Burning Tigress (52 page)

Anna closed her eyes, feeling trapped deep in the arteries of the beast named China. Soon, soon she could be gone. Out on the open sea, the wind fresh on her skin, the creak of the sails a loving accent to the rush of water beneath her feet. She didn't think beyond the boat, about where she would go after that. Her whole goal was to escape China.

She clutched her bundle of clothing tight to her chest and sidled up to a family of five, keeping beside a little girl with short black braids. She wanted to smile at the girl, but didn't dare expose more of her face. So she settled for a depressed shuffle near enough that an outsider would think she was one of their party—an aunt, probably.

Rubbing her chin lightly on her raised collar, she immediately regretted it. She didn't dare scrape the mud off her skin no matter how uncomfortable it felt. She'd long since learned to ignore any itch along her scalp. Under no circumstances could she reveal her hair. Skin could be darkened, clothing could hide large breasts and sturdy bones, but no amount of mud or dye could make curly brown hair look straight, Chinese black. Fortunately, most imperial soldiers grew bored after the first half hour of searching, and it was now well into the afternoon. The men would scan the crowd for a lone white woman, but they wouldn't look deeper. As long as she acted just like everyone else, she had a chance. No one would check her pockets for the pouch that hung heavy and hard against her sweating thigh. No one but she would smell the sickly sweet scent that she feared clung to her skin and stained her soul.

The little girl stumbled on a rock, and Anna instinctively reached down to catch her. But her back muscles were stiff from days of clenched terror, and her knees had swollen almost as much as her feet. She was too slow to prevent the worst of the fall. The girl dropped her doll and scraped both knees before Anna caught the child's coat. At least she could use her own body to block the continuing line of humanity that trudged doggedly forward. A man sidestepped around them, then planted one big fat foot right on the doll's stomach as he tramped forward. The child screamed in outrage, drawing the attention of both Mama and Papa, plus both brothers.

"Aie-yah!" gasped Mama as she quickly rushed forward. Anna stretched out and rescued the doll, but was unable to wipe the black footprint from the torn cotton dress. The little girl snatched the toy out of her hand and began wailing in earnest while Mama chided the child in rough Mandarin.

Then Anna made her mistake. She met Mama's eyes.

The gesture was what any stranger would do when passing off a distraught child. Women throughout the world smiled at each other, sharing understanding and sympathy in the shortest of glances. But just as nothing could hide the Caucasian nature of Anna's hair, nothing would make her light brown eyes black or shape them into lifted almonds beneath smooth black eyebrows. She was cursed with the thick brown eyebrows of her English ancestors, and the round, tending-to-wrinkles shape of her eyes.

Mama recoiled in horror, and her gasp caught Papa's attention as well. How much longer before the soldiers noticed the commotion?

Anna quickly dropped her gaze, already knowing it was too late. Moving with the quick reaction of long practice, she grabbed the woman's hand and dropped coins—God only knew how many—into the palm. Then she spoke rapidly in low Mandarin, mimicking the woman's accent as closely as possible.

"I am just a woman who is leaving your country. I go home. Let me please leave in peace. Please."

The woman was terrified. She grabbed her child and yanked her firmly backwards, away from Anna. The girl let out a louder squawk of alarm at the rough treatment while Anna closed her eyes and prayed.

Dear Jesus, sweet Mother Mary, help me!

"What's the matter?" Papa's rough voice cut in, his tone hard with accusation.

Anna kept her eyes closed and her head down, her thoughts still spinning with prayer.
Please, please let me go.
Then, without daring to breathe, she hunched a shoulder past the little family and tried to walk by. But the quarters were too tight, especially as the father grew suspicious. His hand was rough, his reach long as he grabbed Anna's arm. The cheap fabric tore where his fingers wrapped tight, and Anna clenched her jaw against a cry.

Mother Mary, Christ Jesus my savior...

The mother made her decision. She snapped out an angry retort, not to the white devil woman, but to her husband. "Carry this worthless daughter," she ordered her husband. "She dropped her doll."

Anna could feel the husband hesitate but she didn't dare turn her face to him. She kept her head down, her body hunched in real terror.

Christ Jesus...

Clearly impatient, the mother lifted her still-sobbing child and roughly shoved the girl at her husband. Papa was forced to release his hold on Anna while the child wrapped skinny arms around her father's neck. Anna wasted no time, moving ahead with as much speed as possible—which is to say she got nowhere. Only a few steps ahead, and then she was trapped again, moving with slow, dragging steps while her back prickled with awareness. She knew both Mama and Papa were looking at her with undisguised curiosity. Mama perhaps with greed, too.

Anna's danger increased the longer she remained within eyesight of the little family, and yet there was nothing she could do. She couldn't move ahead, but if she slowed enough to let others pass, the parents would begin to whisper. Then they would turn their heads around, constantly searching behind them for her. Who wouldn't notice that?

No, it was less conspicuous if Anna stayed ahead and let them stare at her back. Meanwhile, she kept up her silent prayers.

* * *

Tau Zhi-Gang felt his entire body thrum to the beat of the coolie chant. The words were simple—"put your shoulder to it"—but the
chor-chor
sound rose and fell with such power that Zhi-Gang's spirit ran after it in joy. Here was China, breathing with great lungs, its qi power soaring through the air while thousands of people toiled beneath its mighty demands. Sitting on a tilted sedan chair along the Grand Canal's bank, Zhi-Gang felt both humbled and enlightened. But most of all, he felt a dark, raw fury.

All through this canal, carried by boat, by human, by the very air, floated the poison of China: opium. Everyone from the highest imperial to the lowest peasant lusted after the gray-brown poison from the west. It hid in packed wads that looked like bad dirt and tasted even worse, but one by one, China's people succumbed to its false allure. Zhi-Gang sighed, his gaze wandering over the vague wash of color and shadow—all that his damaged eyes could discern. He couldn't see the white man's curse on China, but he knew it was there. He felt its presence as surely as he felt his own pulse. And as Enforcer, it was imperative that he find and end it—or it would be his own pulse that was abruptly ended. So said the emperor of China.

The guard beside him stiffened, and Zhi-Gang's attention sharpened. What did the man see? It was probably nothing. The guards were being especially vigilant as a way to impress Zhi-Gang. They did not know that Zhi-Gang's status with the Imperial Court had slipped somewhat of late. It did not matter. Appearances were important because appearance was all they had. In truth, not even the most clear-sighted of Chinese enforcers could see all the wads of brown dung opium that traveled the Grand Canal.

Zhi-Gang canted his gaze to his "servant," who was hovering just to his left. Feng Jing-Li stood close enough to be seen as more than a vague form. In truth, his body had color and definition, enough to read his closest friend's expression. "What do you see?" Zhi-Gang asked, as if he were testing the man.

Jing-Li responded in a low mutter: "A woman who looks... different."

"How?"

"She walks hunched as a woman ought, and yet her steps have purpose. Her clothing is worn, not tattered; the style old but well cared for." He paused, and Zhi-Gang felt a tightening in his friend's focus. "I do not see a companion."

"Is she fleeing?"

"Perhaps. A husband and wife quarrel over her while she presses ahead."

"Interesting."

His friend nodded, then pitched his voice louder and in a tone appropriate to a servant. "Honored sir, our boat is ready. They are prepared for your esteemed presence."

Zhi-Gang flashed a grimace at his friend. Jing-Li's warning was well placed. They were not truly here on an inspection tour for the Empress Dowager. Certain appearances were important, such as standing high upon an embankment to frown at the crowd beneath. China's rulers liked it when the masses saw their enforcers. Certain other appearances—such as performing an actual investigation—were not only unnecessary but counterproductive as well. Sitting on the Grand Canal was not really an effective way of finding opium.

Zhi-Gang sighed, then impulsively reached for the secret pouch on the inside of his jacket. Beside him, Jing-Li visibly paled.

"Honored sir, I fear the air is inconvenient to your health." His voice took on a more alarmed tone. "You appear faint!" Jing-Li lurched forward, one hand placed strongly upon Zhi-Gang's back while the other gripped his arm.

Zhi-Gang froze, his hand wrapped around the heavy wood case that always rested against his chest. "Really...," he began, but Jing-Li's grip tightened even further. The message was clear: do not use the secret object. Not in so open a location.

"It is harmless," Zhi-Gang whispered.

"Nothing from the West is harmless," his friend snapped.

True enough. Zhi-Gang relented with a sigh. They were, after all, on an embankment overlooking thousands of Chinese peasants. He had no wish to start a riot by using a Western implement.

He returned the case to its hiding place. "I feel much better," he said coldly to his servant. Jing-Li had no choice but to bow and withdraw. Then Zhi-Gang turned his attention to the guard. "Bring me the unusual woman," he snapped.

The guard was startled; his attention long since slipped to something else, but he leapt forward to do as he was bid anyway. Of course, he had no idea which unusual woman the Imperial Enforcer meant. And so Zhi-Gang waited, his attention and his sense of humor focused on Jing-Li. Would his friend relent and help the guard? Or would he remain stiffly remote and allow the guard to suffer and probably bring in whichever hapless woman first crossed his path?

Jing-Li cursed just loud enough for Zhi-Gang to hear. Something about obscenely swollen testicles, then he pointed angrily at the crowd. The guard nodded and dashed away. Zhi-Gang barely restrained his smirk. Then he relaxed back against his hard bamboo seat and enjoyed his friend's annoyance. He'd almost forgotten the woman by the time the guard returned, dragging the poor thing forward and throwing her down at his feet.

He leaned forward. She was at the edge of his vision. He could see a dark tunic and bowed head. Her hands were long and unusually large where they landed on the rocky ground, but he really couldn't see much more than that. With an internal curse, he drew on his other senses. He heard her breath as it rushed in and out in frightened gasps. He smelled her scent—both sweet and sour. Most of all, he felt her qi: the intangible force of energy that invested all life. He touched it with his mind, allowing himself to steep in her crystalline light. He felt the sweetness of a woman with a flexible strength beneath, that skeleton of will that was softer than a man's and yet so much more alive. He smiled to know that she was one who would survive where others would fall.

But then the energy shifted. His intent had been to
know
her, and he believed he had. And yet, the moment he touched her energy it shivered away from him, it covered itself in layers of coldlike dirty snow and then turned on him. He felt his own energy change. He had no understanding of what or how; it happened too fast. He only comprehended that the transformation was core-deep and had the echo of immortality within it.

Zhi-Gang reared back in horror, certain truths imbedding themselves in his thoughts. He knew then that this woman—this shaking, terrified thing at his feet—had the power to change everything at the most fundamental level. He didn't understand how he knew this, only that it was true. She could change his life.

And she was white.

He couldn't see her face, didn't know anything beyond what Jing-Li had said. But wise men did not question qi knowledge. And so he responded without thought.

"Kill her," he snapped. Then he remained stone-faced while beside him, Jing-Li gasped in shock. The guard nodded once, then drew his sword. But his attention remained on the woman as her head reared up in shocked horror. He saw her lips open on a cry, and her eyes shimmered with tears.

"Why?" she cried in Mandarin. She scrambled forward on her knees only to have the guard grab her tunic and hold her fast with a knee pressed hard into her back. She was pinned to the ground. Her face hit the rocky dirt and something cut her chin. Zhi-Gang saw the faintest edge of red well up as her blood began to soak into the ground. And still she spoke, her eyes desperate with shock and confusion. "Why?" she repeated. "I have done nothing!"

There were other sounds, too. Jing-Li was speaking in a low urgent tone. Zhi-Gang did not hear the words, but he knew the meaning. The Emperor had just been incarcerated by his mother. Zhi-Gang was the Emperor's Enforcer and therefore someone fully allied with the son and not the mother. Jing-Li was reminding him they could not afford any extra attention.

Yes, a murder along the Grand Canal would certainly create attention. Even if they pretended her death was an official punishment, they had hundreds of witnesses within a quarter li. The local magistrate would need a report, the body would need to be disposed of and Zhi-Gang's trip would be delayed by a day at least.