The China Bride (23 page)

Then his gaze met Wu Chong's, and his blood chilled at the raw hatred he saw there. Many Chinese loathed foreigners even if they'd never met one, but the prefect's rage went far beyond that. Wu Chong must view the appearance of a
Fan-qui
at the festival honoring a long-awaited son as a bad omen, and he craved vengeance for that.

A plump merchant was hustled into the chamber between two soldiers, his round face perspiring and his eyes alarmed. Wu Chong rattled out several sentences. The merchant blanched, and a three-cornered conversation between Wu, the merchant, and an official who appeared to be the prefect's chief aide ensued. Kyle had the impression that the latter two disagreed with Wu, but didn't dare contradict him directly.

Bracing himself for what was to come, he was ready when the merchant turned to him, sweating profusely. The man started to bow, then stopped himself. "I am Wang. You
Fan-qui
spy."

"I'm not a spy," Kyle said mildly. "I only wished to see some of the glories of the Celestial Kingdom."

"Spy," the merchant repeated unhappily. "Prefect punish you." He stopped, his throat working.

Feeling sorry for the poor beggar, Kyle said, "What kind of punishment?" Wang cast his eyes downward. "Death."

The single harsh word almost sent Kyle reeling. Good God, he'd truly not expected such a severe sentence. China was a nation of law, but he'd had no trial. Grimly he recognized that as a foreigner he existed outside Chinese law, with no more rights than a cockroach. If the prefect wanted him to die, he was a dead man.

Clamping down on his emotions, he asked coolly, "How?"

"As mark of respect for foreign devil ways, no chop head. Use
Fan-qui
gun death."

Jesus. A firing squad. Well, he couldn't say he hadn't been warned of the dangers of defying imperial law and traveling inland. Dry lipped, he asked,

"When?"

"Dawn, day after tomorrow. Prefect give time to make peace with your gods."

"I… see." He inclined his head. "Thank you, Honorable Wang, for your explanation."

As the merchant withdrew, Kyle's mind raced. Only a day and a half left. Troth couldn't possibly reach Canton in time to summon help. Even a rider on a fast horse wouldn't be able to save him. Thank God she'd escaped, or she'd be standing beside him at the execution.

He suppressed his instinctive shudder at the thought, keeping his expression blank. With nothing left but death, how he died suddenly seemed very important. He'd not go cringing and crying. His resolve was strengthened by the triumph on Wu Chong's face as the soldiers removed him from the audience chamber.

He was taken from the yamen and marched to another building in the governmental compound. Squat and ugly, it stank with ancient filth and fear. It was an extensive prison for such a small city. How many prisoners had these aching walls held? How many men had died here?

In the guardroom, the ropes securing Kyle's wrists were cut away and replaced with heavy wrist shackles and leg irons. Then he was taken down steep stone steps to the dungeons that he guessed were reserved for the most serious crimes.

He and his escorts passed through dank corridors lined with doors. In several of the tiny windows he saw pale, despairing faces watching the new prisoner. Most were so hopeless that they didn't even show surprise at the sight of a
Fan-qui
.

The sergeant unlocked the last, massive door and swung it open to reveal a cramped cell. Water gleamed on the rough stone walls, with a pile of damp straw the only furnishing.

Kyle would have entered quietly, but the sergeant snarled, "
Fan-qui
," and struck his chest with the hilt of his sword. Immediately the other guards joined in, eager to damage without killing.

Kyle exploded into pure rage. He was going to die and Troth was safe, so there was no reason not to fight back. Swinging his chains like a weapon, he knocked the sergeant to the ground, then scythed the others down. If he was lucky, he would die here and now, fighting, rather than shot like a traitor. But the shouts of his victims brought more guards on the run, and he was quickly overpowered. Though several wanted to continue the beating, the bleeding sergeant barked an order. Kyle was shoved into the tiny stone room with such violence that he crashed into the opposite wall. As he spun into darkness, Kyle's last thought was another fervent thanks that Troth had escaped.

Troth's quick visit to the inn secured garments even shabbier and more anonymous than those she'd been wearing. She left none too soon. An army patrol arrived and started to bang on the door to the innkeeper's rooms moments after she fled.

With the streets still full of merrymakers, it was easy to fade away and find shelter. She shinnied over the wall surrounding the grounds of a small temple and spent the night in its garden, taking shelter under the temple eaves when rain fell.

Sleep was impossible when she was so full of regrets and questions. If only she'd obeyed her instinct to avoid Feng-tang. If only they'd spent the evening in their bed rather than joining the festival. If only they'd followed the other road to Canton, which crossed less-populated territory. A bitter reminder that regrets were useless led to wondering about the best way to get to Canton. She'd have to go to Chenqua—he had the viceroy's ear, and within hours troops would be on the way to Feng-tang to collect Kyle. She shuddered to think of Chenqua's anger, and how bitterly disappointed he would be, but there was no other way.

She left the temple grounds at first light. It was a market day. Buying fruit at one stall, steamed buns at another, she wandered through the crowd, scarcely noticed when there was so much interesting news to discuss. The market buzzed with rumors. Two demons had arrived to curse the prefect's baby. One had been captured, striking down five men before he was taken away, while the other flew shrieking into the night. No, not demons but
Fan-qui
, one of whom now lay in the city dungeon while troops combed the city for the other. Everyone leaving the city was searched, every cart stabbed with swords to ensure that the second foreign devil couldn't escape.

It was lucky the soldiers had decided that Troth was a
Fan-qui
. She'd be able to leave the city easily, especially if she waited until later in the day, when the search would begin to flag.

She was sipping tea at a stall when a Bannerman swaggered up beside her and ordered a cup. She drifted away, but stayed close enough to hear what was said as the owner of the tea stall said eagerly, "Tell the story, Yee!

Is there truly a
Fan-qui
?"

The Bannerman swallowed his tea in one gulp and held out his cup for another. "He's real enough. I was one of the ones who captured the Red Bristle. A great ugly brute. Fought like three demons." He drank again, more slowly this time.

The tea man asked, "What will be done with him?"

The soldier preened, smoothing his mustaches as he drew out the moment. "Tomorrow morning he will meet the ghosts of his ancestors. The prefect is giving him a European execution. A dozen musket men will shoot him at dawn."

"Barbaric!"

The Bannerman shrugged. "Suitable for a barbarian." Troth's vision darkened and she swayed on her feet, close to fainting.
Dear gods, a firing squad
! He couldn't be killed out of hand like this, with no trial or criminal charges!

But he could. She remembered the prefect's snake-cold face, and knew that he was capable of murder. Though few officials would execute a European so precipitately, she suspected that many would privately approve of Wu Chong's act.

By killing quickly and claiming he had saved the realm from a spy, Wu Chong would probably get away with no more than a rap on the knuckles from his superiors. The imperial government would apologize to the British, while pointing out that they'd merely executed a lawbreaker.

In fact, the execution could easily be hushed up. No one but Gavin Elliott had known of Kyle's plan, and there could be a thousand reasons why Kyle failed to return from his illicit journey. Only Troth could bear witness to what happened. Uneasily she recognized that both the English and the Chinese might wish to hush up an incident that had the potential to disrupt trade. Lord Maxwell would simply vanish, and her account might be ignored because it would be "inconvenient."

He must be rescued. But how?

She would find a way.

«
^
»

Kyle watched as a sliver of light from the high window moved slowly across the walls, like the sands of an hourglass marking out the minutes of his life. Morning had brought no inspiration. His sentence couldn't be appealed even if he spoke the language, not when the highest-ranking official in the region wanted him dead.

Nor could he escape his dungeon. The window was too narrow to allow a well-fed rat to escape. The cell contained damp straw and four rings welded into the stones with short chains dangling from them, but nothing else. Hoping for a weapon, he'd examined the chains, and concluded that removing them from the rings would be impossible without tools and time. Even if he managed to overpower the guards with his bare hands the next time they brought him a small portion of rice and weak tea, he'd never make it out of the compound. No, his time had run out, and it was his own damned fault.

The loose Chinese garments made it easy to sit cross-legged like a Buddhist monk on the damp straw. Mentally detaching himself from his bruises and lacerations, he reached for the inner peace he'd found at Hoshan. Mysterious were the ways of the divine. Was that why he'd been so intensely drawn to the painting of the temple, because he had a date with his own death in China?

No, he was too much a European to believe in that kind of destiny. His luck had simply run out. He'd faced danger often in his travels, and several times had survived against long odds, but no man's luck held forever. His idle gaze fixed on a rivulet of water flowing down the side wall, one of several caused by heavy rain during the night. The moisture seeped from between the stones and trickled away down a small drain, the cell's feeble attempt at sanitation. This place was an invitation to a slow, painful death from fever or ague. At least he wouldn't be here long enough to have that to worry about.

Should he have stayed home, like a good heir? He'd have probably lived another forty years if he had.

No, that narrow, dutiful life had been driving him to desperation. He couldn't regret following his dreams, though it was a pity about the lost forty years…

The door squealed open and the sergeant entered, sword at the ready and followed by two burly guards. As the sergeant muttered what sounded like filthy insults, his men dragged Kyle to his feet and removed the chain connecting his manacles, leaving the heavy iron cuffs around his wrists. Maybe he was being taken out for another audience with the prefect?

Instead, the guards slammed him against the wall and attached his cuffs to the rusting chains that hung from the rings welded into the wall. Kyle swore and tried to fight them, but the guards were adept. A gut-punch to slow him down, then a swift snapping of locks so that he was spread-eagled against the wall.

His skin crawled at his utter helplessness, for he couldn't move any part of his body more than a few inches. The sergeant smiled, his crooked teeth white against the bruised face Kyle had given him the night before. Slowly he removed a dagger from the sheath at his side, turning it so that light glinted from the sharply ground blade. He could slice off any body parts he chose as long as the prisoner was alive for the next morning's execution. Despite his best efforts at control, Kyle flinched when the sergeant suddenly stabbed the knife down viciously. But he wasn't aiming to wound. Instead, Kyle's loose tunic was slashed from shoulder to hem without cutting the rigid flesh underneath.

The sergeant bared his teeth with satisfaction. Another slash, this one at Kyle's crotch. Once more the glittering blade cut only loose fabric. It was amazingly sharp—Kyle thought of the Crusader story of how Saladin's Damascus steel sword had been so sharp that a silk scarf that fell on it was cleaved in half.

He made himself think of the Crusades. Had Saladin and Richard Lionheart been on the second or the third Crusade? No matter—all of the Crusades had been damn fool projects that cost countless lives. Concentrating on history kept his face impassive during the sergeant's next two slices. Besides, the mind could hold only so much fear, and Kyle had reached his limit.

Disgusted, the sergeant sheathed his dagger, delivered a casually brutal slap across his prisoner's face, and led his men away, leaving Kyle shaking. Though his mind might have accepted death, his body was less philosophical.

He tested the chains. Despite surface rust, they were strong enough to hold an elephant. Sitting or lying down was impossible. If he fell asleep he'd hang painfully from the manacles and wake up in agony. Not that he was likely to sleep. With so few hours left, he didn't want to waste any. Though the manacles weren't painful in themselves, being unable to move was a subtle form of torture. A rivulet flowed behind him, and soon his cotton garments would be saturated. A mosquito buzzed around his face before settling to gorge on his neck, and he couldn't slap it away. Phantom itches began crawling over his limbs.