The Pirate Empress

by Deborah Cannon

  In the deep jade-green waters of the outer bay, sampans and large junks basked in the breaking dawn. Something familiar caught his eye. A boy in rags sat on a raft, poling it slowly back and forth. It was the boy whose aid he had forced the day He Zhu killed the Chief Of All Pirates. How much did the water people know about palace politics? Would they care that a lost princess had been found and that now His Majesty demanded her head? His last meeting with Madam Choi had not been pleasant. Did she remember the young captain who had allowed her husband’s death?

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  The horses galloped over the plain, swift as a pair of swallows, to the Yangtze River. The river flats were due north of the sea gypsies’ waterworld where it was well into summer and the poppies were beginning to fade. Master Yun and He Zhu arrived before sundown.

  The white blooms with finely veined pink in their petals were the lifeblood that would counteract the deadly toxin Li had consumed. As Zhu waded in the shallow waters, between flocks of fishing cormorants, searching the islands of earth that supported the precious flowers, Master Yun remained on shore and studied the Tiger’s Eye that he wore on his left hand. The gemstone was particular to the monkhood. Warlocks, at times, had possessed Tiger’s Eyes, but it was only by the faith of the true believer that the gemstone opened its eye. Not all tiger’s eyes had the power of sight; only those quarried and polished by a holy man were all-seeing, and then, only if that holy man was of the same lineage as the monk who had created it. He had seen this gemstone on Tao’s finger. He had come to the palace wearing it. How had it come to be on Eng Tong’s finger—unless he was its original owner?

  If he made the wrong decision, it could be the end, not only for Lotus Lily and Chi Quan, but also for all of the Middle Kingdom. Master Yun had his suspicions; not all monks were celibate. Those who owned the tiger’s eyes most certainly were not. These gemstones were rare, and he had never seen another like this. He placed the ring on his index finger as he had seen Tao wear it, and as he had seen it on the old monk’s hand. He polished the surface three times; the subtle nuances of colour in the smooth saffron stone failed to change. No vision met his eyes; it was as he suspected. He was not a holy man.

  Across the shallows, startling a trio of cormorants to flight, Master Yun shouted, “Have you picked twelve sprigs of the white poppy?” He Zhu raised his fist, nodding assent and Master Yun waved him in. “All right then, it’s time to go.”

  On dry land again, He Zhu handed him the flowers, which were carefully placed into Zhu’s saddlebag. “You are trusting me with the antidote?” he asked.

  “More than that. I have thought on this matter of the gemstone.” He slipped the ring off his finger and asked for Zhu’s right hand. Zhu complied, palm facedown, frowning. Master Yun slipped the ring onto the lieutenant’s index finger and stared into the translucent stone.

  The gem’s colours began to swirl as though they were liquid, and they both bent their heads to stare at the image that emerged from the stone, expanding like a pool of river water. Before their eyes the serpentine ridge of the Black Mountains and, below, the galloping plains appeared. A young pigtailed warrior, wearing a leather falconer’s glove rode into the vision, and behind him swarmed a host of hundreds of thousands of horsemen, scattering yellow dust in their wake. They were armed with the C-bows of the Mongols and they ploughed through a wall of rock and brick as though it were merely loose earth. Zhu shook his hand, trying to scatter the image, and Master Yun grabbed his wrist forcing him to hold steady. But the image had passed, and the gemstone returned to its solid, inert swirl of opalescent saffron and brown.

  The lieutenant gulped in horror and Master Yun nodded. “Yes. That was Altan, Esen’s brother.”

  “We should have killed him when we had the chance. We should have killed him when Quan and I went to the barbarians’ camp to rescue Li.” Zhu glanced down at the ring on his finger. “What does it mean?”

  “It means that the Mongols are already taking advantage of the turmoil in the palace. They are taking advantage of Chi Quan’s and your absences. And—” Master Yun stopped for a breath. “And it means that Altan plans to usurp his brother. We have no time to lose. Li must survive to give birth to the next Son of Heaven, Chi Quan must return to fortify the border walls and quell the barbarian uprising, and I must go to the Land of the Walking Bones and find the dragon’s rib.”

  “And I? What must I do?”

  Master Yun shook his head. Zhu’s role in the events to come was not clear. He glanced down at the Moonstone that he still wore, but no image stirred. “I do not know what you must do, He Zhu,” Master Yun said. “The Moonstone will not speak to me today. But clearly you are the intended guardian of Eng Tong’s tiger’s eye. So you must keep it.”

  Zhu tore it off and handed it to Master Yun. “I don’t think I want it. I thought it was only a pretty bauble when I first saw it. I thought it would be nice to wear as an ornament. I had no idea it had this kind of power.”

  “I warned you, Zhu,” Master Yun said.

  “And now I agree with you. You keep it.”

  “It’s of no use to me. For some reason, it will only speak for you. Now, take the white poppy back to Li. You will find her amongst the water people—if Quan has found a way to make them accept her. Give the flowers to the headwoman of the sea gypsies. She will know what to do with them.”

  “Then what? I can’t return to His Majesty’s service. He’ll have me executed for treason.”

  “But you are not a traitor, are you? No. You are not. So, you must stay and guard Li until her child is born.” Master Yun nodded, certain of Li’s pregnancy, although he had yet to see proof, just as he was certain that He Zhu and Lotus Lily had destinies that were somehow tied up together. “Get on your horse and ride as swiftly as you can. You have only hours now before Li vanishes into the mind-emptiness of the black poppy.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Water People

  Ragged junks and sampans floated in the quiet of the Waterworld, basking in their own reflections. One in particular caught Quan’s eye: the flagship of Madam Choi. It’s figurehead cast a long warped shadow of nine yellow human heads and the blue body of a snake.

  This was the outlandish god that the pirates called Xiang Gong. The old stories told of his rage when he smashed his nine, yellow, human heads against Mount Buzhou, the pillar supporting the sky, which caused the sky to tilt northwest and the earth to shift southeast, producing great floods. To rectify the situation, the goddess Nuwa dismembered the giant tortoise and used its legs to replace the fallen mountain, but still the sky tilted, and from that time on, the sun, moon and stars passed in a northwesterly direction while the rivers flowed southeast to the sea.

  A chill ran through Quan’s chest; this kind of thinking would not help him accomplish his mission, and he was sweaty and weary from guiding his horse and the handcrafted pallet with Li on it. They had gone down the slope through the jungle, bypassing the lagoon. The journey was rough and sometimes the pallet would slip on the loose, dry scree, sending her shooting downhill too fast; and at other times, it stuck on a protruding root or rock, not moving at all. Still she slept, and with each passing moment, he feared he would lose her for good.

  Dust rose from his clothes as he squinted into the distance. Not a single one of the brown, tattered, sea folk glanced up when he scrutinized them on their floating homes; and even if he waved at someone fishing from a serpent boat, he got no reaction. The folk of the south coast rain-shadow were notoriously unfriendly and never set foot on land; it was unlikely anyone would come ashore to question him.

  He left Li at the top of the beach and went down to the bank and waved at the boy on the bamboo raft, making certain that his grey armour of scalloped chest plate, peaked helmet and red tassel were visible; and that his armband with the yellow triangle and green dragon could not be mistaken. Scrawny from the cruel winter, the fisher boy had survived, and although Quan expected to see rebellion on his face or at least recogni
tion, he returned instead an unblinking gaze. Quan pointed to the shore, and to his surprise, the lad obeyed.

  The boy frowned before Quan remembered that the water people were unversed in the Emperor’s Chinese and so he made his request in the Village speech. “I need your help, young man. What is your name?”

  “Po,” the boy answered, and turned a palm heavenward for recompense.

  “This will more than pay for your supper, and fill the bellies of your brothers and sisters, too.” He fetched a piece of silver from the purse tied to his sash, and dropped it into Po’s hand. Two years earlier Po had stood with his pirate kin in their last stand against the Emperor’s men aboard the stolen cargo carrier Red Dragon. On that day, Quan had allowed the most notorious pirate chief who had ever lived to be slain in the sight of his son.

  Would he comply? Quan pointed to the girl lying on the pallet at the top of the beach. “That is Lotus Lily, His Majesty’s daughter. She’s in danger and we must save her. I need to find your mother, Madam Choi. I need her help.”

  His beautiful dark-haired Li looked lifeless. Had the sea gypsies heard of Lotus Lily? He wondered. Had the stories of the runaway princess come this far? Po’s eyes stretched wide as he took in her femininity and her ethereal beauty before he gulped a shallow breath and nodded. However much he had understood, it was enough, and he reached for the edge of the pallet at Li’s feet, and then glanced up at Quan, motioning for him to lift the other end. Quan unhitched the contraption from the rigging yoked to the horse, and they hoisted her, pallet and all, onto the raft.

  Po jabbed the pole into the weed-riddled water, gliding the raft toward a junk captained by a woman beneath a row of torn bamboo sails. As they approached, Quan sighted the nine-headed, blue-bodied snake god, the junk’s figurehead. It sent shivers over his hide.

  The pirate widow sighted them, where she squatted over a torn fishing net, her face masked by a lopsided loop of braided hair. She leaped to her feet. Of one thing, Quan was now certain: the binding of feet was barbaric. Not only because it caused excruciating pain, but also because it rendered women fragile and helpless.

  “You bring nothing but trouble,” she said.

  Since he had seen her last, she had learned the Emperor’s tongue. Or had she always known it? Her head went down again to the task of net mending; her black loop of a pigtail leaned forward in a greasy rope. “I remember you, Captain.”

  Quan looked from the ghoulish water god to the tattered bamboo matt sails and rigging. Madam Choi may be a sea bandit, and leader of something more formidable than this ragged junk, but she was hardly a threat. She had fared poorly since her husband’s death, and was nothing but a superstitious pirate.

  “Master Yun sent me,” Quan said.

  Her eyes showed some life in them for the first time since his arrival.

  “You know him, then?” he asked.

  “The old warlock has not visited us in many years.”

  “This girl I have with me is Lotus Lily, the Emperor’s daughter, and she is sorely in need of your help.”

  Madam Choi stared at him like that was meaningless, and he explained as quickly as he could Li’s peril.

  The pirate widow betrayed no emotion even as she allowed him and Po to carry Li aboard the junk. And when they had placed Li on the deck, she crouched by the pallet while Quan hunched down on the opposite side. Madam Choi lifted Li’s hand to see it flop back when she released it, before testing her forehead and her throat. She lifted her eyelids and was rewarded with a dead stare. Li’s complexion was still ashen, her lips turning blue, and Quan reached out to feel her arm. Was her skin just a little colder than it had been when they were on the beach? He touched her cheek and fear raced up his spine.

  Madam Choi locked eyes with him. “Your princess has been afflicted by the black poppy.” Quan’s jaw dropped, as she seemed to know what had happened without him having to tell her. “Only the white poppy can save her and only if she is one of the chosen.”

  Master Yun had said that the white poppy would save Li’s life. And what did she mean when she said that the poppy could only save Li if she was one of the chosen? Chosen for what?

  “Master Yun and lieutenant He Zhu have gone to the flats of the Yangtze River to find it,” Quan informed her.

  She told him there was nothing she could do until she had the poppy in her hands, but he was welcome to leave Li here until the warlock’s return. Quan frowned. He couldn’t leave her. Where would he go? He could not return to Beijing until Li was well. His frown deepened as he scrutinized the sea gypsy who spoke with such authority. How was it that she, and not Master Yun, was going to heal Li this time? Who was this pirate’s widow?

  “Faith is not one of your strengths,” she said. “Would it ease your mind if I told you that I am a descendent of Shennong?”

  Madam Choi was a descendent of the Emperor of the Five Grains, the divine farmer? It was he, the legendary father of agriculture, who taught the people how to cultivate grains for food to avoid the butchering of too many animals; and it was also he who discovered and tested hundreds of medicinal plants, in particular, tea, which was an antidote against the poison of many herbs. Every child in the Middle Kingdom knew that Shennong first tasted tea when the leaves on a burning tea twig were carried up by the hot air of a fire and landed in his cauldron of boiling water. If Madam Choi was a descendant of Shennong, that explained much.

  “And why should you trust me, eh, Captain?” Madam Choi’s mouth creased into a cynical smile as she glanced up at her figurehead. “I am nothing but a superstitious pirate.”

  How had she known his thoughts? “The god protects you,” he said, respectfully, and bowed to show that he respected her, too.

  “Does he?” she asked. “Then, perhaps, the better question is: why should I trust you?”

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  The sky was vast; the stars swam bright. Sleep eluded him, and he sat up, lit a lantern and stared at Li’s pale, lifeless face. Why did Master Yun not come? Had Zhu caused him trouble? It was miles to the Yangtze River; if they rode all night, they should have been here by now. Their horses were swift army steeds; there were none faster. Had they met trouble? Were the flowers of the white poppy difficult to find? Quan wished he had gone to search for the antidote himself, but to leave Li in her vulnerable state with these dubious pirates was unthinkable.

  Two hours until dawn. To the east a pale streak lit the darkness at the edge of the world. Quan squatted beside Li’s pallet and stroked her temple. Her skin felt icy to the touch, and he pulled his mantle up to her chin and tucked the light fabric around her body. Rising, he looked out aft of the junk, over the starlit water, to the shore. Did something move there? The silhouette of the jungle rose black against the sky, a horse whinnied and another answered with a brief neigh. His brown and white stallion had scented intruders. Or were they friends? Quan struggled with his breath, and spied upon the beach a figure on a horse rear high. Zhu!

  He grabbed the lit lantern from the deck and raced to the stern of the junk where the raft was moored, leaped onto the bamboo platform and was just about to release it from the junk when he saw Zhu’s horse, rider and all, vault into the sea. Quan laughed out loud. Zhu, you crazy dog! He was as impulsive as ever. Not seeing his captain anywhere on shore, he had assumed Quan was among the sea gypsies, and was headed toward the largest junk, which just happened to be Madam Choi’s.

  “Zhu,” Quan shouted loud enough to wake the fishes, holding the lantern over his head. “I’m here.”

  Aiming for the beacon of light on the raft, Zhu goaded his horse, and it splashed and swam like the champion it was. Quan poled the raft toward them and when he reached them, he hauled Zhu aboard and they sent the horse back to shore to wait with Quan’s trusty steed. When they reached the junk, Madam Choi and Po were already awake and waiting. Quan fastened the raft to the stern of the junk, while Zhu clamoured aboard, dripping seawater, with no regard for the time of night or the slumber of others.

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p; The antitoxin had to be administered as quickly as possible. Madam Choi went below to fetch a pot of boiling water, and asked for the poppies before even questioning Zhu’s identity. The flowers were wet, but they were going into the pot anyway, and so Madam Choi did not object to their condition. She tore the petals of the white poppies into fragments and dropped them into the pot, before following with the pollen from the pistils and stamens. The resulting broth changed colour, and in the lantern-light, appeared deep red. Quan raised his eyes to Madam Choi but she was busy stirring and gave no explanation. She added a slice of gingerroot, a pinch of green tealeaves and the powdered horn of an ox. Then she dipped a wooden cup into the pot and set it aside to cool. She went to Li and lifted her eyelids. Li returned the pirate widow the same dead stare as before.

  “She’s almost gone,” Madam Choi said to Quan who had instantly followed to Li’s bedside. “Once she is lost to the mind-emptiness, I cannot reach her. We mustn’t wait. Help me to sit her up.”

  Madam Choi retrieved the broth-filled wooden cup and blew at it. “It is hot, but not too hot. I doubt that she will feel its heat.” She tipped the cup to Li’s lips, pulled at her jaw to open her mouth and poured the white poppy brew down her throat. Some of it trickled over her chin, but most of the antidote went where it should, into her stomach.

  When the cup was empty, Madam Choi told the men to ease Li back onto the pallet and leave her to rest. If the antitoxin worked it would take a couple of days.

  “And if it doesn’t?” Quan asked, his nerves trembling in fear.