The Way of the Tigress 1-4

by Jade Lee - The Way of the Tigress 1-4

  Then she switched to her barbarian language, her words rolling like stones from her lips in a most unladylike fashion. All Zou Tun could do was shake his head in dismay.

  "I have studied all the classics," he said when she finally finished her strange muttering. "It took many years." Then, when he saw her staring strangely at him, he hastened to reassure her: "You need not worry about such a thing. The books for women are simple and will not take long if you apply yourself."

  She didn't respond, and he thought that perhaps she had calmed enough to heed his suggestion. He smiled placatingly.

  "Truly," he said, "if you wish to live in Shanghai, you must learn these things."

  "I have learned these things," she said slowly. "I have heard of your Confucius and have found him to be a highly intelligent man. And I have already read his instructions for women." She waved her hand, dismissing the sum total of a Chinese woman's education. "What I wish to know, though, is how a man of your..." She hesitated for a moment, then simply shrugged before continuing. "How a man of your low means could have obtained a classical education."

  Too late he realized he was dressed in his simple monastic attire, filthy now from his many days of travel. Then, before he could think of a suitable answer, she pressed him further.

  "And I have not forgotten your fighting either." Her voice shook slightly as she spoke, but it quickly steadied as she continued to study him. "You did not learn that in a rice paddy." She paused another long moment, and Zou Tun began to feel his skin prickle. She was thinking much too hard. "You have an arrogance unlike anyone I have ever met."

  Zou Tun felt his breath freeze in his throat. It could not be possible. She was a barbarian and a woman. She could not possibly know.

  "You are not a common laborer, despite your attire. And you are Chinese. You spoke in the Peking dialect, didn't you?" She didn't wait for an answer. Instead, her eyes widened as her mouth split into a grin. "You are from the imperial court! My God, you are a real Mandarin, aren't you?"

  He stared at her, shock robbing him of voice and sanity. She was a woman—a barbarian woman—and she had already guessed what no man had suspected for two years. "You are being fanciful, woman," he snapped. "I am a simple monk."

  She clapped her hands together and released a crow of delight. "I knew it! I knew you were lying." Then she winked at him. "I'll give you a hint, Mandarin. The moment you tell a woman she's being silly is the very moment you've revealed your secret."

  "There is no secret," he growled, desperately trying to regain some control. "Monks speak only with honesty."

  "Ah," she said with a triumphant laugh, "but you're not a real monk, are you? You're a Mandarin disguised as a monk."

  His breath stopped altogether, her words echoing hollowly inside him, for she had indeed spoken the truth. He was not a real monk. And he never would be, though he had tried desperately for the last three years to become one.

  He looked away from her shining amber eyes, stepping from her with as much dignity as he could muster. His next actions would prove he was no monk more effectively than anything he had ever done. But even so, he tried to avoid his fate; he stepped away from her.

  "You know nothing, woman. Do not reveal your ignorance by speaking further." Indeed, he silently prayed, do not say anything more because such knowledge will get us both killed. A family such as his had too many enemies. If his father's men didn't find him and drag him home, his enemies would happily assassinate him. Both would kill whomever happened to be with him at the time.

  "Tell me what your name is," she urged, giddy from her secret knowledge. "No, wait, you'd only lie. Let me guess. You're not a simple blue bannerman. Or even red, yellow, or white. Your manner is much too elevated for such low ranks. You can't be a true official. Their entire power is in their tide. Not a one of them would travel in secret like you are. They are too frightened of losing their position to even attempt the ruse."

  "Not if there were some secret task. A mission so important..." His suggestion was ridiculous, he knew. Everything she'd said so far was absolutely correct, but he was searching for the last grain of rice in a cleared field. Anything that would keep him from what he had to do.

  She was relentless, not realizing that every word doomed her. "Secret missions are often dangerous. Middle-ranking officials don't do dangerous things. They send others to do them." She narrowed her eyes. "But your education is a problem. No lowborn courier on a dangerous, secret mission would have read all the classics. You have. You're someone who has no fear of losing his rank, someone so high up in the political hierarchy that only the emperor himself could knock him down. But you're not an old, established general. You're young, which means..." Her eyes widened and he knew she had ferreted out the truth. "You're a prince. You have to be. You're one of the heirs to the—"

  He reacted without thought, with reflexes honed by years of study. He chopped her throat, a single blow that dropped her to the ground like deadwood. And as she lay sprawled at his feet, he heard her begin to gasp. He heard her wheezing horror in every struggling inhalation, knew her terror as she began to scramble backward, away from him, dragging her horse with her as if he could allow her to escape.

  And all the while he stared at her, his own knees trembling as he knew the truth. He had failed. He was a failure. Like a black hole deep within him, the knowledge sucked his strength away as surely as he had just taken her breath. But he'd had no choice.

  She could not be allowed to speak her knowledge. He could not let her tell anyone of what she knew. Women gossiped. Women told secrets, for what else did they have to occupy their time? Nothing. And even a barbarian woman's words could reach the emperor's ears. Or worse yet, her chatter could grab the attention of one of his enemies. There simply weren't that many missing princes.

  So Zou Tun had to silence this foolish ghost devil. He had to kill her.

  And yet, he knew as he watched her lose consciousness that he had not killed her. He should have. He still could. But something in him had softened his blow. Some weakness inside of him had averted his killing stroke.

  She could not speak. Indeed, she might never make a sound again. But she would not die for all that her swollen throat cut off her breath. So long as she did not struggle too hard, so long as she remained still, in dreamless sleep, she would survive.

  As would he.

  Unless, of course, someone else discovered what she knew.

  But now he stood in the middle of the road to Shanghai, a rich barbarian's horse beside him, and an unconscious, unkempt barbarian woman at his feet. This was not the way to remain inconspicuous.

  But how to hide her and still perform his task?

  He ought to simply kill her and her horse. Instead, he... he would wrap her in his blanket and carefully lay her across her mare, he decided. Fortunately the horse was still strong enough to carry her weight, though the animal's gait would be a little uneven. A good thing, because that helped disguise the creature. Add a misshapen lump on top, plus his tattered blankets, and with Heaven's blessing, no one would notice the excellent creature beneath.

  The one thing he could not disguise was her saddle or clothing. She would have to be stripped of both. Except he had no wish to remove any of her clothing. Indeed, he had no wish to touch this foreign devil at all. Not because she appeared too hideous to him, but because she was so very different.

  Zou Tun could strip a Chinese woman naked without even blinking. Breasts, legs, face—all were merely mounds of flesh, no more interesting than a tree or a sun-warmed rock. He had, after all, seen many, many of them, and would again. He was one of the potential heirs to the imperial throne.

  But what about foreign breasts? White-woman legs? How would they be shaped? How would they smell, taste, and feel? He had no time to discover the answers, and yet he found himself dangerously interested. He would strip her without lingering, he decided. Without thinking. Without having the sight seared upon his much too distractible mind.

 
Not possible.

  She was lying on her back, her face turned to the midmorning sun. He had to work quickly; he could not guarantee privacy for long. So he began unfastening the buttons that marched down the front of her garb. From neck to belly, he tried to unbind her clothing. Except his fingers were clumsy, his gaze often straying to the dark crescents of her eyelashes. They were dark brown curves, full and round, not angled into a sharp point like Chinese women preferred. Her breasts were also full and round, Zou Tun saw. They pushed upward despite her position on her back.

  He pressed his hand flat upon her chest, relieved to feel the steady beat of her pulse and the regular rise and fall of her breath. She was a strong woman, already healing despite the damage he had inflicted.

  He reached behind her, lifting her up to pull the dress off her shoulders. She was heavier than he expected, solid in a way that he found pleasing. This was not a woman who would break easily under any kind of pressure. Neither her body nor her mind would break, for hadn't she withstood an attack by members of the Fists of Righteous Harmony? She had withstood it and still maintained the intelligence to divine his secret. He had to admire such strength of character, even when it came in the most unlikely of places.

  She wore a white shirt beneath her heavy riding clothes, and a strange binding contraption. He pulled the latter two garments apart as quickly as he could, only to reveal a soft cotton fabric that stuck to her skin, revealing the dark circle of her right nipple. The left nipple was hidden from his view by her dress, so he quickly stripped away all her unnecessary covering. Yes, both her nipples were darker than the surrounding flesh, both were pleasingly pointed and begging to be touched.

  He stroked his hands across them, luxuriating in her shirt's soft fabric, the smooth slope of the rising mounds. He was most interested in her breasts. Would they be insubstantial in the way of ghosts? Or have the hard, shell-like covering of a devil?

  Neither, he discovered as he slipped his hand beneath the soft cotton. Her breasts were warm and giving, and the nipples puckered beneath his touch. The only difference from a Chinese woman's was that these breasts were larger, fuller. Their weight was especially pleasing, and they were solid and large in his hand.

  He liked these foreign breasts.

  He abruptly stilled. What was he doing? Lingering over a foreign woman's teats? A helpless woman? He deliberately made his thoughts crude to shock himself out of his curiosity. This woman was repulsive, he lied to himself. He should be rushing through this task as quickly as possible.

  And so he did. He pulled off her gown only to find ruffled white pants beneath. Female silliness—and yet he enjoyed the sight. He could not see that well, however, and indeed, he forced himself not to look too closely. But he saw enough. A dark triangle of curls, darker than the hair on her head. Full hips that would be excellent for childbearing. And long, muscular legs that ended in well-formed feet.

  Very nicely formed feet, he realized. Not the deformed white lotuses Chinese women preferred, nor the heavier, darker feet of the Manchurian women of his own race, but pinkish white in color—as befit her rosy skin—and with tiny toes and a high arch.

  Here, once again, he had to stop himself from being ridiculous. What did he care about a foreign devil's feet? He finished his task, stripping her of all but her white underclothes before quickly wrapping her in his blanket. Fortunately, with the removal of her strange binding device, her breathing became strong and steady.

  He set her carefully atop the mare, which he darkened with mud and covered with his tattered bedroll. It caused a physical ache in his heart to blunt the creature's tail, but he could not allow the horse to seem well manicured in any way.

  After tossing the woman's clothing and saddle to the side of the road, he led her and her mare across the country, deciding to enter Shanghai via a different route—one that wouldn't hold servants looking for a lost foreign girl.

  His plan worked well. No guard questioned him, especially after he dropped a couple of coins into each man's hand. Better yet, the ghost girl roused long enough for Zou Tun to force a sleeping potion on her. She had not the strength to struggle, and she fell back and lay like the heavy sack of goods she was meant to appear.

  Yes, all went perfectly. It was easy enough to hand the woman over to the head servant of the famous Tigress Shi Po. Easy enough, as well, to convince Shi Po's first boy that this was a barbarian seeker who wished to study in secret with the greatest Tigress in China. A few more coins and the young barbarian woman was quietly secreted away. By the time she regained breath and voice enough to communicate, he would be long gone. And at that point, any whisperings of the truth—hoarse or otherwise—would cause him no damage. With luck, they would assume she had changed her mind about studying and was making up tales to cover her impetuous actions. Weren't the white devils all liars? And why would a Manchurian prince abduct a white woman just to hand her over to a Tigress? It made no sense, and so the girl would likely keep silent for fear of laughter. Especially if she was returned home with no more damage than a bruised throat.

  It was a feeble hope at best, but the only thing he could contrive at the moment. All that remained was for Zou Tun to deliver his message and the scrolls to Shi Po. Then he would return to Peking and to his part in the ruling of China.

  He settled himself to stillness in the Tigress's waiting hall. But as the day wore on and his patience wore thin, his spirit became ever sicker. Irritation ran like poison through his veins, and he paced like a caged tiger in the tiny chamber. But not because Shi Po absented herself. And not because a barbarian woman had delayed his plans. Other thoughts intruded upon his solitude, and even a monk's peaceful contemplation yielded nothing but hot fury blowing in and out of his mouth.

  It was time to return to Peking. He had this one last task to perform, and then he would return to his father's house. He would take off his monk's robes and kiss his mother's cheek. He would accept the tasks demanded of him by the emperor and would serve in a way that brought honor to his family name. He would do what was required of him by law and by honor. And he would think no more of full white breasts or bloodstained scrolls. He would not hear the screams of his brethren nor the chattering of a barbarian woman with uncanny intelligence. And he would not—ever—allow himself to be distracted from his life path.

  Yes, he would bring honor to his father and his family, as was his duty. After fulfilling this last promise to Abbot Tseng, he would return to Peking no matter how much his heart sank at the thought.

  He composed himself once again to await the Tigress Shi Po. Another hour passed. And then another hour. Servants brought him tea, and the sun dipped low in the sky. Soon he began to pace again, and to curse and wrestle with his thoughts more forcefully than any man against any tiger, male or female. And still he found no relief. No way to discharge his task. No way to call for the mistress of the house, a woman without the intelligence to understand that it was not her place to keep a man waiting—even one dressed as humbly as he.

  At last, Shi Po's husband appeared. The man—Mr. Tan Kui Yu—bowed deeply before Zou Tun, his large frame clumsy and yet no less earnest as he apologized for the delay. He had not been informed a guest waited.

  Zou Tun responded as politeness dictated, indicating that there had been no insult. Both men knew they awaited the Tigress Shi Po, and once again, Zou Tun ruminated on the folly of any religion conferring its highest honor upon a woman.

  "She studies night and day now," Mr. Tan murmured, and Zou Tun was surprised to hear a note of worry in his voice. Then the man frowned and scanned him from head to toe. "If you come to learn, I fear you will be disappointed. She will not teach another. Her own immortality consumes her now." Was there also a note of censure in the man's voice?

  "I fear I have been unclear, Mr. Tan," responded Zou Tun with barely concealed impatience. "I have brought a gift to the Tan family." He hesitated only a moment. During all his pacing, he had not thought to plan for this. It was an evil way to
bring such news to a family, disguising it as a gift. But such was the only way to avoid unwanted imperial notice.

  The Tigress religion was a bizarre, relatively harmless offshoot of the true path, though many in China believed it to be a deviation more perverse. And so Zou Tun steeled his emotions to silence as he drew a set of scrolls from his bag. The weight of the parchment felt triple what it should, but there was no help now for that. He reverently set the heavy scrolls before him on a low table. That such sacred texts should go to a bizarre religious sect bothered him. But he had promised the dying abbot that he would deliver these scrolls to the man's sister, and so he would do, even if the woman was leader of a strange cult. Besides, he thought with a shrug, better the texts remain in Tigress Shi Po's hands than in the Emperor's court.

  "This comes from far north. From your wife's brother, I believe."

  Mr. Tan's eyes widened as he saw the dark stains marring the parchment. Both men recognized blood. Mr. Tan's gaze landed heavily upon Zou Tun.

  "You bring evil tidings into my home," he said softly. To his credit there was no condemnation in his voice, merely sadness. Then he turned slowly, as if with an old man's aches. He used a muted hammer to strike a small gong. A liveried servant appeared, bowing almost to the floor.

  "Bring your mistress here," Mr. Tan said. "Tell her..." His voice trailed away as he gazed at Zou Tun's face. Specifically, at his long, straight, Manchurian nose. "Tell her we accept an imperial gift."

  The servant's eyes widened in shock, and Zou Tun again sighed. Twice now in one day someone had seen through his disguise. Twice now someone had looked past the dirt and his clothing to see what none other had guessed.

  "I am merely a poor monk," he said in a low, urgent voice.

  Mr. Tan bowed deeply to him. "Of course. Please allow me to call for some fresh tea."

  And in this way Zou Tun's protests were silenced, and the great Tigress Shi Po was summoned.

  In China, ladies did not often appear before men. But in this household—when the lady led an entire religion—some customs had to be relaxed. And so the two men waited, speaking little before a side door opened and a willowy form appeared behind an elaborately carved divider. It was a "modesty screen," and Zou Tun knew that the great Tigress stood on the other side.