Her courtyard was dark, but the gate was open. Her heart wrenched. Amah was back.
“Please don’t let me keep you from the performances, Master Keeper Chang,” she said politely. “You have my gratitude.”
“I’ll wait just a minute to make sure your amah is all right,” he said. “She might need a doctor fetched.”
A faint glimmering of moonlight entered the house with her, illuminating the outline of one of Mother’s ink paintings that hung in the reception room. Ying-ying hurried deeper inside.
At the doorway of her bedchamber, she stopped. Someone was on her bed, lying just beyond a beam of moonlight. And this person breathed loudly—a vigorous noise, full lunged and easy.
Not an injured Amah.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The person swung to a sitting position. “Bai Gu-niang has such good hearing. How do you know I’m not your amah?”
Shao-ye! How did he come back—and when? She had not heard anything of it. Nobody had.
She brushed aside her stupefaction. What did it matter how and when he came back? He was in her rooms and had sent for her to be lured here. Had she approached the bed, he would have dragged her in and attempted to physically overwhelm her.
He came toward her. She took a step back.
“Bai Gu-niang, don’t be shy,” he cooed. “Think how far I’ve trekked to be with you.”
“Young Master should first pay his respects to Da-ren,” she said coldly.
“I shall.” He laughed. “After tonight. After raw grains of rice become cooked.”
After raw grains of rice become cooked, a reference to things that could not be undone.
He lunged for her. To her surprise he was using a martial-arts stance, the Eagle Attack, his fingers hooked like talons, swooping down the way a bird of prey would seize a hapless barnyard hen.
For a split second she vacillated. What sweet satisfaction she’d derive from ramming an elbow into his kidney, or smashing a heel into his groin. Instead she ducked low, slid past him, and spun around. The exit was now behind him. Her only good option was to outrun him and return to the relative safety of the middle hall.
“Bai Gu-niang is agile,” he said, sneering. “I like that. Imagine how she’ll wriggle in bed.”
He came at her again, in a Winter Bear stance. She swerved left, then right. Once past him she did not look back, but she did not leave the way unimpeded for his pursuit: She upended a table and two chairs and emptied a large writing brush holder. Some twenty writing brushes clacked to the floor, then rolled about in every direction.
Behind her, Shao-ye bumped into something and tripped. He cursed loudly. Her heart pounding, her feet barely touching the ground, she sprinted out of the courtyard—only to be stopped by Chang.
“Bai Gu-niang is out so soon?” he asked, his voice full of apparent concern.
She would have run by him without a word. But something about him jarred her, and made her stop short.
He was a good two hand widths taller! What happened to his pronounced stoop?
“Young Master has just made his way back from Canton, thousands of li over a treacherous winter sea,” he said smoothly. “The first person he wishes to see is Bai Gu-niang. Isn’t Bai Gu-niang the least bit touched?”
For the first time she took a good look at him. He stood in a stream of moonlight, his face clearly lit. He was younger than she had supposed, in his early forties as opposed to his fifties. His gaze was sword-keen. And his breaths…
Cold fear inundated her. He was an arm’s length away, and she could not hear him breathe. He had not been some random servant bribed to trick her. He had been chosen for a reason. If anything, he had taught Shao-ye those stances of martial arts, but the young wastrel had been too dissolute to learn them properly.
Crash! Shao-ye must have fallen down again. Her mind churned madly. Time was short. How could she extricate herself now?
“I am humbled by Young Master’s affection,” she said, pretending to be shy, “but Da-ren would not be pleased if I pledged myself without his prior permission.”
“What Young Master wants, Da-ren will eventually want for him,” Chang said calmly, pitilessly. “Gu-niang might as well bow before the inevitable.”
Ying-ying took a deep breath. Inside, Shao-ye had almost reached the door. It was now or never. “Without a matchmaker? Without even the proper rituals— Da-ren!”
She stared into the far end of the walled alley. Startled, Chang turned to look. Ying-ying sprinted in the opposite direction, toward the middle hall.
He cursed and came after her.
Ying-ying had thought herself light soled. But she could barely hear anything over her thunderous footfalls. It was only the cold sweat between her shoulder blades, the sense of absolute menace, that told her he was catching up to her.
She let fly Mother’s fur-lined cape and hoped that it would land on him and slow him down. It did, but only for a second. Up ahead, a new wall loomed. The path was about to end in a perpendicular alley. She cut to the left. Another left and then a right turn, and she would be within view of the middle hall.
With a sound like a flag lashing in the wind, Chang catapulted past her in the air, landed, and blocked the left turn she was going to take. She didn’t think. She took the right turn and kept on running.
“Why, Bai Gu-niang? Why make it so difficult on yourself?”
Her heart sank. She wasn’t winded yet. But if she opened her mouth she’d slow down for sure. Yet his smoothly delivered words had no impact on his speed. Instead he was gaining on her again. Worse, there was a good chance he was toying with her.
Once again he launched himself into the air, landing ten paces ahead of her to barricade the way. If she stopped, she was doomed. She was no match for him.
She barreled toward him. That caught him by surprise. When he realized at last that she meant to crash into him, he stuck out a foot, angling for the acupuncture points on her leg.
She pretended to trip and aimed her fall squarely on his shin. He yelled in pain and fell backward. They went down together. She sprang up and kept on running.
The alley went on forever before another turn presented itself. She angled into it. Almost too late she heard the sounds of small objects hurtling at her. She slowed down just enough to avoid most them, but one hit her solidly in the upper thigh.
It hurt, the metallic ball. Luckily it just missed a major acupuncture point—had it hit a finger’s width higher, it would have rendered her leg useless for hours. But the pain was searing enough that she would be able to only shuffle along, an injured hare easy for the fox to snare: The ball must have barbs.
She dropped to the ground facedown. Let him think that he had temporarily paralyzed her. She’d use this lull to remove the barbed ball, then circulate her chi to relieve pain and restore her strength.
“I didn’t wish to hurt you, Bai Gu-niang, but you gave me no choice,” Chang said, standing over her.
She made little whimpers of agony. She didn’t have to pretend: The barbed ball had hurt like a ghost’s teeth when she’d yanked it out. “My legs…my legs…”
“Best let them stay that way until I get you back to Young Master,” he said.
He bent down to pick her up. With all her might she kicked him in the face. He jerked back, but she still caught him on the neck. He made a grab for her foot, but had to jump out of the way as she threw at him the barbed ball she had dug out.
She leaped to her feet and ran as if all the ghosts of the underworld were behind her. Except that Chang was far more menacing—and now she had enraged him. An intersection came up ahead. Da-ren’s concubines lived in these parts. Ying-ying needed to go left. But she turned right. Just after the turn was a side door into the youngest concubine’s courtyard.
She pressed herself into the doorway and held her breath. Chang careened past her. She ran in the opposite direction. Within seconds he had realized his mistake and was on her tail again.
“You stinking daughter of a whore,” he snarled.
His voice sounded so close that all the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her left trouser leg had a cold, damp spot of blood. The muscles in her thighs burned. Her lungs felt ready to cave in. But fear drove her to run faster.
Another wall loomed ahead. If she took a right turn here and then the second left turn, she’d emerge onto the small plaza before the middle hall. She bore right. More barbed balls hissed after her. She was forced to run in a zigzag pattern.
Chang was close enough to breathe down her neck. He made a grab for her hair. She ripped off her heavy gold locket, almost the size of a plate, and threw it into his face.
The left turn came up. Just a few more strides. He launched more barbed balls—a vertical wall of them, blocking the left turn, leaving her no choice but to run straight on. There were no more left turns on this path, only a right turn where the path ended.
She barely avoided having her neck gripped as she made the right turn. But what was that up ahead? A person, a man walking. And not just any man, but Master Gordon, judging by the walking stick he swished—Chinese men never used canes unless they must.
“Help! Help!” she yelled in English.
He spun around. “Bai Gu-niang? What’s the matter?”
Behind her Chang stopped. A foreigner was a tricky addition to any situation. They were above the law, answerable only to their own kind. But for any Chinese who trespassed against them, the foreigners demanded the stiffest penalties.
“That man’s trying to abduct me,” Ying-ying said, panting, pulling Master Gordon along as she continued to run. Chang wouldn’t let her return to the safety of the middle hall. But a man who wished to have his head remain on his shoulders would think twice before invading a foreigner’s dwelling. “Take me to your rooms.”
“Abduct you?” Master Gordon was astonished. “For ransom?”
“For Young Master.”
“The fourteen-year-old?”
“The other one.”
“But he’s in Canton.”
“He’s back.” Alas. Alas.
“I see.”
Ying-ying’s stomach dropped in alarm—Chang had sneaked up on them and was now directly behind. She yanked at Master Gordon to run faster. Too late. He crumpled like last year’s straw toy—Chang had sealed his acupuncture points.
Ying-ying’s one moment of inaction, of staring at Master Gordon’s body on the ground, cost her dearly. Now she had no more opportunity to run away, not with Chang’s hands coming at her.
Amah had pounded into her head that she was never to reveal her martial-arts skills unless she was in grave personal danger. Everything she had done so far in her own defense could have been explained away by determination and sheer luck. After all, even a rabbit would bite when attacked. But she had no more options left to her. Unless she wished to be raped by Shao-ye, she must fight.
She threw herself to the ground, rolled to Mr. Gordon’s inert body, and grabbed his walking stick. It was made of hard wood, a bit heavy, but as good a weapon as she could lay her hands on now.
She wielded it like a sword, pointing its tip at Chang’s elbow. His eyes widened in surprise at the training evident in her move. Then he changed the direction of his strike and made a brazen attempt to yank the walking stick from her.
The deflating truth was that he probably could. But she refused to think about it. She slashed the stick at his wrists, forcing him to withdraw his hands. Then she aimed it at his heart. A direct hit, even with a dull weapon, would do damage. He somersaulted backward. A moment later he had his own weapon in hand, a short stick with nine thin iron chains at the tip, each ending in a metal ball the size of a quail’s egg.
Nine-snake whip, a nasty weapon, yet one easy to conceal beneath bulky winter clothes. He leaped high and slashed the chains toward her. She dodged, not daring to take the whip head-on. One of the metal balls could easily catch her on a finger and break it.
She moved behind the corner of a turn in the alley. The whip tore away a section of the wall, barely missing her head: Chang was no longer merely procuring her for Shao-ye; he was out to teach her a lesson.
He advanced. She retreated, and tried to get in a jab or two while he swung the whip behind himself for another strike. He backed her into the lotus pond garden outside the Court of Contemplative Bamboo. She tried to hold her ground, to move sideways instead of always backward. But still he advanced. Closer and closer the edge of the pond came. She maneuvered left, leaped on the miniature bridge, and regretted it the moment she did.
The bridge led into the small pavilion. If Chang managed to push her into the pavilion she’d be completely cornered—the pond to either side, the artificial hill behind, and Chang holding the bridge. Time to forget such niceties as intact fingers and fight like the mangiest, hungriest dog on a snow-covered street.
She poked the walking stick directly into the descending head of the nine-snake whip and tangled it within the chains. Then she jerked the walking stick hard to her right.
He pulled the whip toward him. She pushed along, then extricated her stick to strike him across the upper chest. He whipped the chains at her. She ducked, and aimed for his knees. He jumped up, avoided her hit, and brought the chains down at her again. She parried it with the tip of the stick, aiming a kick against his stomach.
When her soft-soled boot connected with his abdomen, the wound in her leg hurt, but the pain was overshadowed by her surprise. He had been so overwhelming in his attack, and she so ineffectual in her defense, that she had not expected any success. He seemed just as surprised, and staggered a step back.
She was off the bridge, but still at the edge of the pond. If only she could topple him into the pond, she thought longingly. That would give her time to run.
The opportunity came sooner than she had anticipated. For some reason, Chang was noticeably weaker than he had been at the beginning of their fight. His footwork slacked. His whip, when it came down, had only half the force it had earlier commanded. Perhaps he really was old. Perhaps he tired easily.
Ying-ying did not question her good luck; she exploited it. Now it was she who advanced on Chang, the two of them moving along the rim of the pond. He whistled shrilly, startling her. Was he calling for help? If he thought Shao-ye would come to his aid, he must not know their young master at all.
She drove the walking stick against his left arm, forcing him to move to his right, ever closer to the edge. Now it was she who had the audacity to try to put her hand on his weapon. With her stick entangled in the whip, she reached in and grabbed the whip by the base and yanked at it. He pulled back. She abruptly let go of both the whip and her own stick. He stumbled back. Another kick to his stomach and he crashed through the frozen pond with a long, pained grunt.
“Master!” someone screamed.
It was Little Dragon, running toward them, a sheathed sword in his hand. Ying-ying leaped back. Little Dragon flung aside his sword and slid into the pond. He cursed and shivered but wasted no time in dragging Chang to the edge and lifting him out.
No wonder he handed Chang heated spirits in winter and did the latter’s work in summer. They were master and disciple.
As soon as Little Dragon climbed out of the pond he set to work, raising the prostrate Chang into a semblance of the lotus position. He sat down behind Chang, in the lotus position also, held the older man upright with his left arm, and pressed his right palm to Chang’s back, between the shoulder blades.
Why? She had bested Chang. But all she did was upset his balance and tip him into the pond. Why was Little Dragon treating him as if Chang had suffered some severe internal damage?
A gong clanged in her head. What had Amah said? You don’t suppose I was the only one injured that night, do you? I dealt him a heavy blow too.
In all the fear and confusion of the night, she hadn’t thought of that. Chang was the one who had fought Amah when she stole the jade tablet. What was his purpose in Da
-ren’s household?
What had been Amah’s purpose in Mother’s household? To hide from the law and remain safe. Who was to say Chang hadn’t an equally long—or longer—list of crimes to his name? And what had Little Dragon said to Little Orchid? He doesn’t even dare visit his old mother—and he’s desperate to see her.
Was that why Chang had fought Amah years ago, because he hoped that by catching the flying thief trying to make off with Da-ren’s treasured artifact, he would have his own crimes pardoned? And was that why he curried favor with Shao-ye, in the hope that the latter would be able to help him someday?
She shoved all the chaotic thoughts out of her head. She had a more immediate concern: Master Gordon was still out there, lying on the frozen ground.
He could be ill for days if she didn’t get to him fast.
It had turned cloudy. Whipped by a celestial gale, streaks of fleece tore across the sky. Shadow and light chased each other as the moon was alternately veiled and revealed.
She unsealed Mr. Gordon’s chi paths and helped him to his feet. He wobbled. She moved more of his weight onto herself. Spiky pain shot through her leg. She winced but made no sound. First she’d take Master Gordon to his rooms, then treat her own wound.
“Is that Little Dragon?” he whispered as they entered the garden, which they must cross to get to the Court of Contemplative Bamboo. “What is he doing with Chang?”
She didn’t answer—she was staring. In the intermittent light, a column of steam rose above Little Dragon’s bare head. Was his chi that strong?
Chang’s face contorted. A torrent of blood spewed from his mouth. Little Dragon shut his eyes in concentration. But it was no use. Another stream of blood burst from Chang’s mouth. More blood dripped from his nostrils. Blood even seeped from his ears, blood made black by the dark of the night, a ghastly, bone-chilling sight.
“God in heaven!” Master Gordon gasped.
Despite Little Dragon’s restraining arm, Chang slumped to the side, his head thumping on the paving stone as he fell. Little Dragon sobbed, knelt down, and pulled Chang’s unresisting form into a hard, desperate embrace.
The Hidden Blade Page 25
