Spirit Hunter (21 page)

Lord Ishbal sits down on the men’s side of the fire, picking up a steaming cup. He blows gently then drains it in one gulp. Hot tea. Now he lifts the covers from the bowls and picks up a skewer of meat, dipping it into the yogurt.
Oh, stop
. I can’t bear to watch. Ishbal chews slowly, gazing into the fire.

I must do this. Taking a long breath, I stand up, showing myself.

Slowly, Lord Ishbal turns to face me. For a moment, we stare at one another. I may be dizzy with terror but I won’t show it.

At last, the one-handed man smiles. “So you are the one White Swan sent. Come, sit. I have never seen a child with such hunger in her eyes.”

Is he trying to throw me off guard with a show of kindness, this man who calls himself Son of the Sky Father?

Slowly, I walk towards him, one foot at a time. There’s a knife in my belt but I don’t want him to know it. Ishbal just waits, warming himself by the fire as if he hasn’t a care. I crouch down beside him, sitting cross-legged. Lord Ishbal says nothing, just hands me the bowl of meat. It’s deer, lumps of deer-meat on skewers, fire-charred and juicy. I eat in silence and,
oh,
it is good. The flesh is crunchy and blackened on the outside, but still bloody within. He gives me yogurt, too, salty and cool, and pours tea from a silver-wrought pot, spooning a knob of butter in so that yellow suns of fat float on top, and he does it all with just one hand. The buttery tea runs down my throat, warming my belly. At last I’m full and I wipe the grease from my face.

“I thank you,” I whisper.

Ishbal shrugs, gazing into the fire. “In payment, tell me why you seek an audience with me. I have never seen your face before. You are not a daughter of this camp, yet you are of the Tribes. Did you escape from the slave-market in Chang’an? I have spent more than your weight in gold freeing tribesfolk from that place.”

Is that true?
In my mind, I had woven Lord Ishbal in the same pattern as my uncle Taspar: brash, loud and foolish. But he is nothing like that. He is not what I expected at all.

I swallow the last of my tea and turn to meet his eyes. I came here to speak with this man, and so I shall: “No. Do you know of the Shaolin?”

Lord Ishbal spits into the fire. “Holy men who spy for the Empress these days, or so I’m told. And what have the holy men to do with a ragged Horse Tribe girl sneaking around my camp?”

“I am one of them, my lord.” How quick can I reach my knife if I need it? Ishbal wears a leather-sheathed dagger at his belt. The words rush from my lips: “The truth of it is the Empress suspects you are no longer loyal to her: she sent me here to listen in on all your talk. Are you loyal to her, my lord?”

Lord Ishbal watches the fire, saying nothing. A curl of dry bark catches light and burns to ash, floating up towards the smoke-let.

My heart hammers but I know this trick: he keeps quiet so that I talk. But I have said enough.

At last, Ishbal speaks, still gazing at the flames. “But you no longer wish to do the Empress’s bidding, do you, girl? Where do your kin ride?”

“Away to the west, many moons’ ride beyond the desert – those who weren’t killed by the Empress’s men at the Gathering.” I spit out the words. But I am meant to be asking the questions, not he. “Is it not time you led your people away from the shadow of Chang’an and rode with the Tribes, not against them?” I draw in a deep breath. “Do you not long to ride free again, my lord?”

Ishbal glances at me, sharply. “White Swan told you this?” He shakes his head. “Ah, well, a man may only feast on what he hunts. I am her uncle, and my father played the girl an ill turn when he left her and her mother in that whorehouse: now she moves against me. What became of the other child? A boy, wasn’t it?”

I flinch. I’m not about to tell Ishbal anything about Swiftarrow.

“So,” Lord Ishbal says, “your kin were killed and you were taken by the Empress’s men. This is your revenge. Foolish of the Empress to have chosen you out of all the Shaolin to spy on the Tribes.”

“Such is her arrogance, she believes one so lowly as I would never dare disobey her.”

Ishbal nods, slowly, and I see the glimmer of a smile. “Her mistake.” The smile fades as quick as it came, and his eyes do seem to burn into me. “But you ought to take care, girl. You play a dangerous game.”

“I am honour-bound to finish it. My people went to the World Below with no death-rites. Their bones whiten at the foot of Claw Rock, unburied; their souls surely wander.”

He sighs. “Heavy is my duty this night. I cannot see where my loyalty should lie, child. My people are safe here in the shadow of Chang’an; yet in our hearts we long for the open grasslands. If we ride away with the Empress’s army and leave them, seeking our own freedom, they will hunt us down.”

“We are all Horse Tribes; we ride fast, and the grasslands are wide, with so many forests and mountains. The Empress’s men are wall-dwellers. They won’t find you.”

Lord Ishbal meets my eyes. “Yet you say your kin were killed by T ’ang soldiers at the Gathering.”

“We were taken by surprise. Slaughtered – children, too.” And again I wonder,
Can Swiftarrow truly be trusted?
“My lord, if the Tribes ride together, the T ’ang army has not the smallest chance of catching us. Send envoys to the half-breeds who ride with the Empress’s men. Offer them gold and they shall join you. Their loyalty lies with the highest bidder.”

Lord Ishbal nods, slowly. He stares into the fire. “I admire your courage, for it is greater than mine. I am ashamed. I shall turn my mind to what you have said. Now go, and make sure you tell the Empress I am loyal only to her. Now we are all playing your dangerous game, girl.”

I should be afraid but I’m not: the thrill of revenge is bearing me up on wide, strong wings, higher and higher. Closer to the sun.

T
he orchard was cold, the ground hidden by a layer of grey dawn mist. His father had chosen to act, to make a move in the game. Where would this end? Fretting about it would not help: Swiftarrow emptied his mind, becoming one with the trees, one with the mist. Leaving the world of men behind – the sound of many footsteps and soft voices – he travelled the Way, soaring across wastelands of time and space. All was one. Time was as nothing. And then they came, those he had been waiting for: Lord Fang, ghostlike in robes of white, and another man. One-handed and lean as a cat, he walked with the swagger of the Tribes, more used to the saddle: Lord Ishbal. Wrapped in heavy winter cloaks beaded with ant-sized raindrops, Lord Fang and Lord Ishbal waited beneath the bare-branched peach trees. It was raining. Swiftarrow wore no cloak, and his clothes were wet, stuck to his skin. His hair sent little rivers of rainwater down his face. It was time to move.

“My dear son.” Lord Fang smiled, mocking as ever, as Swiftarrow stepped out of the mist.

Lord Ishbal flinched. “Cursed Shaolin! You move quicker than rats.”

Lord Fang laughed. “He may be Shaolin, but if you do not like it, share the fault with me. I may be the boy’s father, but I sired him on your sister. He was there for the taking, had you wanted him.”

Lord Ishbal bowed, mocking. “I acknowledge the fault.”

Swiftarrow bowed in return. “My lord, we seek only to learn if you are ready to ride out in battle. The great strength of your tribe is sorely needed.”

“The Empress waits for your word, Ishbal,” Lord Fang said. “General Li has assembled his troops once more. Will you ride with them?”

Lord Ishbal stared back at him, unsmiling. “That’s Her Highness’s choice. When the coin is sent, we will ride. She may be sure that we shall earn it. My men thirst to avenge themselves on our traitorous brethren across the desert.”

“Your wages are being counted and weighed,” Lord Fang replied. “I can assure you the matter has the Chief Moneyer’s most deep attention. His assistant sent word to me yesterday evening: by sunset tomorrow, you shall have your payment.”

Lord Ishbal made another low, mocking bow. “Then at dawn the day after, Lord Fang, my tribe will ride out with General Li and his men.” He turned and walked away through the mist, cloak streaming out behind him.

When he was gone, Lord Fang turned to Swiftarrow. “I can only pray this will be enough to shield the House of Fang from the Empress’s suspicions: I will make sure she learns it was I who ensured Ishbal’s loyalty. These barbarians are always the same: loyal to nothing but gold. And now, tell me – what of the girl?”

“I have her in the palm of my hand: she will do no harm. She knows nothing of our meeting, but believes she has a chance of persuading Lord Ishbal to switch allegiance to the Tribes. Of course, she is wrong.”

His father smiled. “Betraying a lover. How exquisitely painful for you. Know this, Fang Shiyu: I will take no pleasure in having the girl killed if you choose to act against me, but I will do it if I must.”

Swiftarrow bowed, but when he spoke his voice was hard and cold. “And if you harm her, my lord, I will kill you with my own hands.”

“A true Fang warrior after all,” his father said, trailing his forefinger down the side of Swiftarrow’s face. “The fire burns high with you, does it not? Think of all we could have done together, had fortune decreed otherwise. It is such a dreadful pity. Do you not think so?”

“I am sure you did only what was right, O Father, when you left my sister in the House of Golden Butterflies and me in the temple.”

For what seemed a long while, they stood and looked at one another, father and son.

“I am glad you think so.” Lord Fang spoke quietly, as if to himself, and indeed Swiftarrow had already gone, lost in the mist among the twisted, naked branches of the peach trees.

T
he sun is sinking above the skyline of Chang’an, spreading fire across the darkening sky. Eighth Daughter tugs at my hand and turns to look at me pleadingly. “Quickly, Asena, or we shan’t have time to see the acrobats!” Her cheeks are flushed and red like her tunic – an old, patched one that belonged to Autumn Moon when she was a child.

Can I see it: the faintest, shadowy flicker of a spirit-horse at her right shoulder? Surely this is only my longing to be a shaman again. Eighth Daughter may have had a Horse Tribe slave as her nurse before she came to the temple, but she was born a wall-dweller. Do wall-dwellers really have no spirit-horses? Could it be that the T’ang are no different to the Tribes, and it is only a matter of seeing what one wishes to believe?

“Be calm – I am coming.” I struggle to keep the fear from my voice.

I have not seen Swiftarrow since I left him outside the House of Golden Butterflies. He must know I have been to Lord Ishbal by now. So where is he? Does he not care what Ishbal told me? In my mind, I hear Autumn Moon telling me to breathe deeply, to push away all thought.
The Way is open to all, Asena, but you must turn from fear, worry, love, hatred. Everything.

“We must get the onions first,” I hear myself saying. “Hano won’t be pleased if they’re all sold when we come.”

Eighth Daughter tosses her head like a young foal, skinny black pigtails flying. “Hano and his onions, I curse them four times!” she cries, skipping along. “I want nut pastries instead.”

I force a laugh. “Maybe if we buy one for Hano too, he’ll forgive us spending his coin on pastries.”

Where are you, Swiftarrow?

Which path has Ishbal chosen? Will he ride out with the Empress’s men? My people are born hunters, trailing deer through dark forests, shooting arrows at fat ducks on the lakeshore, but now they are the hunted. Should I go to White Swan? Perhaps Ishbal has returned to the House of Golden Butterflies; he might have spilled out the secrets of his heart to White Swan again.

I dread seeing her. She will know the path I have chosen, the choice I have made. But my mind is firm: I will kill the Empress.

I turn, glancing over my shoulder.
Is someone watching me?
I see nothing but a gang of children jumping in a puddle longer than two men lying head to feet and the crowd of folk surging about the marketplace, shoving, laughing, crying out their wares. I shudder. It is like that evening in Samarkand, long ago, when Swiftarrow chased me to the gate in the west wall. Only now there is no Baba waiting. I will never see Baba again.

Eighth Daughter skips ahead and leaps right across the puddle, landing neat as a cat on the other side. The other children stop their splashing and stare, astonished: unlike Eighth Daughter, they have not been trained to jump by a taskmaster like Autumn Moon. I grab Eighth Daughter’s sleeve and hurry her on: we need not attract the stares of the whole marketplace.

“You go and watch the acrobats – I’ll fetch Hano’s onions and we’ll meet by the willow tree.”

She tugs thoughtfully on one pigtail, weighing up the bargain. “But shall we still have pastries?”

“Yes. Now go!”

Eighth Daughter runs into the crowd, pigtails flapping out behind her.

I sense it once more: someone is watching me. I turn. A crowd has gathered by the fortune-teller next to the pastry-stall. Fall-of-leaf sun shafts down through shifting cloud and I see a shadow where there is no one to cast it. Swiftarrow. We run to each other. We stand in the marketplace, his arms around me, mine around him. He is rain-soaked, cold. His hair is wet. Where has he been? I love him; I love him. I crush mistrust like a spider in my hand.

How will I ever explain to him what I have lost: my wolf-guide, my soul?

“Why did you leave me?” he asks. “Where have you been? I was so afraid for you.”

“I ask you the same! I went to—”

Swiftarrow shakes his head. “Listen, we have not much time. I saw Lord Ishbal.” His breath is warm against my face, his voice calm. “He dares not rebel: his fear of the Empress is too great. With General Li’s legion, Ishbal and his people will ride out to hunt down the rest of the Tribes. Your people will be enslaved, broken. Lord Ishbal and the army leave with the coming dawn.”

“No!” It can’t be true. “He seemed so willing to escape Chang’an. He said… But we agreed that
I
was to go to Ishbal. Why did you go, too?”