The Pirate Empress (53 page)

Esen slapped the hand away, face reddening. “The warlock has taken Peng,” he said, struggling to maintain his dignity and the respect of the Mongol warriors. “I saw them in the Red Desert when I was transporting Wu to the home camp near Jiayuguan.”

“Quan’s boy is there?” Altan demanded of his brother.

Esen hesitated, not wishing to reveal the story of how he was tricked out of his hostage. “No. The warlock has him and he also has Peng.”

Exasperation blasted out of Altan’s mouth like cannon fire. “You gave up our bartering piece? You fool. I can’t trust you with anything. You are a useless idiotic excuse for a Mongol. You should have stayed among the pirates. Then, you could have at least stolen silver. That would have been useful.”

“Tut tut,” Master Yun said. “Don’t blame your brother, Altan. His time has passed. Yours has only just begun. Have no worry. The children are safe.”

The metallic
zing
of multiple swords from the front row of Mongol soldiers cut the air like fingernails on pottery. “I want my daughter back!” Altan roared, raising his dagger.

Something about the way the warlock’s eyes deepened made Esen suspicious. What did he know that he didn’t want Altan to know?

“You cannot kill me, Warlord of the Ordos. If you could, I would already be dead.”

The Mongol dagger slashed at the warlock, but Master Yun leaped over it like a child’s skipping toy. A hundred armed warriors rushed him and he leaped all of their blades, and landed ten paces away. He warned them, his eyes not veering from his enemy’s. “You do not want to kill me or you will never know where Peng is hidden.”

“No?” Altan whipped his dagger in a fanciful gesture like one of the Emperor’s chefs. “Well, I can torture you. I can cut you finger by finger and toe by toe until you scream the answer I want to hear.”

“I doubt you will do that. I think you are more troubled by the fact that Jasmine allowed young Peng to fall into our hands. What’s that all about, eh?” He smirked.

Altan’s scowl grew fiercer. “Jasmine would never allow you to take my daughter.”

“Exactly my point. She would not allow it. She has the power to prevent it.” Master Yun paused for effect. “So why did she do it? Why did she
allow
me to take your daughter?”

The cogs were wheeling now. The warlock had planted the seed of suspicion.

“Well? Something strange is happening here, is it not?”

“Where is Jasmine?” Altan ordered.

“That is what I would like to know. I would like very much to meet with her again. If you see her, please let her know how anxious I am for us to speak. Meanwhile, I am needed elsewhere.” The warlock glanced up into a sky that had darkened considerably. The first stars were flickering in the deepening dusk. The largest and brightest always appeared first. Something seemed off. Like there was a blank space where a constellation should be. But Esen was no astronomer.

Master Yun clucked his tongue for his horse, and the magnificent Xingbar trotted up to his rider. “Find Jasmine, Altan of the Mongols. And learn the truth.”

Esen felt a creep of laughter in his throat as Master Yun whirled Xingbar toward the distant Juyong pass and its heavily guarded gate. What was going on here between his brother and the warlock? And how long did the Ming think that paltry gate would hold?

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The Manchu at Anding Gate

“Military Governor, you must take an army to Changping and hold them.”

“There’s no point,” Zheng Min told the Emperor. “They will take that garrison as they have taken all the others.” Mere miles north of the Forbidden City, if the fortress fell the Juyong pass would fail too and there would be nothing to stop the invaders from descending upon the capital. “We have already lost Datong and Xuanfu. It is only a matter of days before they breech the pass and make for the capital.”

“I will not surrender to barbarians!” the Emperor screamed.

Zheng Min paced, his boots hammering on the marble floor of the throne room. “Then surrender to the rebel. At least, he is Chinese.”

“Never.”

“We haven’t much choice here, Majesty. Nor time.”

“You are asking me to give up my throne. Where will that leave me? The usurpers will not be kind. They will chain me in my own dungeon and torture me with bamboo.” He scowled, threw his arms disdainfully in the air, flapping the wide bell sleeves of his Imperial robe like a wounded flamingo. “Where are my advisors? Where is Jasmine? Where is Chi Quan? How did you get me into this!” He swung on Zheng Min with a harsh cry, but the military governor snorted. The Emperor had spent most of his reign useless and soft in his pleasure gardens, rather than training and rallying his men. His muscles were as mushy as day old congee.

“You ordered Chi Quan to be exiled to the desert without horse, food or water. He’s probably dead now,” Zheng Min said.

“The stupidest move I ever made, thanks to you. I should have sent
you
to the desert instead.”

The military governor fell silent. Although his power had grown in the palace and there were men (Lu Dao for example) who would like nothing better than to see the old king in his coffin, some were still fiercely loyal, like Captain Huang.

“Leave me,” the Emperor ordered.

Zheng Min bowed and backed away from the throne.

%%%

Outside, Chi Quan waited in the royal courtyard. He had managed to make his way to Master Yun’s Koi Temple where he had refreshed himself with the fountain’s healing water. After combing his hair and restyling it into a topknot worthy of his rank, he had brushed off the dirt and grime of his journey, and made his uniform as presentable as possible: torn and tattered perhaps, but somewhat cleaner than it was. Avoiding his shadow, he tucked himself behind a green pillar. Zheng Min’s coarse, unmistakable voice carried through the doorway as the military governor took leave of the Emperor. Quan was taking no chances with a random encounter, knowing that the lout would whistle for his toadies the instant he was sighted. He would be back in the dungeon with a bamboo shoot up his ass before he could say ‘traitor.’

From what Quan had seen on his wearying trek home, the news was evil. The Mongols and the Manchus had taken over the most strategic garrisons along the Dragon Wall. Some had begun to camp on the Chinese side of the border. Quan had to convince His Majesty to pardon him and to grant him an army—if there were any armies left to be granted. Word on the road was that most of the troops had defected to collect their families and hide, until the outcome of the war was determined. They said His Majesty was ready to give up. He hoped not.

The military governor left the palace without seeing him, and was just as blustering and vainglorious as usual: a cock on the walk with no hens to lead. Quan wanted to stick out his boot and trip him flat on his face, but what would that accomplish, except to provide him further excuse for torture? Zheng Min’s back disappeared through a stone archway at the far end of the white courtyard, and Quan emerged from his hiding place only to have his shoulder seized. He swung about, ready to lop off the attacker’s head, but stopped when he saw it was the loyal Huang.

“Brigade General,” the captain’s voice lit up with joy. “I have never been so pleased to see anyone in my life!”

“Next time, announce yourself in a less startling way. I almost took your head.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I was so shocked, and those clothes, your poor uniform. I had to see if it was really you.”

“It is.” Quan scowled at his tattered battle tunic. “Perhaps before I seek audience with His Majesty, I should find another uniform.”

“Of course,” Huang said. “Come with me to my quarters. We’ll get you something immediately.”

At the soldiers’ barracks Captain Huang asked one of his men to fetch another uniform. While Quan dressed, Huang filled him in on what had happened since his exile. Then he asked, “How did you manage to find your way out of the desert with no horse and no food or drink? How did you skirt Zi Shicheng and his Manchu allies?”

Quan tugged at the new battle tunic before revealing Master Yun’s Charm of Bearing. “I must have missed him,” he said, bouncing the amulet affectionately on his opened palm. “But Master Yun was most certainly in the desert and made this talisman for Ho Teng, His Majesty’s poet, who was also banished for subversion.”

“You know…” Captain Huang paused to muse over something. “It seems strange— perhaps a coincidence, perhaps not—but I ran into a small group of riders in the desert, led by an old man in a very peculiar costume. I could swear he wore the battle tunic of some ancient warrior, not unlike those in the paintings of First Emperor Qin.”

The belt Quan was fastening around his waist to hold the sheath to his sabre fell from his hand as he grabbed Huang by the forearm. “Was he in the company of a younger man, a soldier and two children?”

“Indeed, he was.”

“Praise the gods! Was one of them a young boy, about six or seven years of age?”

“I believe so. There was also a tall, rather handsome young woman with them.”

Was it Li? His heart leapt to his throat. “What did she look like?”

“She wore her chestnut hair in thick braids wrapped in colourful ribbons. Her complexion was deep like those of the desert tribes. She had a nice form, but I would not describe her as slender.”

Li’s skin was pale to golden, not deep. Her hair was as black as a magpie’s wing. And some would call her slender. The woman Huang described was not Li. His heart sank, but he masked his disappointment. “Did they speak at all? Did the children speak?”

“No, only the old warrior in ancient raiment. He was the only one who spoke.”

If the boy was Wu—and he was almost certain that he was—then Altan’s Peng must be the girl. Quan shut his eyes to think for a moment. He had never seen the girl, so any description of her would be meaningless. “Did the old warrior carry a bronze scimitar?”

“Yes,” Huang said. “I thought that very strange but made no remark about it.”

Quan rubbed his hands together, smiling, retrieved his belt from the floor and fixed it to his waist. “You have met Master Yun and Lieutenant He Zhu. Two of the most remarkable men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Tell me about the boy, please.”

“I don’t remember much about him. He was seated on the lap of the young woman. He was a nice-looking lad with a steely gaze.” Huang looked up from across the room, twisting his fingers to control his excitement. “The gods! Brigade General, the boy had the same piercing eyes as you.”

“That’s my son,” Quan said proudly. “Though I have never met him, I am sure I would know him anywhere. He’s alive! And if he is in the company of He Zhu and Master Yun, then he’s also safe. Altan can go to the hellfires. I am free to fight for the Empire. Come, Huang.” Quan polished his boots with two quick swipes of a rag. “We must speak to His Majesty. There is still hope.”

Accompanied by Captain Huang, Brigade General Chi Quan hurried back to the palace. The sentries posted at the door were confounded to see him alive. Although somewhat beat up by his ordeals in dungeon and desert, he was outfitted decently enough in the new battle tunic, and had regained his strength through the simple knowledge that he was needed. Clearly, something was amiss because the sentries allowed him free passage despite his fugitive status. The first guard said, “Sir, to see you alive is to see the Pole Star perched in Heaven once more.”

“Thank you, soldier,” Quan replied. “But your greeting is rife with doom. What has happened?”

“The Department of Astronomy reports that the Pole Star has slipped down in the heavens. His Majesty has taken the news hard. He sees it as an omen.” The guard stepped aside. “You may be the only person in the kingdom that will bring him hope and rally him out of his black mood. Go with the gods, and good luck to you!”

The two marched past the sentries without waiting to be announced. They entered the spacious throne room and Captain Huang dropped to his knees first.

“Majesty,” Quan said, and knelt on the crimson and gold carpet a few paces in front of the captain halfway into the room. “Forgive my intrusion, but I must speak.”

Seated on his gilded throne between two pillars, face in hands, the Emperor, now known as Tongtian, slowly rolled his eyes until he sighted Chi Quan. He looked nothing like Heaven’s Pass for which he had renamed himself. “Is that you, Brigade General?”

“Yes. But I am no longer Brigade General. You demoted me before justly sentencing me to the scorching desert, but I have news.”

The Emperor slumped back against the silk cushioned seat of his throne, his Imperial satin robes crackling with the movement. “I’m afraid the time has passed.”

“No! There is still time. Send me to the Juyong pass with an army and I will stop Zi Shicheng where he stands.” Quan rose to stand steadfast on his battle-torn boots.

“But the Imperial armies are already deserting. Most have joined with the rebels. Who can you find to follow you?”

Quan turned to the young captain who had leaped to his feet. They both bowed low and deep. “I have this good officer and his men. We shall find others.”

The Emperor lowered his head into his hands and rubbed his temples in despair. This was such a different man from the cold, cruel ruler who had answered to the fox faerie’s whim. “All right,” he said, dragging his head up from his cupped hands. “I will give you one last try. Do not fail me my stalwart warrior. I pronounce you Brigade General once more. Take every man who will follow you and block the pass. My very life depends upon it.”

Horses were found for them at the stables. All who remained loyal—approximately five thousand men—agreed to join them in the campaign to hold the Juyong pass against the Rebel. Huang shouted as they rode through the city for all loyal citizens to bear arms and meet His Majesty’s soldiers at the last pass. “To arms, to arms!” he called.

Men and boys, soldiers, merchants, and farmers grabbed whatever they found to use for armour and weaponry. Then mounted what steeds they could muster, and followed the ragtag army into the countryside and beyond. As they neared the pass a cloud of crows scattered, and Quan searched for the watchmen, reining his horse to a trot. All around him was dead quiet. He shivered, looked left and right, gazed down at the ground to the dirt road on which his men’s horses had trampled, but his own troop had stirred the dust so well that any marks of an invading army were wiped out. He squinted at the towers but saw no sign of life, dismounted and Huang did likewise. They took a small contingent to search the watchtowers and the crenellated wall. No one stood guard; the platforms were empty. No arms remained and no blood stained the stones of the fort either, so the weaponry had been taken. They returned to the road and Quan exchanged a troubled look with the young captain.

“Leave a small unit to stand guard here,” he said. “We ride to Changping. We will find out what happened at the garrison that supplies this watchtower.”

They marched south of the final Ming-held stretch of wall around the Juyong pass. Changping, the garrison that provided the watchmen for the pass, was less than fifty miles north of the Forbidden City. Dust churned beneath the hooves of six thousand horses, and Quan raised a hand as they neared the fortress. His horse reared as it scented the fetid odour of death. The land was speckled with corpses outside the garrison, and all around twisted trees and wild grasses were caked with dried blood. He dismounted to retrieve a helmet, its red tassel falling limp in his hand. Then arming himself with his crossbow, he moved on foot inside the walled fortress. The scene was the same here. Of the twenty thousand that equipped the fortress, he saw none alive.

“Brigade General. Come quickly, this one still breathes.”

Quan ran to where Huang knelt beside a man near death. “Swiftly, tell me what happened,” he demanded. The dying soldier started to speak, choked on his words as blood gurgled in his throat. Huang lifted him to a seated position and tried to clear his breathing passages of blood. “How long have you been like this?”

“Days,” he whispered. “I don’t know how many. I had water at first in my flask, but now it is dry.” His withered hand fluttered feebly at a flask that had rolled slightly away.

“Water,” Quan said. “Get him a drink.”

Huang went to his horse and removed a flask from his saddlebag. He brought it to the man’s lips, squatting by his head. The man drank, choked, and a sputter of pink water spilled down his chin. Huang flinched, rubbing the spatters from his eyes.

“Can you speak now?” Quan asked.