are right.” The Empress speaks very softly. She almost sounds kind, but I know she starves innocent people to death in cages. It was on her orders that so many died at the Gathering. The lives of men and women mean nothing to her: she will crush anyone she chooses as if she does but step on a worm. The Empress smiles. “But hope is not enough, little barbarian girl. My husband is a cautious man, and I know he would rather be certain that your people remain loyal.” She laughs delicately. “You have learned the way of the Shaolin: I wish you to go into the barbarian camp and be my eyes and ears. Listen in on their talk and then spill their words into my lap. After all, I cannot go there myself.”

Cannot she hear the pounding of my heart?

The Empress turns her gaze on Autumn Moon. “Do you permit this?”

Autumn Moon has no choice. “I grant consent, Your Majesty.”

I can no longer escape the true reason Swiftarrow was in Lord Ishbal’s camp. He is spying on the Tribes for the Empress, despite his pledge to me. There can be no doubt, no other possible explanation. And, as I’ve been given the same task, it’s clear the Empress does not trust either of us.

A gush of cold air pours into the chamber through the window-lattice, bringing with it the scent of cinnabar-paste and wood-smoke. Outside, the sky is whiter than the belly-feather of a goose. Rain begins to fall.

My eyes burn with unshed tears, but I shall not weep till I am alone. I don’t care for the danger we are both in, Swiftarrow and I. Even though it does not matter, because I will kill the Empress and be killed myself, his treachery has cut me open and flayed the skin from my body. I am raw with pain and I will never find peace.

T
he sun rose on the ninth morning of the ninth moon and a red glow stained the sky above Chang’an.
Like blood mixing with well-water,
Swiftarrow thought. All was quiet. The Wild Goose pagoda rose up behind him, reaching to the sky like a great spear of bamboo. Crouching at its foot, he leaned back against the crumbling bricks, listening. The holy men of the temple were still at fast-break: he could hear their low, comfortable talk from across the courtyard, the soft clatter of eating-sticks against earthenware bowls. He longed for the Forbidden Garden where Hano would be serving broth with noodles. But there was no use mourning what could not be helped. The sweetness of chrysanthemum flowers stewing in hot ale drifted across the courtyard from a cook-room hidden among a jumble of temple halls, ready for the festival. On the far side of the courtyard, someone had left bronze basins full of bright chrysanthemums in neat rows, ready to be laid out in honour of the Emperor and Empress. The flowers glowed like suns, so bright even long past the end of summer: light within the darkness of winter to come.

At the sound of far-off hoofbeats, Swiftarrow sat stiller than a cat about to pounce and watched the gateway. Moments passed, and Lord Fang rode in, still clad in robes of death white. Swiftarrow stood, allowing himself to be seen, and Lord Fang dismounted.

“Bring water,” Lord Fang said. The faint scent of last night’s wine hung about him still. Swiftarrow knelt, scooping chrysanthemums from the nearest bowl so his father’s mare could slake her thirst. Her flanks shone with sweat. Swiftarrow shook the water from his hands, droplets bright like pearls in the early morning light, pulled off his head­scarf and rubbed the mare down with it. When he closed his eyes, he saw Asena.

“The Xingqing gate was open as I passed: the Empress will soon be here.” Lord Fang offered no thanks for the water. “So,” he went on, “the palace gossips tell me your little barbarian girl is also spying on Lord Ishbal’s camp. Can she be trusted?”

Swiftarrow shook his head. “Of course not. It was senseless of the Empress to send her. Even so, have no fear about the girl, O Father: I will make sure she does no harm.”

“Will you?” Lord Fang frowned. “The Empress’s arrogance grows by the hour. She has become foolish. You and I are now players in a deadly game, Fang Shiyu. I shall turn my mind to our next move. In the meantime, by sending the girl after you to spy on Ishbal, Her Gracious Majesty has made it clear that she does not trust either of us. We must take care. Go home, Swiftarrow. Be as a son of the House of Fang, loyal only to the Palace.”

“I beg your leave to attend the festival, O Father. Three ten-nights since, I swore to my little temple sister that I would take her.”

Lord Fang was already mounting up. Once in the saddle, he turned. “Go then, if you will. So kind-hearted,” he said, mocking. “Oh, I do not deserve such a son.”

Swiftarrow watched his father ride out of the courtyard, away from the Temple of Maternal Grace.
Yes, you do,
he thought.
Oh, yes, you do.

I
open my eyes after morning meditation to find Eighth Daughter sitting at my feet, wrapped in a faded jacket belonging to Autumn Moon. The sleeves hang down over her hands.

“Asena!” She giggles. “It’s the festival this day! No training, no painting, no chores. We will be allowed to watch the parade. We might even see the Empress. Come, let’s break our fast and go, or we shall miss the best of it. There’ll be hot pastries and chrysanthemum ale.”

My eyes are sticky with the tears I shed before sleep came last night and those I shed at dawn before meditation. Grief settles over me once more but I smile, not wanting to cloud Eighth Daughter’s joy. I wish White Swan had never told me Swiftarrow betrayed the Gathering because her life was the price if he failed. Just as I began to think better of him, he spied on the Tribes again after swearing not to. I might have followed the Empress’s orders and gone sneaking to Ishbal’s camp just as Swiftarrow did, but I don’t mean to tell her anything. And if White Swan is still under threat, why bother to make a promise to me at all, knowing he could not keep it?

What a fool he must think I am, sweetening me up with honeyed words, telling me that there was a chance Baba might still live. Is this all just a jest to him, a game?

And yet he was so angry when he found me outside Ishbal’s tent.
It is not safe,
he said. Why does he even care? Most likely he is furious because the Empress does not trust him to spy on the Tribes alone.

Drifting like a ghost, I follow Eighth Daughter out into the courtyard. It smells of fresh-fallen rain and salty mushroom broth. Red Falcon and fat Hano are already sitting at the rough-hewn wooden tables outside the cook-room, talking softly as they dip eating-sticks into their bowls. Autumn Moon is at the shrine beneath the mulberry tree, shaking a droplet of soup from the end of her eating-stick: an offering to the gods and to our ancestors. I go to fill my bowl from Hano’s iron pot and feel as though I walk through the web of a spider, trapped by strands of misery that slow down the sun’s march across the sky.

If I am to stop Lord Ishbal, I can waste no more time. I must kill the Empress, and so myself. I wonder how her guards will do it? Will they cut my throat there and then, or shall I be taken in a cage to the market-square and strangled before a baying crowd?

Autumn Moon lays a hand on my shoulder and I look up from my untasted broth. “Are you well?” she asks, frowning.

I shrug. Hano and Red Falcon are watching me. Eighth Daughter is out in the courtyard turning somersaults; her empty bowl sits beside mine. How long have I been sitting here like this?

“Asena,” Autumn Moon says, quietly. “I know it must cause you pain, being ordered to spy on your own kind. There is little else we can do but obey. Anger will not help anyone.” She turns to look at Eighth Daughter, laughing in the courtyard, and I see what she is trying to tell me. Carrying out the Empress’s commands is not all cowardice: if the Shaolin displease Her Majesty, she will make all of us suffer, including Eighth Daughter.

“Something must change,” I reply. “It must.”

“Asena, I do hope that you are not considering any foolish—”

“Don’t worry,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice: “I’ll not do anything to bring down harm on the rest of you.” I turn away, not looking at her and, at last, Autumn Moon sighs and walks away.

“Eat, little barbarian: you are all skin and bone,” Hano calls, but the kindness of his smile does nothing to warm my misery. I do not miss the look passing between Red Falcon and Autumn Moon, either. I must try harder to seem content or I will be too closely watched to carry out my plan.

I stare out at the courtyard again and Swiftarrow is here, stepping out of the shadows, holding out a flame-bright flower to Eighth Daughter. The golden sheen is fading from his skin with the passing of summer. He is pale, his hair deep black.

“Little temple-sister,” he says, “I stole it for you.”

Eighth Daughter shrieks with delight. “Where from? Where from?”

But Swiftarrow does not answer, just laughs and walks towards the cook-room, calling out to Autumn Moon, who steps forward to embrace him. Red Falcon slings his arm around Swiftarrow’s shoulder, messing up his hair like a fond older brother. It is the rare smile on Swiftarrow’s face that sets alight my anger: how dare he be so happy? Traitor. I cannot stop myself. The bench screeches across the flagstones as I push it away from the table.

“Asena?” says Autumn Moon, but she can wait. Swiftarrow has stopped at the sight of me, drawing away from Red Falcon, now frozen. I am still holding my soup bowl. He does not move even when it flies from my hands and hits his shoulder, leaving a splash of cold mushroom broth on the floor. The bowl hits the flagstones, cracking neatly in two. Birds sing in the mulberry trees. A light wind cools my face.

“Nothing is as it seems, Asena!”
The words fly from my lips. “You were right about that! You spy on the Tribes for that woman.”

Eighth Daughter stares at us, mouth open.

“Be silent.” Swiftarrow’s voice is calm, cold. “The Shaolin never speak of a task before it is complete: you have been told this, therefore why do you? Otherwise I would ask why
you
were in Ishbal’s camp. Are you a traitor to your own kind?”

I leap at him in tiger-form, hands clawed. People are calling out, but I cannot hear what they are saying. Swiftarrow meets me as a wolf, pouncing, pinning me to the ground, and the flash of rage in his eyes makes me glad. As a wolf, I roll to one side, rejoicing in the strength Autumn Moon has taught me. We fight from one end of the courtyard to the other, whirling, gripping, lunging. We don’t fight our own minds in search of peace, but each other, out of sheer fury. Light on his feet, Swiftarrow runs up a pillar and leaps at me from the sloping roof of the hall, dragon-form. In his anger, he is clumsy and knocks down a tile, which shatters on the ground. I meet him, pushing, ducking, afire with rage. We are both making mistakes. At last, he knocks me to the ground and, instead of twisting away like a snake, I fall heavily and there is a great burst of pain across the back of my head. I sink into darkness and just as quick I am hauled out of it by his voice.