White Tigress (49 page)

Chapter 1

Shanghai, 1898

She knew!

The white woman knew the way to Heaven! Shi Po pounded down the stairs to the front hallway, her bound feet protesting every stunned, angry, awed and gleeful step. She had no idea how she could feel all those things at once, especially since she had felt nothing for so many years. But she did. And her feet protested, pain forcing her to soften her steps.

In any case, it would be suicide to enter a general's presence appearing anything other than vapidly stupid, so Shi Po moderated her pace and pasted on her face an expression of ox-like placidity. She would appear as any wealthy woman in China: a useless thing of beauty. The servants handed her a tea tray, and she was soon pushing into the receiving room while struggling to quiet her spirit.

The General was an ugly man. That was her first thought. Not ugly in a physical sense, but in his fortune. His body was handsome enough, she supposed. His shoulders were broad and imposing, especially with his leather armor; his Manchu queue was dark and thick, the tight braid clubbed close to his head. But his face revealed the ugliness of bad fortune. His head was short and compact, depicting little luck, except for his chin which was long and pointed, suggesting a happier old age. His earlobes were also long and full, but Shi Po did not trust that. She guessed that his mother had tugged incessantly at his ears to counteract the fortune in his face.

The most damning evidence of all, though, was not in his body, but in the stench that pervaded the room. Horse and man and Shanghai mud produced a commonplace odor, a thick and sour stench that burned the back of one's nostrils. But all men in Shanghai carried that particular curse to some degree. It was the other smell that made Shi Po duck her head and wish for her perfumed oils. He carried the decay-like scent of fear covered by anger. And the smell of old blood.

This man was a killer. Not just a general of the Imperial Qin army, but a murderer of innocents. Of that she was certain.

"Tea, your honor," she said as she minced through the room. "To pass the time until my husband returns." She wished she'd had time to change out of her red skirt with the fashionable slits up to mid-thigh; she had no desire to display herself before this man. But perhaps the garb would help her appear completely useless.

One look at the General's thickly compressed eyebrows damped Shi Po's hopes. He saw through her feigned stupidity. And even if he didn't, this man disposed of useless, silly things. Of course, that did not stop the man from studying her face and body closely. Lust twisted his features as his gaze traveled from her high knot of black hair across features that she knew appeared extraordinarily young. Though she was nearing her fortieth year, her skin was milky white and her eyes and lips were expertly painted to appear lush. Her bones had always been fine, but her Tigress practice made her entire body lithe and willowy. Youth and beauty were a natural by-product of that practice. All her students drew the eye as they moved, Shi Po most of all. So she remained as still as she could, even though it hurt her tiny bound feet.

"You are Tan Shi Po?" he demanded in his northern Mandarin dialect.

She dipped in a respectful bow, answering in kind, though the language was difficult for her, Shanghai-born as she was. "Yes, your honor."

"When will your husband return?"

"He was sent for the moment you arrived." She folded her body onto a pillow near a low table.

All the cushions in Shi Po's home were scented with soothing, pleasant herbs, and the one she settled on was no different. So as she leaned forward to mix leaves and hot water in the General's cup, she should have inhaled the sweet scent of radish seed and cinnamon, ci shi and sandalwood. She didn't. Instead, she smelled the same vile mixture of fear and anger, rising like steam from her own skin.

She hated that women must serve as mirrors to men, reflecting their emotions. Women in the Empire had no voice of their own. They did as they were told, hiding their true selves or risking abuse and death. Even Shi Po as head Tigress—
especially
Shi Po—had to appear subservient. But there was power in submission, especially when one became a mirror. When one showed a man what he wanted to see most of all: himself. His emotions and desires. Shi Po had perfected that skill to the point of unconscious reaction. She reflected all around her whether she willed it or not. So when the General showed fear, she shared it with him. His anger sparked her rage. And no amount of tea or sweet herbs could cover the disgusting fumes that now rose from both of their bodies.

Shi Po poured the General's tea, her hands steady through an act of will. But all the while her thoughts writhed in her mind, searching for escape. Where was her husband? Surely he would be found soon. Kui Yu would not disregard an Imperial summons, especially when it came in the form of the most powerful general in China. He would be here soon, she reassured herself, and with his return, she could regain her calm. She would absorb her husband's quietness; her fear would fade, the rage dissipate, and she would be in balance again. As soon as Kui Yu returned.

"Might I know how to best serve your honor?" she simpered to the General, forcing herself into the aspect of total feminine subservience.

The man sipped his tea and grimaced before setting it aside. She had chosen tea leaves to purify and soothe, but he pushed his cup away. Clearly his spirit had no desire to moderate its temper. She bowed her head, softening her body in an attempt to distort the mirror she was; she did not want to increase her reflection of his foul aspect.

His harsh words interrupted her thoughts. "You are Tan Shi Po, sister to the traitor Abbot Tseng Rui Po."

She flinched, unable to keep a surge of blood from heating her face. Fortunately, she was able to shift her attitude to wounded confusion, as if he had just hurt a helpless animal.

"Why would you say such a thing?" she whispered.

"Because it is true." His tone was hard as hurled stone. "And he has paid for his crimes. He and all his so-called monks."

She Po already knew her brother was dead. The last of his students—a Manchurian—had brought the evil news some days ago. Along with a white girl.
The
white girl. The two had already managed to sow discord in her quiet little school. But Shi Po could not allow the General to know that, so she raised stricken eyes to him.

"Paid?" she gasped. "How...?" She swallowed, making sure her voice remained breathy. "Please, sir, what were his crimes? And how... how did he pay?"

The General leaned forward, using his superior height to intimidate. In this, however, he failed, because the angle gave Shi Po a good view of the thin space between his upper lip and his nose. Indeed, this man was doomed by fortune, and that thought alone heartened her.

"Your brother trained rebels of the White Lotus Society. He and all his misguided followers have been executed for their foolishness." The General slowed his words for maximum effect, and Shi Po found her gaze pulled from his thin lip to his piercing eyes. "All are dead save one student. One man spared to pass the warning." He pushed loudly to his feet. "You know where this man is, Tan Shi Po. And you will take me to him. Now."

Such was the power of the General's spirit that Shi Po found herself rising. But she was a mirror; as his strength increased, so did her own.

"I know nothing of this," she lied. "Are you sure? Abbot Tseng of the Shiyu monastery?"

The General would have none of it. His hand was huge, the pressure intense where he gripped her arm, lifting Shi Po to her feet. His leg knocked the table, spilling his tea onto the ancient wood floor. He ignored it, focused on her.

"One monk. Carrying sacred scrolls. He came to you." Though he spoke it as fact, Shi Po felt a quiver of doubt through the General's hand. The man was guessing, hoping he was correct.

Which, of course, he was.

She shook her head, pretending to be stunned by her brother's death. "Rui Po!" she wailed, tears flowing like a river as would be expected from a woman at any relative's death. Indeed, over the years she had perfected the skill of crying on demand. But this time Shi Po's grief was real, the pain of her brother's death still fresh.

The General dismissed her with a grunt. "I will search your home now."

"But why?" she gasped through her tears. "I know nothing of your monk."

He turned, his eyes on fire, the stench of his fear keeping her on her knees. "Because he
is my
monk, Tigress Shi Po."

Shi Po barely registered the words. Her gaze, her mind—indeed, her entire spirit—was caught by the vision of the General's body in profile. A light reflected up from the polished floor, or maybe a similarity in gesture, revealed the secret. Both men were Manchu, after all. Both were warriors, for all that one was a monk. Whatever the cause, the truth burst into her mind:

"You are his
father,"
she said.

And in that moment, all changed. Days before, Shi Po had accepted the truth-seeker into her home, the monk with political connections who needed time to recover from the massacre of his entire monastery. The monk, who had brought news of her brother. Now Shi Po knew she was keeping a father from his son—a sin punishable by death.

She rose to her feet, balancing precariously on her tiny heels as she wiped away her tears. The General was silent, his fury betrayed by clenched fists. "You know nothing about my son," he said with a growl. "Do not presume to understand your betters, Han sorceress."

Shi Po's gaze dropped to the floor, only now remembering he had called her by her title.
Tigress,
he had said. He knew who she was, what she was, and so cursed her as a sorceress. At least that was better than being called a whore.

"I merely guess, my lord." Her words grew softer, full of feminine modesty. "Only a father could claim a monk as his own."

"And only the unnatural leader of a twisted religion would dare deny me," he replied.

She had not denied him anything—yet. The insults to her calling she credited as noise from a monkey's mouth. And yet, her problem remained: She sheltered General Kang's son. Part of her longed to turn the boy over for bringing this trouble to her home.

"My house," she said, "is open to you. All except the women's quarters." She looked up, but kept herself blank, trying to stop reflecting his venom. "You are a powerful man in form and spirit. I cannot risk the chaos your presence would have on the delicate ladies of my household."

"You mean the misguided whores of your perverse religion."

She said nothing. Indeed, if he knew enough to call her a Tigress, then he knew enough to be enlightened if he chose. Obviously, he did not. She had no choice but to accept his condemnation, for such was the lot of all women in China, whether Manchurian or Han.

He continued to glare at her, his eyes narrowed in his pinched face. "I have no interest in your women. My son would not contaminate himself with the likes of you."

How she wished to tell the General the truth. Not only was his son contaminating himself with the Tigress "perversions," he did so with a white woman. But saying such a thing would be to hand the General a torch to burn her house to the ground—with herself and her followers all inside. So she remained silent, moving slowly forward and exaggerating the difficulty of walking on bound feet.

She led him through the main house, pausing only as the General motioned for six soldiers to accompany them. She remained gracious throughout, for that was a woman's duty. Even as the soldiers pushed aside large urns of rice or banged through the pots. They disturbed cats and servants, dragged aside tapestries and furniture. And they found nothing, of course, even though they dug their filthy hands deep into sacks of vegetables and piles of linens.

He was kind in that his men were careful. But Shi Po's sense of violation increased as the General's men pulled up floorboards looking for secret caches and poured water onto stone floors looking for hidden pits. Her entire home was disrupted, and she could do nothing but stand aside and watch.

Until she heard a scream. It came from the women's quarters: the building where her students practiced; the place of many bedrooms, including the one that sheltered the General's son and his white partner.