The Pirate Empress (29 page)

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“Things have changed, Lotus Lily,” Fong said. “The welfare of my own son must take precedence. You are weak and grow paler daily. I will take no chances with my boy. If you are correct and the Mongol Esen and the fox faerie still seek your demise, I must make certain that my son is born safe. We go to Manchuria, to the foothills where the mountain folk will keep you safe. I’ve had news that the Empire is at risk. The Manchus threaten the northeast border, while the Mongols scratch at the west. The Emperor is up to his eyeballs in war, and has no time to deal with a fugitive princess or a new son-in-law. Especially since that son-in-law is Manchurian. I must wait to see how the tide flows. Those hateful savages have tainted the Manchurian name, and if the Manchu threat is real, His Majesty might see me as a traitor or a spy simply because we hail from the same land. I will be slandered. His right-hand man, Military Governor Zheng Min and I have never seen eye to eye.”

“But you promised!” Li said, tears spiralling down her cheeks. “You promised to help me find Wu.” Li bit her lip to control any further outburst. She clasped her hands together to still their trembling. The baby kicked and she wanted to kick it back. How she regretted the course of action she had so ignorantly chosen. Fong was going to hole her up in a Manchurian cave to give birth on foreign dirt like a goat—with strange Manchurian peasant women for midwives!

Why had she listened to Tao? She should have followed her heart. Her heart was with Wu, Chi Quan’s son.

Fong’s eyes were on her and Li was careful not to give away her thoughts. If he suspected her rancour for his child, he would imprison her until the deed was done—and his heir was born. Li gathered her composure to nod in mock compliance. “Of course. His Majesty cannot be trusted. But what makes you think your own people will harbour your pregnant wife? You say they shunned and persecuted you in your youth.”

“That was three hundred years ago. All those who remember the birth of the White Tiger are dead. If the Manchu forces are a true threat and have taken the easternmost wall, then the Manchurians will welcome the sign of the White Tiger.” Fong turned his hand palm-down to display the tattoo on the back of his hand. “Only a true Manchurian warrior can sire a White Tiger.”

Li shut her eyes. Her husband’s loyalties were dubious. If all of this were true and he could switch from one side to the other depending on who was winning, then he was no better than Jasmine.

A knock came at the cabin door.

“Enter,” Fong said.

The door slowly opened and a young seaman appeared on the threshold. “I have news, Supreme Admiral,” he said. “An Imperial messenger has sent word that a rebel warrior by the name of Zi Shicheng threatens to take down the Empire from within. Altan is at the Jiayuguan pass, flanking the desert sands, and the Manchus cover the east at Shanhaiguan.”

“What orders?” Fong demanded.

“To quell the pirate resurgence in the south. Much needed silver is being stolen by the rogues from transport junks. Silver that is needed to pay wages and arms for the war.”

“Where is the messenger?” Fong asked.

“Already gone. His Majesty needs him at home. A serpent boat took him back to his ship. But he left you this.” The seaman passed him a bamboo scroll, dense with Chinese characters. The admiral skimmed the message before following him out to the deck, leaving Li pummelling the air with her fists.

Was Admiral Lao Hu Fong trustworthy? And why did she care? She owed nothing to an empire that wanted her dead.

She spooned her hands to the huge burden that weighted her belly. She might not be able to act right now, but there was nothing wrong with her ears. She had heard rumours among the officers of Fong’s ship that China was degenerating into chaos. Disloyalty and incompetence were the inevitable result. She had heard of this rebel Zi Shicheng. He had started out a loyal man, but as the walled garrisons of the frontier became depleted, his troops grew weary of fighting a losing battle. Now his army marched east toward the capital, and with only one man to guard every few miles, the defense of the northeast at the critical junction of Shanhaiguan depended on one great general. That general, Li knew, was Supreme Brigade General Chi Quan.

Li had heard of Quan’s latest promotion that had come through his military prowess at the frontier walls and through the abrupt departure of some of the Ming army’s most senior commanders. When the Manchus began hostilities on Ming forces in the northeast, they attacked the great garrisoned loop over the north of Shenyang before moving south to exchange arrows at the Yalu River. The Manchus were picking off the remote border garrisons one by one and reclaiming what they insisted was Manchu land. Li clutched her fists in tight balls and squeezed them. There was no doubt the Manchu threat was real.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Chinese Rebel

Zi Shicheng was only one of many defectors that were shrinking the Ming army in the Northeast. He had seen it with his own eyes. After years of faithful service, it seemed the Forbidden City had forgotten him and his troops. When the fort at Fushu fell, he had bolted. There was no deflecting the Manchu warriors who were superior horsemen and bowmen. No longer did the Tower for Suppressing the North, nor the Gate at Which the Border Tribes Come to Pay Homage stand. Nothing remained but broken bodies and blood, and rotting earth ramparts. He had tried seeking refuge further south.

He glared up at the night sky—a fist raised to the Pole Star—and openly denounced the Emperor. His requests had not been answered. Frozen, wet and abandoned, the morale of his troops had plummeted. The frontline of defense was manned by sentinels numbering in the thousands, but as the men wearied and died from cold, starvation, disease and battle, few came to replace them—and more defected. The fortresses dotting the Northeast stretch, west of the Yalu River were deserted. Those unfortunate enough to be stationed beyond the reach of these feeble shelters did guard duty exposed on stout towers built of solid earth.

Zi Shicheng was one of these unfortunates. This last spell of duty had him and his troops still in the frigid frontier with the weak promise of padded trousers, fur coats and boots. But had any of these items materialized? No. His men huddled in mouldy, ill-fitting clothes, their shoes worn through the soles, their hands unprotected, so that every man bemoaned the sting of frostbite. The Emperor’s wall builders had not reached the Sino-Manchurian border and no refurbishment had taken place. The walls were disintegrating with each attack and suffered from the battering of wind and rain. For years, this neglected part of the Empire had been prey for the Manchus. They had systematically broken down the barrier, stripping bricks and wood for their own use. The moats were filling in with wind-blown sand. Forts were missing their gates, and it was near impossible to move on the ramparts of the wall. Those who tried often slipped and were left dangling, their feet swinging into oblivion.

“Commander,” a soldier whispered, nodding past the remnants of a stone battlement. “Manchu warriors to the east.”

“I know.” Zi Shicheng did not dare raise the alarm with smoke signals or cannon fire. The towers were so vulnerable that cooperation was more appealing than resistance. He swung an arm to a crumbling rampart and hurled his body after it to land on the precipitous surface. He rose to his half-soled, worn-booted feet, stalwart, facing the horsemen who marched cavalierly toward the gate. Above it, legs braced apart and hands on his hips, he stood with weapons loose by his side—to show the approaching legion that he meant to barter, not fight.

“We intend to pass,” the Manchu general called out. “If you do not comply, I will deploy my army to fight, and you and all of your men will die.”

“If we fight,” the rebel said, “some of
your
men will also die. Although you outnumber us in manpower and in armament, I think you will agree that we need lose none of our soldiers? All we ask for your free passage is a share of your food and drink, and any furs you can spare.”

The general glanced at the lacerated, ragtag mess of Ming soldiers at the wall and laughed. “So be it. We feast and drink tonight.”

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“Majesty,” Zheng Min said. “I think you will want to hear what the Mongol has to say.”

“Who is this filthy barbarian and what does he want with me. All of the Middle Kingdom is in jeopardy and you bring a savage and his boy into my presence?” The Emperor twisted his head in a frantic attempt to search for his advisors. “Where is Jasmine?”

Esen glared at the military governor in annoyance. “No one has seen the lady in many—” Zheng Min stopped himself just in time. His Majesty was not himself, and had spells of forgetfulness that made him oblivious to Jasmine’s long absence. But if he crossed his liege on a bad day, it could mean his head. The Emperor still had that much power. Zheng Min shunted the Mongol warlord and the boy toward the door, and whispered, “Wait in the audience hall. His Highness will see you shortly.”

The boy looked strangely familiar and yet Zheng Min was sure he had never seen him before. But if what the warlord claimed was true, then that explained all. “Sire,” he said, when the two had left. “You must listen to the barbarian. He may have a way for you to save face.”

The Ming economy was near collapse. A Dutch blockade, a Spanish clampdown on exports of Acapulcan silver, and political turmoil in Indonesia, making the seaways treacherous had drastically reduced the flow of silver to the East. The theft of silver by pirates off the South Coast compounded the problem, and had virtually halted the export and import of goods from the Empire. “The peasants refuse to be conscripted to replace the troops decimated at the frontier,” Zheng Min said. “They would rather die than fight because their crops will fail without them. And their crops
are
failing anyway, because they can’t afford the taxes.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it? They must be taxed. How do you think you get your mighty wage if not by taxes?”

Military Governor Zheng Min had better watch his step because if he pushed too far, he could end up with his head on the end of a pike. “The Mongol Esen has a gemstone that can see military strategies of our enemies. He claims that it is the property of your banished warlock, Master Yun.” He decided to omit Esen’s claim that the boy was His Majesty’s grandson. If he had a grandson, he would have an heir. And the only heir that Zheng Min wished for His Highness was himself.

“Yes, I remember he used to wear such a gemstone, a ring. Where is he now? Bring him to me.”

“No one knows where the old man is. Jasmine has gone to seek him.”

“She has been gone long,” he said, remembering now that years had passed without the fox faerie by his side. Too long, Zheng Min thought, feeling the tug of lust at his groin. “All right,” His Majesty said. “Send in the Mongol. Let me see this ring.”

The military governor went to the audience hall and beckoned the Mongol to wait at the door while he took the boy aside and dropped to one knee. “Do you know who I am, boy?”

The frightened child shook his head.

“Do you know who
you
are?”

“I am Wu,” he said. “Son of Li.”

“Li is your mother? Tell me: what else do you know about her?”

“She is a princess. My great grandfather is a warlock and my father is the famous general, Chi Quan, though I have never met him.”

Zheng Min’s heart raced—Quan’s son? He took the boy by the chin and looked into his eyes. The steely gaze was there. The boy wasn’t lying. Li was Lotus Lily? That meant she was alive and Quan was her rescuer—but how to prove it? If he could prove it, that would be the end of Quan’s career. “You have never met your father?”

The boy shook his head.

“You mustn’t tell His Majesty any of these things,” he warned.

“Why not? My mother is his daughter. She told me I am the Emperor’s grandson.”

The little fellow was smart for one so young. “You must keep it secret because he wants your mother dead. He will have your father killed if he knows of your existence. Your parents betrayed the Empire, and their punishment is death. What was your name again, boy?”

The boy’s eyes grew as round as water chestnuts. “Wu, sir.”

“Do you promise me, Wu? That you will keep this between us? I promise to protect you.”

Wu stared at him, uncertain. That uncertainty told Zheng Min that although the boy spoke like an adult, he was only a child. Wu nodded.

“Good. Now, come with me. You must earn your keep and His Majesty’s respect by keeping this secret and showing him how the Tiger’s Eye works.”

They passed through the twin yellow pillars and their guardians, the stone Lion Dog statues, and knelt before their sovereign. The warlord touched his forehead to the floor, then raised it and waited for permission to speak. The Emperor gave it, and the Mongol removed the ring from around his neck by unlooping the string. He kept it clasped in his hands. “First, Your Majesty, I need your word that you will pay me my ransom for this gemstone and the boy.”

“Impudent savage. What do I want with your Mongol boy?” the Emperor asked.

Before he could answer, Zheng Min silenced Esen with a look. The military governor said, “The boy is of value because it is only for him that the stone speaks.”

Esen’s mouth dropped open; he was shot another sharp look.
Later
, Zheng Min’s eyes warned.
The boy’s identity is worth more to me than it could ever be to this old king
. The warlord scrunched his eyes in suspicion; the exchange between them went unnoticed—His Majesty was fixated on the Tiger’s Eye.

Wu looked to Zheng Min, and he asked the warlord to give the boy the gemstone. The boy held the ring in his fist then uncurled his hand. All eyes dropped to the Tiger’s Eye, but Zheng Min’s own suspicious mind noticed the black marks on the small boy’s palm. A tattoo? What could it mean? He wasted only a few seconds pondering it before the gemstone swirled and curdled in the boy’s hand. An image surfaced from the stone. A soldier in tattered uniform with the torn armband of yellow triangle and green dragon dragged in the wind; and beside him, seated by a fire, a general of great daring, in Manchu raiment, slurped liquor from a skin bladder. They shared hot steamed buns and passed the bladder from one to the other while smoke smouldered from their fire, obscuring the face of the rebel. Laughter cackled between them. The general reached for the rebel’s arm and ripped the remaining flap of armband, sending it fish-tailing into the dark. And the rebel threw back his head and roared.

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A young captain stood before Quan recounting the grievances of the watchmen. He had unanswered requisitions and letters on ragged scraps of parchment; they didn’t even rate the official status of bamboo scrolls. “There is no rigid timetable for border service, no set schedule upon which guardsmen can anticipate. Look here. Names. Ranks. Time served. Four months, three months, ten days, nineteen months. How can these soldiers’ families survive when they don’t know if or when their fathers and sons will come home? Some have been here for years. They are entitled to Leave.”

Service on the frontier was torture. But it was not in his hands to change it. The Mongols were nipping at their heels. With every fort they took that the Chinese reclaimed, the Mongols succeeded to another. They were wearing down the Imperial troops, like a river eroding its banks. Brigade General Chi Quan could not keep up with the demands of his men.

“This is war, Captain,” Quan said. “We have work to do. The walls between Ganzhou and Lanzhou have been torn down to shoulder height. Our archers can only hold them back for so long. The barbarians will breach those ramparts if we don’t do something fast.”

The captain bowed and returned to his unit while Quan stared at the mess around him. If only Zhu were here by his side. He could use his help, his trusty sword arm, and most of all he could use the sight of the Tiger’s Eye.

Where would the enemy hit next? His troops were ever shrinking as he deployed them to outposts along the border wall. What were the Mongols plotting? Divide and conquer?

Altan was a clever strategist, smarter than his brother. Esen never strategized, and merely drove his horses and bowmen headfirst to plough down his adversaries. But when hit came to crunch, Esen preferred to barter than fight. He would rather kowtow to the Emperor to receive gifts of silver and silk than clash swords for them. Altan on the other hand was taking advantage of the turmoil that was tearing the Middle Kingdom apart. Already there was talk of men deserting the outposts, trading with the barbarians for dried squirrel meat and a wolf’s pelt. Quan could not be everywhere at once. Where the devil was Master Yun?

The old warlock was not here to advise him. He Zhu was not present to lend his crossbow. Quan decided that failing the help of the Tiger’s Eye he would risk contacting the
yebushou
. The
yebushou
were moles. They were slippery. They worked at night. They bolstered the defensive work on the wall, making night-time sorties into enemy turf disguised as Mongols. Their job? To detect and sabotage planned raids and rebellions, even to the point of turning assassin. Unfortunately, many failed to return, content to remain on the winning side.

Quan walked several paces down the border wall to a place that was quiet and unmanned, threw off his fur hood to reveal his red-tasselled helmet and put two fingers in his mouth to whistle. The Mongol camp was below the rise; the wind was with him, carrying the sound. He listened, then took a bone flute from his furs and piped a haunting, not quite Mongol tune.

He played for five minutes and waited. Then he blasted three short spurts.

Fifteen minutes later a sound scrabbled at his feet, and Quan dropped below the rampart to admit the mole through a tunnel built into the rock. The
yebushou
was called Ma Low. He shook off a few flakes of snow from his fur cap, and lowered it to reveal his grim face.

“What news?” Quan demanded. “Where will the Mongols hit next?”