“Really?” Connor said. Somehow the two pirates Cheng Li had described did not seem cut out for a quiet retirement.
“Yes,” said Cheng Li. “Chang Po became an officer in the navy. He had an illustrious career there, too.”
“What about Cheng I Sao?” Connor asked.
Cheng Li smiled. “Although she gave up the fleet, she never quite left piracy behind. She ended her days as the director of a large smuggling operation.”
“She sounds like quite a character,” Connor said. “Him, too.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Cheng Li said. “But I’ll tell you the rest of their story some other time. We’re almost at our destination.”
“Why did you tell me about them?” Connor asked.
“Just a little local history,” she said, but there was something in her smile that made him suspect that wasn’t the whole story. Connor knew that Cheng Li did not waste her words any more than she did her sword strokes. This was not simply a colorful historical anecdote. She was laying out his options before him. Better the life of a fisherman or the admiral of a pirate fleet? That’s what she was asking him to consider. She might just as well have asked him to consider two other possibilities. Better a pirate prodigy or the orphan of a lighthouse keeper in a dead-end town?
He was still pondering the question as Cheng Li began turning the sloop tightly around and slowing their speed as they approached land. Connor could see a small fishing town coming into focus. It was not the grand harbor he had expected to arrive at. There were rows of simple stilt houses constructed right over the waterway, with brightly painted fishing boats bobbing in the silvery waters beneath them. As Connor helped Cheng Li to anchor the sloop, he wrinkled his nose. The air was filled with a distinctive smell.
“Salt fish and shrimp paste,” Cheng Li said, breathing in deeply. “A speciality of the stores on the front here. We’ll have some while we’re here. It’s quite delicious.”
Almost the moment they had anchored their boat, they found one of the fishermen had brought over his craft to ferry them the rest of the way to dry land.
Cheng Li nodded to the oarsman as she and Connor climbed inside the boat. A few strokes later and they were climbing out again. Cheng Li tossed some coins into the fisherman’s leathery palm, then joined Connor on the wooden pier.
“So, how do we get to the peak from here?” he asked.
“Why would we want to go to Lantao Peak?” asked Cheng Li.
“Isn’t that where the swordsmith is? You said he lived high above the water, so I assumed . . .”
Cheng Li shook her head and pointed at one of the stilt houses. “He lives up there. I know you’re none too keen on heights, but I think you can cope with this. Come on!”
She began walking across the pier toward the stilt house. Following her, Connor thought that the house didn’t seem like a grand enough residence for the renowned swordsmith of Lantao. He had expected something more akin to a great temple. Instead, he found himself climbing a short, rickety flight of steps and waiting in an open doorway while Cheng Li drew down a bird-shaped bellpull.
Almost immediately, a girl appeared. Her hair was close-cropped but Connor was in no doubt that she was a girl. Her soft Chinese features were not dissimilar to those of Cheng Li but her face was somehow gentler.
“Mistress Li,” she said, putting her hands together and bowing. As she did so, her eyes closed and her long lashes cast shadows down her face.
“Mistress Yin,” said Cheng Li, mirroring the gesture. Rising, she pointed to Connor and spoke a few words that Connor didn’t catch, except for “Tempest.” He realized he was being introduced, and he put his hands together and bowed as the two young women had.
“Connor,” Cheng Li said, “this is Bo Yin, the swordsmith’s daughter.”
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Connor Tempest,” said the young woman.
“And you,” Connor said, immediately captivated by the girl’s natural grace and beauty.
Bo Yin blushed and extended her hand. “Please, come inside. My father is working but I will tell him you have arrived.”
They entered the swordsmith’s home. And it was homely, in the best sense. A humble dwelling but filled with everything you could possibly want — a cluttered but well-organized kitchen, an inviting seating area, and shelves of books and artifacts. And then Connor noticed that on the wall hung just a few swords. Compared to the display of swords at the Pirate Academy, this was minimal indeed, but even from a distance, Connor could sense that the swords here were ancient and precious, with stories to tell. He stood in the center, taking it all in, while Bo Yin disappeared into another room to confer with her father. She emerged a moment or two later.
“My father is just finishing one of your pieces,” she explained to Cheng Li. “He asked me to offer you some soup and to say that he will join us shortly.”
“Excellent,” said Cheng Li, smiling softly as Bo Yin lifted the lid on a small pan. Again, Connor’s nostrils were tantalized by salt fish and shrimp. This time, it smelled even better, and all the more so as Bo Yin ladled out bowls of the tempting broth and carried them over to a low table.
“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” Bo Yin said with a smile. “You must both be hungry after your long journey.”
“Actually,” said Cheng Li, “Connor’s eaten continuously ever since we left the Academy.”
“I always have a big appetite out at sea!” he protested.
“Boys,” said Cheng Li, exchanging a knowing look with Bo Yin.
They drank their soup hungrily and when Bo Yin offered them more, both Cheng Li and Connor gratefully accepted. She was ladling more broth into the bowls when a door creaked open and the swordsmith walked into the room. All eyes turned toward him. He was a little shorter than his daughter, with white hair tied back in a ponytail. His eyes seemed to dance about the room, Connor thought, as if he were a mole who had emerged into the daylight after a long spell underground.
“Father,” called Bo Yin from the stove. “Some soup after your labors?”
He nodded, then spoke in a soft voice. “If you please, Bo Yin.” Then he turned to Cheng Li, who had risen the moment he had entered the room.
“Mistress Li,” he said.
“Master Yin,” she said.
They came to stand before each other and bowed.
“Your own ship!” he said. “To think you are to have your own ship.”
She nodded. “It was only a matter of time.”
“This is true,” he said. “Your father . . . he would be so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Cheng Li said, nodding. She turned and extended her hand. “Master Yin, this is Connor Tempest. Connor, Master Yin is the most talented swordsmith of his generation.”
Connor came to stand before Master Yin and they bowed to each other.
“I’ve heard much about you, sir,” said Connor.
“And I just a little of you, also,” Master Yin said.
Connor was surprised at this and all the more so when the swordsmith added, “He is the one, Mistress Li, is he not?”
Cheng Li nodded.
“Come, drink your soup, Father,” said Bo Yin, beckoning him over to the table.
Connor was left to ponder the swordsmith’s enigmatic words as Bo Yin set a wicker chair up close to the table. Clearly the old swordsmith could no longer bend sufficiently low to sit on the cushions.
The others all returned to the table and sat around it. Connor watched as Master Yin dipped his spoon into the bowl, savoured the taste, then swallowed. He nodded and smiled. “Just like your mother’s,” he pronounced. “Very good, Bo Yin.”
Connor looked at the dutiful Bo Yin and wondered if, in spite of her father’s love, she perhaps felt constrained by her life here. He had a sense that she wanted more from life than this. In her eyes, he saw something — a certain fellow-feeling. He was still weighing in his mind the two options that Cheng Li had presented to him — the
fisherman or the pirate. But it was no longer a true contest. In his mind, the scales were already tipping firmly in one direction.
“So,” said Bo Yin, breaking through his reverie. “Tell me, Connor, what is it like to be a pirate?”
Before Connor could respond, her father gave a short laugh. “She always asks that,” he said. Then, imitating his daughter’s voice, “What’s it like to be a pirate? What’s it like on a pirate ship?”
Bo Yin’s eyes flashed with pain and something else, but only for an instant. Connor wondered if anyone but he had noticed it. “And maybe one day I shall find out for myself, Father,” Bo Yin said.
He shrugged. “That’s right. Off you go and be a pirate and leave your poor old father to wither away in his house of swords.”
Bo Yin shook her head and sighed. “I’ll never leave you, Pop,” she said. She turned to the others, her eyes wide and wistful. “Still, in another lifetime, perhaps I too shall know the glory of being a pirate . . .”
Was that how long she’d have to wait? Connor wondered. A whole lifetime of making soup and pulling up her old father’s chair seemed too limited for a girl like Bo Yin. Suddenly, he realized just how free he was. Free to make his destiny.
He became aware of Cheng Li’s eyes upon him and looked away, his gaze settling on one of the swords on the wall behind Master Yin.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Cheng Li said.
Master Yin turned in his chair, his own eyes traveling to the sword. “Ah, yes,” he said, turning back to Connor. “That sword belonged to the great Chang Po. It’s inscribed with a dedication from Cheng I Sao. You know of these great pirates, I assume?”
Connor nodded. “May I have a closer look?” he asked.
“Of course!” Master Yin waved his spoon freely.
Connor stepped toward the sword. It was evident it had been through many battles, given the nicks in the blade and the hilt. But the blade was still sharp. With a rub of oil, it would be ready for use once again.
“Take it off the wall mount,” said Master Yin. “Swords are not meant for display alone. Give it a try!”
Connor was surprised that the swordsmith would be so cavalier with such an ancient and important artifact. Hesitantly, he reached toward the sword and lifted it down from the wall. As his fist closed around the hilt, he realized it was the first time he had held a sword since he’d thrown his own rapier into the ocean.
“It’s a perfect fit!” declared Master Yin. He turned to Cheng Li. “This is most auspicious.”
Connor gripped the sword and immediately began slicing the blade through the air. It felt as if the ghost of Chang Po were moving alongside him, guiding his hand. Suddenly, he was no longer in the stilt house but on the deck of a great ship, commanding the Red Flag Fleet on another successful raid on the Pearl River. He could smell the cannon and hear the melee as the battle got underway. He felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Then he heard a cry.
“Bravo for Captain Tempest!”
He turned and realized that this was not Chang Po’s ship, but his own. His crew were approaching. They were smiling and laughing and applauding him. He could sense that they had won a great victory that day.
Before he knew it, they had lifted him onto their shoulders and were parading him about the deck. He was laughing. “Put me down! Put me down! By order of the captain, put me down!”
But they only laughed. And he didn’t care. In that moment, he felt deeply happy and peaceful. He knew he was a popular captain. He knew he had done a good job. He lifted the sword above his head and there were great cries.
“Captain Tempest! Bravo for Captain Tempest! Bravo . . .”
Suddenly, his focus came back into the room, aware that three pairs of eyes were watching him intently.
Embarrassed, he turned and was about to hang the sword back in its mount. As he lifted it, he caught sight of the Chinese characters engraved on the hilt.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“It is a dedication from Cheng I Sao to Chang Po,” said Master Yin. “Bring it here and I will translate.”
He pulled a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, opened them out, and set them on his nose. Then Connor extended the sword toward him, and the old swordsmith balanced it upon his lap.
“Ah yes,” he said, taking a cloth and wiping the surface of the hilt. “That’s right! It says, ‘You’ve come a long way from the river delta, little fisherman!’”
The swordsmith smiled, the loose skin around his eyes crinkling. “She had a good sense of humor, I think, that Cheng I Sao.”
“Yes,” smiled Cheng Li, her eyes never moving from Connor, “didn’t she?”
50
THE DANGER ZONE
“Okay, Johnny, very funny! Now let me go!”
It had been an expert throw. The lariat had trapped both Grace’s arms, minimizing her range of movement. Now the rope was starting to dig into her bare arms. But he showed no signs of loosening the lasso. Instead, he looked at her with distant eyes and drew it even tighter.
“Come on, Johnny, you’re hurting me! Please let me go.”
“Not just yet,” he said. “I’m not done with you yet, little lady.” He shook his head slowly.
What did he mean? He began pulling the rope toward him, as expertly as once he would have pulled cattle. She had no choice but to follow.
“What’s wrong with you, Johnny?” she asked as they drew face to face.
“Wrong with me?” he said, grinning. “Nothing’s wrong with me! I feel better than I have in a good long while!”
One look in his eyes confirmed her worst fears. “You’ve taken blood, haven’t you?” She looked down at the flask he had dropped onto the dusty floor. “There was blood mixed in with your berry tea. But how? Where did you get it from?”
“The usual place,” he said with a grin.
“You’ve taken it before?”
He shrugged. “I’m a vampire, Grace! There’s only so long I can survive on herbal tea and group meditation.”
Grace winced to hear Mosh Zu’s complex treatments dismissed so scathingly.
“But the tea is a substitute for blood! You’re supposed to be learning to manage your hunger. You were doing so well.”
“Gee, thanks,” he said. “That’s very encouraging. Now, stop trying to loosen those ropes. Don’t you know that the more you struggle, the tighter they’re gonna get?”
Grace realized he was right. The more she struggled, the more tightly the ropes dug into her flesh. Looking down, she could see red welts forming just above her elbows. She was close to tears from the pain alone but she didn’t want him to see it. She bit down hard on her lip to pull herself together. “Why are you acting like this?” she asked. “This isn’t you!”
“Sure it is,” he said. “What’s wrong? I kept telling you I was bad news, but all you saw was this rumple-haired geek with a late-night chess habit.”
“No,” she said. “There’s more to you than that. Don’t give up, Johnny! Just because someone’s given you blood you don’t need. Don’t throw it all away! You’ve been running for so long. But you don’t need to run any more. You could have a home on The Nocturne.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You, me, and Lorcan. Very cozy! Very exciting for you, I’m sure.” She could see the transformation gathering pace now. His teeth were sharpening. His eyes were losing focus. Soon, they’d be pools of fire. She had to delay that moment as long as she could. She had to keep him talking. Even if it was hard stringing together a coherent sentence when the pain was cutting into her deeper and deeper.
“What do you mean?” she asked at last.
“I just think it’s kinda creepy, the way you like to hang around guys like us. It’s like you’re flirting with the dark side or something. But we’re not animals in a petting zoo. You can’t just come and visit us when you like. There are consequences to hanging out with us lost boys.”
He leaned in close and she could
feel his hot breath on her. “Why are you fighting this? You know deep down that you want it just as much as I do — maybe more! The Blind Boy of Connemara won’t give it to you, but I will. It’s what you’ve been wondering about, isn’t it? All that time on the ship and now here. You’ve watched Lorcan with Shanti. And you want to know for yourself — what’s it like to share?”
“No,” she said. “That’s not what I want. You’ve got it all wrong.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Grace. I think ol’ Johnny’s right on the money this time.”
Keeping hold of the lasso in one hand, he raised his other hand to her neck. It clamped her as tightly as the rope. He let go of the lariat and reached out for the collar of her shirt.
“No!” she cried as she heard the material tear, but the pressure of his hand on her neck reduced her cry to a dull croak.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps.
“What’s going on here?”
“Lorcan!” Grace rasped in relief.
“Oh great! Right on cue, it’s good ol’ reliable Lorcan,” sneered Johnny. He still had his hand clamped firmly around her neck.
“Let her go!” Lorcan cried, attempting to prise Johnny’s arm away. But the vaquero was too strong for him.
“Why should I?” Johnny said, his face dark and angry. “So you can get a piece of the action?”
“Just let her go!” Lorcan repeated.
But Johnny showed no sign of releasing Grace.
Grace shut her eyes. There was nothing Lorcan could do to save her. Nothing she could do to save herself.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw Lorcan lift his hand once more. Why was he even bothering? He knew that Johnny was far stronger.
But then Grace noticed something strange. Lorcan’s Claddagh ring was glowing deep red as if it were heating up like a branding iron. The skull shape on it seemed to grow. No, it wasn’t seeming to . . . it was actually growing! She watched as the head grew large and started moving — the small mouth grinding its teeth. Now Lorcan brought his hand up close to Johnny’s neck and the glowing head came into contact with the flesh just beneath Johnny’s ear. The skull’s mouth opened and two fangs extended, like long, burning needles.
Vampirates 3: Blood Captain Page 33
