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.

Chapter 25

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.