Half of the remaining members of the expedition had set out with Leighton. The Tajik chieftain’s stronghold was north of the Takla Makan Desert and farther east on the caravan route than where Leighton had met the girl—his chest had felt quite hollow as he’d galloped past the open-air eatery.
It was spring. Was she sightseeing?
He had needed to touch the jade bead from her sword to reassure himself that she did not give such gifts lightly. That he would see her again in little less than a year.
At least the rescue attempt seemed to be going off smoothly. The moon was nearly full, but they had stumbled upon the chieftain’s birthday celebration. A little stealth and handkerchiefs soaked in chloroform had done the rest.
And they weren’t that far from where he and Roshan had climbed in and hidden the rope ladder. Ten more minutes, and he would have them safely out and on the road again.
But if they had been seen . . .
He led the men into the next alley—one step closer to the exit. There was no one. Had he been imagining things?
But his hearing rarely led him astray The hard-packed earth underfoot gave little clue. He looked up—height was an ambusher’s best advantage. He saw nothing at first. But he heard a quick indrawn breath, so faint it barely registered. Then he saw the figure stretched flat on the roof, fingers gripping the eaves.
He’d recognized that tatty hat anywhere. Her!
Well, he supposed a master thief had to steal at some point. He must have smiled, for she winked in return. Suppressing another smile, he tore his gaze away before anyone else could catch on to what was going on.
That was when he heard the running footsteps, a percussive wall of them. The guards must have discovered the prisoners missing. Thankfully they weren’t shouting—probably out of fear of disturbing their chieftain on his birthday night. But they were coming fast and from several directions.
A loud crash. She ran across the roof, as agile as a cat, and lobbed another tile, creating a distraction to lead the pursuing guards away from them.
“What should we do?” Roshan asked in Urdu, as the noises escalated.
“We keep going,” Leighton answered.
With her on his side, he had no fear.
They moved as fast as they could, hauling a half-delirious Madison and a limping Singh. But they must have been sighted; despite the ongoing crash of the tiles, one particular contingent of guards kept coming after them.
The last thing he saw, as he climbed over the fortified earthen wall, Madison on his back, was the sight of her landing lightly before a group of pursuers, her sword gleaming in the moonlight.
It was almost dawn before Leighton and his group met up with the other two men he had brought with him. He ordered everyone to head back to Yarkand.
They were puzzled. What of him? Was he not coming?
In a day or two, he said. If there were to be pursuers, he wanted to remain behind and point them the wrong way. His colleagues believed him—he was known for his trustworthiness. For his part, he experienced not a twinge of guilt, his head too full of her for any qualms.
Going back was not a wise thing to do; the chieftain’s men were combing the town. Leighton went from mosque to mosque, and almost wore his knees out praying, since even the warlord’s minions couldn’t disturb worshippers of God. Late in the morning, after the search appeared to have been called off, he made a tour of all the nearby eateries.
No sign of her.
Just as he was about to pull his hair out, inspiration struck. She had said she was fond of the brothels of Kashgar. What if she had been speaking the truth? What if that was where she went to sleep? The inns along the caravan road often piled travelers into one or two big rooms, but at a brothel, one could be assured of a bit of privacy, at least.
He asked his way to the only house of ill repute in town and was amply rewarded for his efforts. Yes, the young man meeting his description had indeed left word, in case a man with green eyes inquired after him: He was headed for Kulja.
Leighton barely remembered to hand the woman a coin before leaping on his horse and galloping away.
It had not been easy getting back into the Tajik warlord’s compound in the morning to speak to his Chinese concubine. But eventually Ying-ying had managed, and learned that two traders from Punjab, who had been arrested by the warlord’s men, had disappeared overnight.
So that was what the Persian had been doing. She had been delighted to see him, but later, his presence, so far away from where he’d said he was going and inside a stronghold, no less, had made her feel uneasy. Now it was all explained: He was just helping his friends.
After that, she had left town for her own safety, headed toward Kulja. But she did not hasten at all—she didn’t want to make the Persian work too hard to find her. Well past noon, having made only half the progress she should have, she stopped to eat her lunch in the shade of a poplar. The air was warm, the scent of wildflowers everywhere, and as she slowly chewed on a piece of stale bread, she could not stop imagining him hurtling in her direction, riding so fast that his turban flew off.
Maybe it was meant to be, or their paths wouldn’t keep crossing. Maybe a foreigner with a dead father and a “slightly negligent” mother was just the kind of man she ought to marry—Amah certainly had no confidence in her ability to please a Chinese mother-in-law. And maybe—
A clicking sound caught at the fringe of her awareness. The dark barrel of a rifle emerged from behind a boulder on the slope opposite her. She ran toward Fireborn, hooked one heel in the stirrup on the flank away from the rifle, and grabbed the bridle. Shielded this way, she kicked the stallion into motion.
The first shot missed. Bandits. She had come across them twice before, along the caravan route much farther east, the old-fashioned type who worked with long knives and broadswords. Once she had simply outrun them, Fireborn being a descendant of the breed from the Altai Mountains that the Chinese had called Heavenly Horses and waged war for. Another time she had fought the few who could keep up with her, cracking her riding whip on their skulls with stark satisfaction.
What did one do with bandits with rifles? She gripped tighter. The nomads made it look so easy, hanging on to one side of the horse so that the steed appeared riderless. She was a good rider, but not an acrobatic one.
Another shot ran out. This time it came from her exposed side. She wanted to slap herself. This was what came of mooning over a man: She had been so absentminded that she had stopped and lunched in the bottom of a valley, though one wide and shallow. This area wasn’t as infested with bandits as some other parts of Chinese Turkestan. But still she had no excuse for being so careless.
She slid under Fireborn’s belly, fingers digging under the saddle straps, legs about the steed’s flanks. If she slipped off, she’d be trampled by Fireborn’s hind hooves.
The ground quivered. Riders were approaching her at oblique angles from both sides, the leading riders hoisting rifles.
“We want only the horse. Hand over the horse and you can go.”
She knew of no bandits who wanted only one thing. A man was lucky to escape with his trousers. And she was not even so lucky as to be a man. She urged Fireborn on.
But Fireborn was slowing down. She dropped her head. From between the horse’s front legs she saw a row of mounted men blocking her way, the blades of their machetes glinting in the sun.
The machetes gave her hope. If they all had rifles, she was doomed. But if only a few did . . .
Fireborn stopped and turned nervously. She set her feet down and ducked out from underneath him, her hand on his mane to keep him calm. Nine men surrounded her, four machetes, two broadswords, a mace, and two rifles.
“My mother rides a horse better than you,” one of the rifled men said with a laugh.
It was likely true. “I don’t know about her with horses,” she said. “She rode me exceedingly well.”
Anything to keep them from realizing that she was a woman.
Several men chortled and whistled. “What will you tell your father, Yakub?”
Yakub growled and bared his teeth at Ying-ying. “I think I’ll shoot a bullet into your teeth and see if you are still so mouthy.”
She spit, as big a gob as she could manage with her dry mouth. “Allah willing, you will not disgrace yourself so. When I travel east of here, the men who want my horse are at least man enough to fight for it. What’s wrong with you? Can’t lift a machete?”
Yakub leaped off his horse, surprisingly agile for a big man. He snatched a broadsword from another bandit. “You son of a pig. You are stepping on your own prick, don’t you know?”
“And you will teach me better, no doubt. You and your friends, together.”
Yakub brandished the broadsword. “I don’t need anyone’s help to feed your balls to the vultures.”
A one-on-one fight. Just what she was angling for. “Won’t be a fair fight. I’m young and strong, but you”—she leaned back against Fireborn, feigning insouciance—“my friend, the years have not been kind to you.”
“Shut up and draw your sword!” Yakub bellowed.
She grabbed her sword from the saddle, scabbard and all. “And when I have you defeated, what then?”
“You and your horse are free to leave.” He charged. “But you dream.”
She dodged the heavy broadsword and rammed the hilt of her sword into his side. He grunted, stumbling to his right. She followed with a kick to the center of his back, the tip of the scabbard poking hard into the acupuncture points on his lower body.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “Get up and fight.”
Half of the epithets he sputtered out she could not fully understand, no doubt having to do with her mother and various domesticated animals.
“Guess the fight’s over then, if you won’t get up,” she said when he paused to take a breath. “I’d better get going.”
The other men couldn’t object; they still had their mouths hanging open. Quickly, sword still in hand, she lifted her left foot into the stirrup. At that moment her hat fell off, her hairpins not quite enough of a match for riding upside down. But it was no great disaster. She wore her hair in a Chinese man’s long braid, wound about her head. Still a man, to all appearances.
The bandits’ faces, however, changed. “The Chinese killed my father,” said one.
“They killed my brother,” said another, older bandit.
“Killed all of my great-grandfather’s family,” said yet another, grinding his teeth.
But that massacre had to have been more than a hundred years ago, when the Manchu garrison from Ili retook Kashgar. As for the father and the brother, they probably took part in the native uprising some twenty years ago, during which thousands of Chinese residents of Chinese Turkestan were also slaughtered.
But what could she say? I didn’t do it, so don’t blame me?
One by one the bandits raised their machetes. Her hands suddenly trembled with fear. She was going to die a pile of minced meat.
“Aaaaahhhhh!” she screamed, her fright fueling the skull-cracking shriek. She stepped atop Fireborn, bounded high, and dove at one of the men who still held a rifle. The force of her impact knocked him off his horse. As he fell, she yanked the rifle clean from him.
She turned and pointed it at the man to whom Yakub had given his rifle, her finger on the trigger. “Drop it. Or I’ll blow your nose off your face.”
His rifle was still cradled against his left arm. He let it thump to the ground.
“You coward!” shouted the man whose father had been killed by the Chinese. “I can live without a nose.”
He charged her on his horse. She swung around and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. For a moment she stood stunned, staring at the oncoming horse and the machete raised high in the air. Then she dropped the useless rifle, ran toward the bandit’s horse on the side away from the machete, caught the bridle, swung her feet up, and kicked the man off. She’d have liked to get atop the saddle and ride away. But already someone else was coming at her from behind—the mace, whooshing down, death in motion.
She rolled under the horse, barely avoiding the unnerved animal’s hooves. Her sword, which she had dropped in order to fire the rifle, lay only a spear’s length away, but another bandit already stood on it, his machete at the ready.
She pulled out a handful of golden needles from her sleeve and let him have it. As he yelled and danced in pain, she knocked him down and grabbed her sword, unsheathing it with a heartening screech of metal.
Machetes and broadswords came at her. She parried one with her blade, one with the scabbard, and ducked the third one. The mace swung down. She knocked it aside with the scabbard. Someone slashed a machete low, at her ankles. She stepped on it and hacked at the attached wrist, forcing the man back.
Not all the men attacked at once. In the back of her mind, she was aware of the four or five men who circled, ominously, outside the immediate ring of bandits who were doing their best to slice her in two. How long could she last, one against so many? All the training, all the subtleties of martial arts would do her little good when her arm became too sore to wield her weapon.
She was tiring, her feet more sluggish, her wrists less steady. But so were the three men around her. Maybe they were more accustomed to bursts of savagery, rather than sustained fighting. She smashed her scabbard against one man’s head. He went down and did not immediately get up.
There might be a bit of hope for her yet. No replacement fighter had come forward. Perhaps some of them really were cowards, brutal before the weak, pusillanimous when true courage was needed. If she hurried and brought down the remaining two—
“Step back, you two!” someone howled. “Step back.”
The two men pulled back. She spun around. A rifle, no more than ten paces away, was aimed directly at her head. She froze. A voice in her head screamed for her to move, something, anything, but she only stood, heart pounding, limbs paralyzed.
“Put down your sword!” the bandit demanded. He was the one who had lost some distant ancestors.
He didn’t shoot. Why didn’t he shoot?
“Drop the sword or I’ll shoot!”
He didn’t want her dead. He only wanted her helpless at her own butchering. Sweat was dripping down the back of her neck, cold and clammy. Slowly she opened her left hand and let drop her scabbard.
“The sword.”
She lifted her sword, bringing it across the front of her body. Could she do it? Could she be that quick? Her left hand darted up the sleeve of her right arm, yanked out the knife sheathed in her vambrace, and hurled it at him.
The bandit ducked, then aimed at her again.
She threw herself down and rolled away. A shot exploded, echoing in the valley. It missed her by a hair.
Machetes came at her, forcing her to stand up and fight. Between ducking and parrying, she looked back at the bandit with the rifle. He had the rifle between his thighs, busy doing something to it.
With a few wild swings, she forced back those attacking her and rushed past them. If she could stop the rifle from being reloaded, then perhaps she might be safe from it.
But she wasn’t fast enough. He set the rifle against his shoulder and fired. She swerved—and screamed as her upper right arm burned, a streak of agony.
Another shot rang out. Something scalded just above her ear, ripping off a long strip of scalp. Too stunned to scream this time, she slapped a palm to the side of her head. Her hand came away bright red, slick with blood.
The machetes came again. The broadswords, too. She parried, dimly surprised that she was still capable of motion and reaction. But the air had become thicker, viscous. Her arm felt as if it were parting water. She had barely pushed back one machete when another one was at her throat.
A bandit kicked her in the back. She stumbled. A blade slanted down, a harsh glare in the sun. She met it with her own blade. Her arm hurt as if she had cleaved into a mountain
side.
The air behind her sizzled. She sprang forward. But not far enough. An angry welt of pain clawed into her lower back. A lacerating pain in her thigh. She fell to her knees. Before she could get up, someone kicked her in the head.
As she collapsed, another shot blasted.
Blackness came over her.
CHAPTER 7
The Report
England
1891
The fog was a pea-souper.
The first time Catherine had heard the term from Master Gordon, it had befuddled her. Soup, to her, meant a base of clear broth—therefore, transparency. He’d had to explain that certain European soups contained ingredients that had been pureed, resulting in something that was almost a slurry.
This slurry of a fog, the color and density of phosphorous smoke, but cold and damp, with a smell at once industrial and faintly rotted, had dismayed her when it had first spread. But now she was glad of its all-obscuring powers: It enabled her to stand outside a house and fiddle with the lock of its front door without fearing detection.
Well, she couldn’t be completely careless: There was a night guard on duty—she’d heard his movement from outside the service door that led to the basement. But as long as she was reasonably quiet, the guard’s tea drinking and newspaper rattling, plus the muffled grinding of carriages that rolled by unseen, would be enough to mask any sounds she made with her lock picks.
She stopped: Footsteps approached, those of someone ungainly and possibly drunk. The vague outline of a man, smelling heavily of gin, tottered toward her. She flattened herself against the door and waited until he and his personal fog of liquor had disappeared again into the murkiness of the pea-souper.
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