Authors: Katy Moran
Swiftarrow did not reply. What was the use in swearing an oath he could not keep?
I
climb the earthen rampart that loops around the Chief Moneyer’s hall, crouching low. There’s a smell of stale oiled silk and spices: the moneyer likes fine things and has spiced cinnabar-paste rubbed into the carved window-lattices so that the air within is always scented. I long for the wide-open freshness of the Horse Tribe ridings, but I must not think about what I cannot have, or I will forget my task. It is my first, so I want to do it well.
Go to the House of Golden Butterflies,
Autumn Moon told me at dawn.
Seek out the courtesan White Swan. Last night she danced for the Persian ambassador, and the Empress wants to know what he said to her, addled by drink and beauty. She suspects he doesn’t speak of his king’s true intentions at court.
Me?
I said.
I am to go?
Autumn Moon smiled, but her eyes were shadowed.
You are ready, little Shaolin.
I suppose she must make the best of what she has got now Swiftarrow is gone.
The Entertainment Ward spreads out below me, teeming with folk. They are like maggots swarming through old meat. Chang’an may be my prison, but I will never grow tired of watching it. I stand in the shadows a moment, gathering my wits. I’ve never been in this part of the ward before, and if I’m not to get lost I must keep my mind on the way.
I wonder if I will see him: Swiftarrow. Or has he left the city altogether?
In the market, they say that Lord Fang has gone mad with grief and rage,
Eighth Daughter whispered at me as we broke our fast this morning.
The jackass-merchant told the fish-trader that Lord Fang plays music each night to Lady Fang’s corpse hoping that she will get up and dance with him. And there is a reward of a thousand coins for anyone who can deliver Swiftarrow to the guard, and Lord Fang has sworn to cut his throat when he is found!
Red Falcon told her not to pass on such witless gossip, and Eighth Daughter started to cry.
But I am afraid for him,
she cried.
Do not be, child,
Red Falcon said, patting her on the shoulder.
Swiftarrow will look to his own safety. I just hope he has found some peace.
I must put him from my mind and think about what Autumn Moon has asked me to do.
Keep your mind on the task.
* * *
I’m in the market now. In Chang’an, I can hardly take two steps without finding myself among another throng of stalls selling all manner of stuff – bales of low-grade silk, cook-pots, lamp-oil, sacks of ground wheat-flour and jars of wine. I weave past a crowd gathered at a dumpling-stall. Then there’s a fortune-teller on his stool next to a man selling live eels in buckets. But none of this is what I seek. I’m getting closer, though. The air grows heavy with the scent of many perfumes mingling on the wind. I cannot be far from the House of Golden Butterflies now, jewel of the Entertainment Ward, home to the Flowers of the T ’ang.
I dodge a greasy peddler selling oil from a vat hanging around his neck and walk quickly north, keeping to the side of the road near the ditch, close to the line of cherry trees planted by some long-dead emperor as a gift to the people of Chang’an. I have never seen a courtesan at close hand before, only glimpsed them being handed out of palanquins at the gates of the Daming Palace or seen a flutter of bright silk melting into a dark doorway. I’d feel safer if only my wolf-guide were here at my side, but I’m afraid he really is gone for good. Yesterday, I tried to leave my body and let my spirit fly above Chang’an so that I could see how to reach the Entertainment Ward, but I could not do it.
I can’t worry about that now, either. I must be mindful of my task, or I will fail.
Running along in the shadows behind a row of stalls, I come to a high earthen wall. There are peach trees here, and late-flowering peony bushes breathing out their scent, just as Eighth Daughter had told me there would be. I pass the gate, not missing the two guardsmen posted on the other side: I can’t see them, but I hear their heartbeats so I know they are here, even though both are dozing now in the late-afternoon sun. I shall leave them in peace: it is not my plan to enter the House of Golden Butterflies by the door with the guards’ blessing. No: I come from the Temple of the Forbidden Garden, so I come in secret.
Stepping swiftly behind a peach tree, I crouch at the base of the wall, looking up. It’s not far to climb, no higher than the peach tree itself. The tail-end of the summer was glaring hot; the packed mud has cracked and not been repaired. Good for footholds, but too dusty, too dangerous. The last thing I want is to bring the whole wall down on top of me. That’s no way to gain an audience with White Swan – though what I’m to do when I find her, I’ve no idea. Eighth Daughter is full of amazement about how much T ’ang she is able to stuff into my head with each day that passes – but there are still so many words I do not know. How am I to talk with White Swan?
Up the peach tree I go, and I can look down on the market stalls now. The women keeping them are talking idly over their shoulders, always with one eye on their wares. Thieves are many in Chang’an: I saw one beaten by the Gold Bird Guard in the East Ward not long ago. If I’m spotted slithering up this tree and over the wall, I’ll be taken for a thief myself. But I’ll not be seen: Autumn Moon has taught me how to move even softer, even more shadow-like than I could before.
I heave myself up to a higher branch, the highest one that can bear my weight: I feel it bounce like a bowstring. The wall’s top is just out of arm’s reach. I must leap for it and pray to Mother Earth I do not go tumbling down, for I would land right on the flour-seller, who is now scratching her head. Very likely she has lice.
I stand, clutching the top of the trunk. Peach-bark digs through the soles of my thin sandals.
Don’t look down.
I steady myself.
There is only the wall, nowhere else to land.
I leap. Yes! I land in a crouch, fingers digging into sandy, hard-packed mud. I hear rushing water and look down on a small stream winding through a grove of bamboo: the House of Golden Butterflies has a garden close on as fair as the palace’s. But there’s no time to linger.
Now I’m within the main courtyard. I see a hall half hidden by a shrine and a stand of mulberry trees.
Oh! There’s someone—
A girl younger than me with hair cut straight across her forehead stands halfway up a frame of lashed-together bamboo, stripping mulberry leaves to feed the silkworms.
Don’t look at me, girl; I’m not here.
I must move. Sooner or later, some quick-eyed person will spot me, and I shall have failed my first task. Keeping close to the rustling forest of bamboo, I run up to the hall. Windows, windows, all latticed, screened with oiled silk. The one I want is slightly ajar. Taking care to breathe slow and steady as Autumn Moon has taught me, I creep closer and run my hands over the wooden window-hinge. It will either stick or creak, or both, if I open the window any wider. But I’m ready. I reach for the bag at my belt and dig my fingers inside, pulling out the small clay flask of hemp-oil Autumn Moon gave me. I didn’t know the words to ask her what it was for, but now I see, and I silently thank her. Standing on the tips of my toes, I oil first the topmost hinge, then the bottom one.
Ah—
Someone is within. The door clicks shut, someone breathes softly; silk rustles as they move. A rich, warm scent drifts out at me: cloves and herbs and peonies in full flower. I hear a hollow clink – the lid of a clay pot being lifted and set down again – and a woman humming to herself.
Gently, gently, I rise up and peer over the window ledge into the chamber. The woman sits facing away from me. She reaches up, pulling combs from her hair till it hangs down her back in a smooth black curtain. The sleeves of her sky-blue robe are so wide they brush the floor. The warm, heady smell of cloves and peonies grows stronger whenever she moves. The breath catches in my throat. Is this her? Is this the famed White Swan?
I touch the window-lattice lightly with one finger; it swings open wider, soundless. Now I must be soundless, too. I listen to the drumming of my heart and breathe deep, slowing the beat as Autumn Moon taught me.
What’s to be afraid of? Easy, Asena, easy.
Leaning on the windowsill, I push down, leaping up light, and now I’m in, crouching on the floor. The woman’s back is still turned, but I hear footsteps: someone else is coming. A maidservant?
There’s a wooden chest three paces away from me.
Don’t turn around, courtesan, whoever you are.
I duck behind the chest; it smells of cedar trees. Now even if she turns around, I shan’t be seen.
Are you White Swan,
I wonder,
or some other Golden Butterfly using her chamber?
I hear footfalls coming closer. The woman sits still on her stool, waiting. The stool is carved of dark wood, inlaid with the pale green stones they call jade.
A girl comes in wearing a plain white robe: some kind of maidservant. The woman looks up, hair rippling down her back, and they speak so fast I can’t follow. The maid does say “my lady White Swan” though, so at least I know I’m in the right place.
Yes! I have done it.
All I’ve to do now is wait. The maid bows her head and takes up a comb. Oh, I pray she is not about to start weaving one of those great towering piles of coiled hair rich women wear. I will be trapped here till I’m frozen with cramp. Autumn Moon is the child of a nobleman, and she told Eighth Daughter and me that her mother would spend half a day having her hair twisted, woven and stuck with pins. Autumn Moon jokes that it is why she took her vows and joined the Shaolin, for now she has no hair at all—
What was that?
A silvery flash of light near the woman’s left shoulder.
There it is again.
The maid goes on with her task as if nothing has happened.
It is a spirit-horse.
Very faint, she is, barely there: a shadow. But all the same, White Swan has a spirit-horse. So Horse Tribe blood flows through her veins, too. This is why Autumn Moon sent me.
And what is
that
? Did I just see the faintest golden shimmer at her shoulder, like a newly kindled flame? It’s gone. I stare. I am weary from waking each day before dawn to meditate in the hall, my belly hollow as a nutshell because the Shaolin never eat past noon; my eyes are tired. I am seeing what is not there.
My thighs start to ache, crouching in such a way, but I must not move: if I make the slightest sound, they’ll hear me. All it will take is that maidservant checking behind this chest for a bamboo-rat and I shall have betrayed myself.
White Swan’s spirit-horse moves again: I make out the curve of her withers, the flash of a tail. All of a sudden, she steps forward, leaping away from White Swan, just a silvery shadow in the air like a splash of falling water.
White Swan’s spirit-horse has seen mine. No, no: I am not here
. But it’s too late. White Swan sits very still and stops her flow of talk with the maid, holding up one slim, pale hand. Her spirit-horse skitters back to her side, and I sense its confusion. It’s sure there was another spirit-horse here, but now I’ve drawn mine in close to my body, and I think of nothing, only deep, soft blackness as Autumn Moon taught me.
“Go,” White Swan says to the girl in T ’ang, and then something else so fast I can’t make it out. The girl nods, smiling, and bows her way out of the room. White Swan is a good liar: it’s clear the maidservant suspects nothing. As soon as the girl has gone, White Swan is on her feet in a rustle of sweeping silk, quietly dropping the door-latch so no one can get in. She turns and I see why this woman is the most prized of the Golden Butterflies: her face is smooth and lovely, even without the colours T ’ang women rub into their cheeks and lips. She’s afraid, though: her lips are pressed tight together and she’s breathing quicker. She steps into the middle of the chamber.
“Well,” she says, “where are you, then? I know you are here, Shaolin. I have been waiting.”
I’ve not much choice: I stand up, walking out from behind the chest. White Swan jumps a little, then smiles at me, eyebrows raised.
What is so special about White Swan, this courtesan? How is she able to see what others don’t?
For a short while, she simply stares at me, and I at her.
At last, she speaks. “So you are the Horse Tribe girl my little brother netted in Samarkand.”
White Swan is Swiftarrow’s sister? I bow to hide my shock.
She smiles. “Yes; indeed, Swiftarrow is my brother. I will tell you the story: Mama was a courtesan. When our esteemed father heard that she was dead, he flew into a rage. He is a fine poet, but at that time he needed to look upon Mama’s beauty in order to write. Mama was meant to dance for him the night she died. Father thought her death inconsiderate and threw a porcelain statue of the Enlightened One at the wall, breaking a screen painted by the Empress’s own cousin. It was quite the scandal. So I remained here to dance, repaying my mother’s debt, and Swiftarrow was given to the Shaolin to atone for the broken statue.”
I stare at White Swan’s beautiful, calm face, but in my mind I see only Swiftarrow. Does having Lord Fang for a father excuse the deaths he caused?
“So I must own that it is my fault you are here, and that your kinsmen died,” White Swan goes on. “The truth is: Her Imperial Majesty named my life as the price Swiftarrow must pay if he failed the task. I wish he had paid that price – my life is scarcely worth the loss of so many – but he did not.”
I stare at her, unable to speak.
“So,” White Swan continues, “do not be too harsh in your judgement of my brother.”
“Nothing can excuse him, or—”
“And, for that matter, do not be so harsh on yourself, either.” White Swan’s eyes seem to burn me. “You are very young to—” She pauses. “We all do wrong at times. Perhaps young people more so, without experience to guide them.”