Authors: Mary Jo Putney
"A lion dance? Let's go out later and watch." Kyle unwound the bandage from his head with practiced hands. She always loved the moment when he went from being grandfather to lover.
Her
lover.
She bit her lip, considering. "We should avoid public events. The festival will have drinking and rowdiness."
"I have faith in your ability to protect me." He removed the wig and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'd really like to see a festival. During Chinese New Year I kept looking out toward Canton and wishing I could join the celebrations."
She gave him a long, slow smile. "Persuade me."
"And what form should that persuasion take, my shameless one?" Eyes gleaming, he crossed the small room in two strides and scooped her into his arms. "Do you want to be ravished?"
She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Oh, please!" He had her tunic off before they reached the bed, and her trousers went flying moments later. How very deft he was, she thought breathlessly as he dedicated himself to a thorough ravishing. Sometimes she wanted to ask him if such fierce pleasure was normal between two people, but she didn't dare. She wanted to think that this was special, and that when they came together she was the only woman in his world as he was the only man in hers.
The only man in the world… Shuddering, she buried her hands in his hair and traded thought for rapture.
They dozed after making love, coming awake when a string of firecrackers exploded in the street just outside their window. Troth stirred in Kyle's arms, saying sleepily, "We can eat from our saddlebags. Then I can ravish you."
"What a wonderful offer." Kyle kissed the exquisite curve of her shoulder lingeringly, tempted to agree. Instead, he swung from the bed. "But I'm hungry, this is the only festival I'll see, and I can perfectly well be ravished later."
Suppressing a yawn, she rose and pulled on her clothes. "What an indefatigable tourist you are, my lord."
"Guilty," he said with a chuckle as he watched her dress. He didn't bandage his eyes until every lovely inch of her was covered. It was powerfully erotic to be the only one who knew the beauty concealed by her shapeless garments.
He wondered for the thousandth time if he should ask her to be his mistress back in England, but the answer was always the same. She was a lover beyond compare, as witty and kind as she was passionate, but as his mistress she'd once more be relegated to a half-life, barred from polite society. She deserved better than that—not only respect, but also the opportunity to meet a man who would love her as she deserved. What would it have been like if he'd met her before he'd met Constancia?
The thought was so disorienting that he suppressed it. Constancia had molded him into the man he was now. Without her influence, he wouldn't have been worth knowing, She had taught him to love—then taken his heart with her when she died.
It was the only ill turn she'd ever served him.
Troth swallowed the last bite of her honey roll, glad Kyle had persuaded her to come out. The streets crackled with merriment, lanterns lighting the night, peddlers selling delicious tidbits, and old men gambling in corners with their cronies. A fortune-teller tugged at her sleeve. "Tell your fortune, young man? Wealth and pretty concubines surely await you." Troth shook her head. "Sorry, Grandmother, I'd rather not know what the future holds." Which was the truth, she thought wryly.
Taking a firm hold on Kyle's arm, she continued on until they reached a puppet theater. No language was required to appreciate the farcical story of honorable men, beautiful women, and evil sorcerers. She was impressed by Kyle's ability to keep his head bent feebly while drinking in every detail through the layer of gauze.
The show ended and she dropped a coin into the basket carried around by a small daughter of the troupe. Moving on, she bought two tiny cups of rice wine from a vendor, who dipped the fiery spirit from a deep jar with a lacquered ladle. Kyle was so taken with the ladle that he signaled for another cup even though the first one left him gasping. Troth grinned; rice wine was closer to brandy than to European wines.
The thunder of drums began reverberating through the narrow streets.
"The parade! Come, Grandfather, so we can find a spot to watch." Ruthlessly using Kyle's apparent age, she managed to get them a good vantage point. First the drummers marched by, booming in perfect unison. Then dancers capered past in flamboyant costumes. A group of black-robed Manchu Bannermen, the imperial soldiers, passed, and then the prefect himself in a sedan chair.
Dressed in brilliantly embroidered robes and surrounded by his entourage, Wu Chong nodded graciously to the people of his city. His eyes were snake cold, though; Troth didn't envy the wives who had failed to give him the son he wanted.
Pipes, drums, and cymbals heralded the appearance of the lion dancers. Troth caught her breath, excited as a child when the huge lion leaped into view, firecrackers banging around its feet, the brilliantly painted head snapping at masked dancers who teased the beast with fans. The costume cloaked two acrobats, and their feats turned the beast into a creature of dangerous legend as the crowd roared with delight. She watched with one hand locked in Kyle's, glad the crowd was so thick that no one would notice. When the lion had passed, they joined the throng that followed it to the main city square. Under exploding fireworks, the prefect paid the lion dancers by tying a red bag full of money at the top of a tall pole. The lion reared up, lunging repeatedly until the lead dancer snatched the bag. The crowd cheered wildly, then broke into smaller groups to continue celebrating throughout the night.
Tired but exhilarated, Troth took Kyle's arm and headed toward the inn. Luckily, she still had enough energy to ravish him…
Disaster struck with lightning swiftness. They were a block from the inn when a group of drunken carousers approached from the other direction. Troth drew Kyle to one side of the street. From the tautness of his arm, she knew he was alert to possible danger. Shouting and singing, most of the group had passed when one drunk shoved another, sending the second man stumbling into Kyle.
"S-sorry, Grandfather." One of the drunk's thrashing hands became entangled in Kyle's queue. As he lurched away, the wig ripped from Kyle's head, along with the hat and some of the gauze bandages. As Troth gasped in horror, the drunk stared stupidly at the swinging wig. Then he raised his gaze, his jaw dropping as he recognized the alien cast of the features that had been partially revealed. "A
Fan-qui
spy!" As his friends turned and crowded around, the drunk clawed at the disordered bandages. Kyle tried to twist away, but in the process more bandages were dislodged, clearly revealing his European face. There was a hiss of shock before one of the drunks snarled, "Filthy foreign pig!"
"
Fan-qui! Fan-qui
!" The gang lurched forward in an attack. Using fierce street-fighting blows, Kyle knocked three men down while Troth took care of three more with
wing chun
. Catching her glance, he snapped, "Come on!"
Together they raced down the street. She cried out as a stone punched her between the shoulder blades, and she saw two missiles strike Kyle. They swerved into a narrow, trash-strewn alley as the drunks came in pursuit, baying like killer hounds.
A left turn, a right, another right. Heads popped from windows as people looked out at the commotion. Kyle might have been able to escape notice under other circumstances, but not with bellows of "
Fan-qui
!" echoing through the narrow alleys.
Drums began to beat, and Troth realized with despair that the soldiers who'd marched in the parade had been pressed into the manhunt. They swerved into another heavily shadowed alley, stumbling through the dark and debris only to find that it was a dead end, blocked by a squat old house. Gasping for breath, Troth panted, "That roof is low. We can go over."
"No." Chest heaving, Kyle stopped beside her. "With the whole city searching, there's no way I can escape—I'm too blatantly foreign. They'll lock the city gates until they find me. The only reason for running was to get you away."
She grabbed at his waist, frantic to find the pistol he carried. "You're armed. We can still escape!"
"A few bullets are no help against a mob, so there's no point in killing. Now go!"
"I won't leave you!"
"You damned well
will
!" A shout rose from the far end of the alley. Before she could protest again, he gave her one swift, hard kiss, then caught her around the knees and tossed her up so that she was within grabbing distance of the lowest tiled roof. "Get the hell out of here! You'll have to get back to Canton to arrange my release. The viceroy will love the loss of face this will cost the Europeans, but I'll be all right."
"B-be
careful
!" Recognizing that he was right but hating to leave him, she scrabbled onto the tiles and over the ridgepole, then flattened herself on the far side of the roof and watched. Despite his optimistic words, there was a real chance that he'd be torn to pieces by the mob, and she knew that he recognized the danger. If he was assaulted, she'd be back over the roof and fighting by his side.
Heart pounding, she watched as he approached his pursuers with amazing calm, his hands raised in the air to show that he had no weapons. The first man to arrive struck him in the face, and Troth almost vaulted over the ridgepole. Before she could do so, a Manchu army officer in a spiked helmet slapped the assailant away from Kyle, barking that the
Fan-qui
spy must be taken to the prefect's palace for questioning. In the face of his commanding presence, the drunks fell back, leaving the
Fan-qui
to the soldiers.
Dizzy with relief, Troth watched as Kyle straightened to his full height, towering over the Chinese around him. Impassively he allowed them to tie his wrists behind his back. Gods be thanked, he'd survived the capture without serious injury. Though being caught so far inland would cause a diplomatic incident, it would be minor compared to some of the other conflicts between the Celestial Kingdom and the
Fan-qui
. As Kyle was led away, a gruff military voice said, "The man who was with him must be around here somewhere. Tall fellow."
"Another
Fan-qui
?" someone asked.
"I think so. Looked too tall for one of us."
"Must have turned off at one of the other alleys or gone over the roofs, but we'll find him," the military voice said. "You two, climb up and look around."
Hastily Troth slid down her side of the roof and swung lightly to the ground, then darted into the maze of alleys. Since the searchers were looking for another European, she was safe. She'd make a quick stop at the inn and collect their more useful supplies, including a change of clothing. The rest must be abandoned—the manhunt would soon trace Kyle's movements. Sheng would also have to be left to the innkeeper, since she couldn't go into hiding with a donkey.
She'd stay the next day or so in Feng-tang until she learned the prefect's plan for Kyle. Probably in the morning it would be announced that an evil
Fan-qui
spy had invaded the city, but the imperial servants had bravely protected the honorable citizens. There was a good chance that Wu Chong would send his prisoner to the viceroy in Canton. If so, Kyle should be fine. He might reach the city before she did, and in more comfort.
But as Troth lost herself in the alleys and excited crowds, she couldn't suppress her gut-wrenching fear.
Kyle was taken directly to the prefect's yamen. The palace entrance was garishly lit by festival torches. Yanked so hard that he frequently stumbled since his arms weren't free for balance, he was marched through a series of marble-floored halls.
Outside the audience chamber, he was searched with rough efficiency, losing his pistol, knife, and the small pouch of high-denomination coins he carried. He guessed that the well-made European handgun would be presented to the prefect, but had cynical doubts about the money going any farther than the Manchu officer.
Inside the chamber, Wu Chong waited in a carved throne, his dark eyes glittering in the lamplight. A wiry man with gray-streaked mustaches, he waited in icy silence as one of the guards shoved Kyle so hard that he fell to his knees.
"Kowtow!" the guard ordered.
It was one of the few Chinese words Kyle recognized. Diplomatic relations between Chinese emperors and Western diplomats had foundered over the fact that Europeans found it humiliating to bow down and knock their heads on the floor before a Chinese official. However, Troth had explained that kowtowing was merely a mark of respect, no different from bowing before the king of England, so Kyle pragmatically bent forward and touched his forehead to the cool marble three times.
Having satisfied protocol, he was yanked upright by two guards, their grips wrenching his arm sockets. Stoically he stood before the prefect as an aide yammered at him in incomprehensible Chinese. He might as well be deaf and dumb for all he understood. Thank God Troth had escaped. She could have translated, but he suspected that as a Chinese she would be treated far worse than he would be.