The Pirate Empress

by Deborah Cannon

  At the end of the year, Brigade General Chi Quan returned to the westernmost extreme of the frontier where the defenses were weakest. This was Jiayuguan. Quan had four thousand men refurbish this portion of the wall, constructing sturdy ramparts and forts crenellated for weaponry. With that done, he left a sentinel of four hundred to guard the west wall and made the months long journey to the easternmost endpoint where he had assigned Lieutenant He Zhu.

  Every day that Zhu stayed among the Emperor’s men, he risked recognition and exposure. The lieutenant was no traitor and had done his part to reinforce His Majesty’s great wall. Now it was time for him to leave and seek his own destiny. Wasn’t that what Master Yun had told him to do? He was never supposed to return to Beijing. It was too dangerous.

  By the time Quan arrived at Shanhaiguan, Zhu had come to the same conclusion. They stood together along the shores of the Yellow Sea, where the waves crashed into the rocks below a plaque marking the wall’s end. It read: The First Pass Under Heaven.

  “Zhu,” Quan said. “Go back to the monkey country. Find the water people and look after Li. Reassure her that I have not abandoned her. I will join you as soon as I can.”

  “And Jasmine?” Zhu asked. “If she leaves our emperor’s side and fully unites with Altan, what then?”

  Quan looked down at the waves threatening to soak his boots. “I have no doubt she will throw in with the Mongols soon. Up until now, she was not certain which lord was more powerful—Esen and his Mongols or the Emperor and his army. She will side with those most likely to win and she believes it will be Altan.”

  “If what they say about her is true. She is very powerful.”

  What they said about her was true.

  A shadow loomed from above them, one of the sentinels. But the shape did not move on, and Quan turned to seek the curved roof of the fortress crowning the thirty-foot-high brick wall. The yellow triangle with the green dragon snapped from a pole mounted on one of the corner roof peaks. The sky beyond the black form on the rampart was deep red. As it raised its arms, the characteristic C-bow of the Mongols stood stark against the sky.

  “Duck!” Zhu shouted.

  Quan dropped to his stomach just as an arrow whined by his ear, smashing into a rock jutting from the sea. Zhu had fallen to his belly, and now rolled to his side, crossbow at the ready, and took aim.

  The archer stepped backward into the door of the fortress and blended into the shadows. “This is not the end,” he shouted. “It is but the beginning! You think your puny wall will stop me?” He laughed. “Think again!”

  Quan heard a whinny. Zhu aimed his crossbow, and a horseman rode out into full view. Zhu could have shot him right then, but something stayed his hand. This was no ordinary barbarian. A hawk flew from somewhere out of the sky, and landed on his falconer’s glove.

  Zhu released his bow too late, and the horseman was off like a shot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Nine-tailed Fox Kit

  The monstrous barrier was completed. Finally, by the will of one emperor the fortified ramparts were linked into a single long wall dividing Mongolia from China, despite continuous Mongol incursions and five years of purse-breaking work. How dare they, Altan thought. How dare they think they could draw this line on the gods’ naked earth. He stirred his horse with a kick in the flanks and raced along the north side, parallel to the wall. The solid brick ramparts were impenetrable; and towers punctuating the barricade hid watchmen armed with crossbows. Altan wheeled his horse, churning up dust and galloped back in the direction he had come. For miles and miles, all he could see was the grey-brown brick of the newly named Dragon Wall, its endpoints vanishing into mist.

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  Jasmine walked out of Altan’s tent and went to the warlord who was passing the reins of his lathered horse to a boy, while the cries of a newborn blended with the notes of a piper’s song.

  “It’s about time you returned,” she said, taking his arm. “You have a girl.”

  He scowled, flinging dust and grit from his armour, and stamped his boots to remove caked sand from his soles. “I have no use for a girl. I need a son to rule by my side when I take the Chinese capital and make it my own.”

  “We’ll see what your brother has to say about that.”

  “My brother is lost,” Altan said. “He has deserted his men and the campaign, and for what? To chase down a prophecy. Lotus Lily is harmless.”

  “Perhaps, but what of the Emperor’s new general? He is a man to be reckoned with.”

  “I have seen him at the easternmost pass. He had a chance to kill me and he didn’t.”

  “Be that as it may, he mustn’t be dismissed. He has a stout heart and a fearless soul, and he will not let you take the Empire while he stands.”

  “Then I will kill him.”

  Altan lifted the wolf furs from the entrance to his tent, and the notes of the flute followed him in. The infant’s cries ceased as he caught sight of a half-naked young woman reclining on the floor of his shelter against red silk pillows and satin coverlets. A golden-skinned infant nestled at one breast, the nipple securely trapped between plump vermilion lips.

  “Give me the child,” Jasmine said. The wet nurse had lost her own baby to a freak accident when the branch of a mulberry tree had fallen onto the sleeping boy, and her breasts ached to be released of the pressure of her own milk. The wet nurse complied, and parted the wolf furs to slip outside.

  “I never promised you a son. But I think you will agree, this is better.” Jasmine placed the baby girl among the pillows and coverlets, and the infant crawled onto her knees.

  Altan raised his hands, palms up, in exasperation. “I have no time to babysit. I have a campaign to plan.”

  From where the baby girl should have been a small golden fox kit suddenly scampered out from between two pillows, sporting nine flaxen tails tipped with white. She approached her father.

  Altan shot a glance at Jasmine, and she placed her hands on her hips, which showed no signs of her recent pregnancy. “Your daughter is a fox faerie, my lord. And not an ordinary one at that.”

  On his haunches now, he played with the fox kit as she tumbled and rolled, her nine tails twitching, soft as rabbit’s fur, and his flat, stern eyes stretched wide. “Then, she’s like you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. We shall see.”

  “And you knew all the time this would happen?”

  “One never knows everything. I knew it could happen. But as I told you at her conception, it has not happened in a thousand years. The last fox faerie with nine tails was Dahlia. Her power was great indeed, and she surpassed even me.”

  “What happened to her?” Altan asked. Jasmine’s eyes shifted slightly, but she said nothing, and Altan lifted the nine-tailed fox in his hand. “She’s so tiny.”

  “Most newborns are. What will you name her?”

  “I will name her Peng.”

  “Peng is a Chinese name. A giant bird of great power.”

  “Exactly. One day she will be empress of all China.”

  Jasmine laughed. Of course. A summer baby, she was born under the sign of the Vermilion Bird. She might as well have a Chinese name.

  Altan rolled his fox faerie kit onto the pillows and coverlet. “Call the wet-nurse. The child must feed.” He lifted his falconer’s glove from a corner of the room and strapped it to his left arm, strutted to the door, and then turned back to Jasmine. “If only I could see what the Chinese are up to. Do they really think their wall will stop me? This Brigade General Chi Quan seems to be a crafty advisor. If only I could know his true plans, I could break them.”

  “I may be able to help you there, but you seem to be doing pretty well on your own. Give me a month. I may find something to speed up your victory.”

  “If only I knew where Esen was,” he said bitterly. “I don’t want that maniac to get in my way.” If his brother got wind of Altan’s doings, he could become a problem. Esen was beside himself with rage over the rescue of Lotus Li
ly. He wanted her dead and was consumed with the desire to the point of madness. There was no telling what he could or might do when he learned that Altan had usurped him.

  When Jasmine left Eng Tong dead in the jungle path, she had travelled poste haste to the Forbidden City to learn what news she could. Esen had refused to go with her. After the fire died on First Emperor’s tomb, he returned to the earth mound to search for signs of Lotus Lily; and failing to find her had hunted in the surrounding plains and jungles. In time, and disgusted with the single-mindedness of their leader, Esen’s small pack of bandits had deserted him, returning to a new warlord, Altan—a man of fierce energy who made promises that he kept. For all Jasmine knew, Esen was still in Xian.

  But Esen and his madness could wait. She wished to locate the Tiger’s Eye. The memory of that eyelock, in the vision of the lily pond, told her that someone other than the ancient monk possessed it. She scowled at her inability to determine who that was. Whoever had that gemstone would have an advantage. There were three gems that had escaped the Etherworld. One was in the possession of Master Yun, one was in the tight circle of the Taoist monkhood and one was lost. These three gemstones were unlike any others of their kind, for they contained the essence of time.

  The lost gem, a Fire Opal, revealed to the watcher what ‘was.’ The monks’ Tiger’s Eye showed the viewer what ‘is.’ And the warlock’s Moonstone showed the seeker what ‘will be.’ Jasmine was not too concerned with the Fire Opal because that gemstone revealed only the past, and what ‘was’ had no effect on her plots. The Moonstone was out of her reach; it belonged to the warlock, and he controlled an instrument with which to see the future. But the Tiger’s Eye: Altan would reward her richly for this gift, a stone that gave its master knowledge of what was happening anytime, anywhere. And it was entirely within her grasp—if she could find it.

  The trip took her less than a fortnight. When she arrived in Xian, Jasmine transformed from a fox into a woman, and sought the temple of Master Tong. Another guardian had replaced him and she wouldn’t hesitate to kill this one, outright. The monk was an acolyte, young and inexperienced. As she strolled toward him, he tensed his hands inside his long, wide sleeves, and moved to head her off. “No women are permitted inside the shrine,” he said, nervously.

  Jasmine stopped in front of him, thrust out her chin. “Since when? The last time I was here, I was welcomed with opened arms.” Among other things.

  The young monk hesitated. Jasmine could see that the acolyte was as unsure of this ordinance as he was of herself.

  “Surely, you wouldn’t turn away a weary traveller? I need rest and perhaps something to drink?” She knew she hardly looked travel-worn and her lovely white gown was as pristine as new fallen snow.

  “I have only water. You may have that. But you must leave the temple at once.”

  Jasmine sighed. “Fine, go fetch it.”

  As the young monk left to pour her a cup of water, she surveyed the shrine. There was no one else here. The guardians of Lei Shen were solitary. There was also nowhere in this chamber to hide a ring. Jasmine went to the carving of the thunder god and began to run her fingers over the fine blue relief.

  “What are you doing?” the monk screamed, dropping the cup. “You mustn’t touch!”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake. It’s only a sculpture. What I want to know is: Where is the gemstone?”

  “What gemstone?” The acolyte rolled to his knees to pick up the spilled cup.

  “The saffron stone, the one Tiger’s Eye. What have you done with it?”

  The acolyte was not as dumb or clumsy as he appeared. He whipped a sleek, sharp dagger from a pedestal in front of the shrine and warded her off. He spat a warning, raising the weapon two-handed, and Jasmine studied his bare hands as his long sleeves slid to his elbows, revealing ringless fingers. Satisfied that he was not the one in possession of the Tiger’s Eye and completely undeterred by his feeble threats, she smiled. Then, taking on her fox form, she snarled and lunged at his throat. Her white teeth flashed, and blood spurted into the air as she ripped out his vocal cords, mid scream.

  She did not stop to examine her handiwork, but glanced up at the clawed, bat-winged thunder god carved on the rear wall of the temple, and sneered. The blue-faced, beaked deity didn’t scare her. He could bang his mallet to his drum until he was blue in the face. Oh, yes. Need she keep reminding herself? The mighty god was already quite blue in the face, and could do nothing to save the neophyte monk. Ignoring the carnage she left behind, she transmuted into Jasmine the woman, and gave the demon-vanquishing deity a mock bow. She was one demon that refused to be vanquished, and she went to find the brick crypt that she knew to be attached to the temple.

  She found it.

  So, the man Esen had pierced with his arrow all those years ago was Lotus Lily’s beloved tutor, Tao. The eunuch lay on a stone slab dressed in a cloud-satin coatdress with a round collar. The sleeves were a foot wide and long enough to hide his hands, which lay crossed over his breast. On his feet were red burial slippers. The burial ministrations of Eng Tong, before Jasmine had made lunch out of him, gave the eunuch an eerie lifelike quality. His face was contorted as if in pain, his mouth frozen in a scream, unmarred by desiccation or decay—even after four years.

  Despite herself, Jasmine couldn’t help but admire the embalming skills of the monks.

  Too bad Tao had not lived to learn the truth. Jasmine knew the truth, had wormed it out of Eng Tong as he begged her to release him from her ravishment.

  The eunuch Tao was as much a man as any Jasmine had ever known, except that by the time she knew him he was castrated—by his own request. There were others in danger as long as he was seen to be a man. Well, now he was a dead man.

  If Tao had the gemstone it would be on his right hand, but it wasn’t, so who had it? Before she killed Eng Tong, he had told her it was safe among the monkhood. How had Eng Tong deceived her? If the ancient monk had carried it on him she would have known.

  She shut her eyes to recall the circumstances of his demise: frost white hair, long monk’s robe, but no gemstone. She could swear she had not seen the Tiger’s Eye. Her smooth pale brow creased into a frown.

  The scent of lotus blossoms was strong in the room, and Jasmine spied a bowl of scented water on a bench. The new guardian of the temple (or should she say the old new guardian of the temple?) must have left it there. Floating in the water were the torn petals of ivory-coloured lilies. All right, then. Who needs the gemstone? I have the Sight. Jasmine sent her gaze deep into the bowl.

  Mind blackened, eyes closed, light bore its way through her eyelids until she saw what she feared to see: A small boy, whose steely gaze reminded her of a warrior she could not possess. She hissed and almost jerked herself out of the trance, but forced her mind to concentrate on the floating bits of lotus flower that returned to obscure her vision. The flowers cleared; the scene resumed. On the palm of the boy’s left hand was the tattoo of a tortoise.

  A voice called the name Xian Wu, the Black Warrior of the North, and by his side was the warlock.

  Grains of sand started to fall and she knew the vision was failing. Angry, she scowled. Master Yun had defeated her again. The boy was born, but where was he? And where was the conniving warlock?

  The sand reminded her of something—the desert surrounding Altan’s war camp. Just before the vision vanished entirely, she saw her own little Peng snuggled in her pillows, and a hand bearing the Moonstone wielding the Scimitar of Yongfang.

  The warlock knew of the nine-tailed fox faerie kit.

  The gemstone would have to wait. She must find him.

  She left the temple by the back way, switched into her fox form, and raced out of the village and over the river flats toward the lush green foothills of the Black Mountains. She never looked back. Perhaps she should have. As her fox’s tail swept across the countryside, the dead eunuch opened his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Bamboo Forest

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bsp; Against the bulkhead, Li propped the rush mop that she had been using to clear the pirate junk’s deck of seaweed and salt. She inhaled the crisp, sun-filled air. Her back ached and her knees felt like a dish of half-cooked sea cucumber. They had spent the cold season hugging the eastern coastline to keep clear of winter storms. Po wasn’t kidding when he said his mother never stepped foot on land; Madam Choi had been ousted from her rice-farming family when she married a fisherman-turned-pirate. Rice farmers and pirates didn’t mix, and rice was one of the main types of booty that pirates sought. People would pay an arm and a leg not to starve.

  In a few minutes, Po had promised to take her off deck-washing duties and onto dry ground. They had anchored in a small harbour. The land was still frozen up north, but here on the central coast life was stirring. Green shoots coloured the landscape where bamboo forests flourished, and on shore there was movement, animals seeking food.

  Li was now twenty years old. She had not seen Quan since the fox faerie slipped the black poppy down her throat while she slept. When she awoke, she was aboard Madam Choi’s pirate junk and instead of the steely gaze of her beloved Chi Quan she had lifted her eyelids to the curious gaze of the sea gypsy’s number one son.

  “Are you ready?” Po shouted as he climbed through the hatchway.

  “Is Wu still asleep?”

  The stout young man nodded. “As always. He won’t miss us. We’ll be back before he has his rice gruel.”

  Li stepped forward to push Po aside, and Po put a hand out to stop her. “I want him to come with us,” she said. “He’s spent too much time aboard ship. If he is to follow in his father’s footsteps and fulfil his destiny, he needs to get his land legs.”