Capturing the Silken Thief
Jeannie Lin

Tang Dynasty China, 823 A.D.

Musician Jia needs a valuable book of poems by a famous courtesan to buy her freedom…and she believes Luo Cheng has taken it. Her attempt to steal the book from him fails, but the tall and powerful scholar unexpectedly offers to help her quest! But when they finally find the book—and the arousing poems and artwork inside—Jia’s longing for freedom is replaced with a new kind of desire for Cheng…

Dear Reader,

Capturing the Silken Thief was inspired, surprisingly, by my time as a student at the University of California, Los Angeles. Everyone was filled with such hope for the future and all things were possible.

The many late nights and that restless energy of those college years fed into my vision of what the North Hamlet in Changan must have been like during the 9th century. Scholars and beautiful courtesans and song girls intermingled. The drinking and music would continue late into the night.

One of the most popular short stories of the Tang Dynasty tells of a romance between a scholar and a song girl. Capturing the Silken Thief revives this classic pairing and it was a refreshing change for me to write a different sort of hero from my usual swordsmen. I hope you’ll find this distant land and the characters that inhabit it not as foreign as they at first appear to be.

More historical background and information on my stories can be found online at http://www.jeannielin.com. I love hearing from readers!

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Stephanie Draven and Amanda Berry for lending their keen and critical eyes to this story on such short notice.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

About the Author

Chapter One

Tang Dynasty China, 823 A.D.

Luo Cheng turned his back on the chorus of cries and the rosy glow of the lanterns that swung over the doorway of the drinking house. The entreaties from his fellow scholars were well-meaning enough, but the pleas to stay and be sociable quickly died away, fading behind gales of laughter and carousing.

How did his fellow scholars manage to stay out drinking all night, every night, and hope to pass the imperial exams? He’d woken up with his face pressed into the pages of a book for three days now, after having fallen asleep in the middle of another treatise on statesmanship and duty. And heaven knows, there were many. The empire had an abundance of paper and these politicians were intent on writing on all of it.

At twenty-five years, Cheng was no longer the young prodigy that the local magistrate had boasted about to his exalted peers. Any man, no matter how humble his birth, could become a ranking official by proving himself in the civil exams. The hopes of his entire county had been behind him when he passed the provincial test three years ago. He had journeyed in triumph to the capital only to fail at the imperial level. If he failed again, Cheng would not only lose face, he’d have to lose several body parts to repay Minister Lo for sponsoring him.

He slung the sack of books over his shoulder and headed toward the southern gate of the ward. A soft, feminine voice floated from the pavilion doors at the end of the street. The words of the song rose over the plucked notes of stringed pipa. The lute-like instrument had become one of the most popular in the drinking houses.

The light of the last lantern slipped by him as he ventured toward the edges of the pleasure district. His apartment was located in a quiet corner of the ward, through winding streets. The pavilions with their retinue of entertainers had sprouted up around the student centres of the city. The two populations fed on each other: the scholars with their cash and nights of leisure, the courtesans with their enchanting smiles and soft, scented skin.

It was only after he passed the third corner that he realized the group on the other side of the street had been following him. He glanced briefly in their direction before turning away. They didn’t look like scholars, but they didn’t look like street thugs either.

The footsteps quickened behind him. Cheng tightened his grip on his knapsack and turned to see five black shapes converging on him like a pack of rats. There was no getting out of it now. He swung his pack hard at the head of the gang. The weight hit the leader square across the face and the scoundrel fell back with a grunt.

Damned fools were attacking the poorest student in the district.

Cheng punched the next one in the nose. There was some advantage to being a country boy. The imperial capital had educated him in custom and civility, but he still knew how to handle himself in a brawl.

“Give us the bag.” A sharp-nosed fellow hedged back as he issued the demand.

“Dog-born bastards,” Cheng spat.

They lunged for him once again.

Someone threw an arm around his neck. Cheng wheezed as the weight pressed against his windpipe. He was going to get knifed right there for a couple of history books and three copper coins.

With a roar, he threw the one clinging to him over his shoulder. Suddenly his left eye exploded with pain and he staggered back, cursing from the blow.

“Let’s go,” one of them shouted.

The footsteps scrambled away as the pain rang in his skull. Blinking furiously into the darkness, Cheng spat out a few insults involving pack animals and body parts.

By the time he could see again, the alleyway was clear. Music continued to flow from the entertainment district behind him as he searched the ground for his satchel. Gone.

The books that Master Wen had lent to him. The essay on statesmanship that he needed to submit before taking the imperial exams. The last of his luck.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

He considered having a drink. A strong one. But his three coins weren’t enough to buy a flask of wine or the courtesan to pour it for him in this part of the city. Cheng pressed a hand to his eye. The area around it throbbed dully as he trudged back to his apartment.

It was five days until the imperial exams. That commentary had taken him over a week to compose the first time. He had better start writing.

Jia checked the desk, the cabinet, the little tight corners behind the bed. She’d been crawling around on her hands and knees, searching for clever hiding spots, too nervous to light even a tiny oil lamp.

The room was square and tidy, with a scant few personal belongings packed away in the wooden trunk. She flipped through a book she found at the bottom, squinting to stare at the characters. It wasn’t what she was looking for. The scholar must have kept the journal with him after snatching it. She set the lid back down and turned to slip out, when the door rattled.

Death and destruction, he wasn’t supposed to return yet!

Her gaze darted left and right, frantically searching for a place to hide. She’d run her hands over the entire apartment. It was as sparse as a monk’s cell.

She could run. Just bolt right by him once the door opened and hope she startled him enough that he wouldn’t call for the city guards.

That plan stalled the moment the door swung wide. The hapless scholar stood there, blocking the entrance with the shoulder span of an ox. Jia went very still beside the bed as he kicked the door shut. The frame rattled with the force of it.

Maybe he was drunk and she could still run.

“What—who’s there?” he demanded. His massive shape tensed in the darkness.

Her throat seized. He was bigger than the gossip had indicated and he was angry.

“Honourable sir,” she began, affecting the courtesan’s lilt she’d heard so many times. It was meant to soothe tempers and stroke egos. She was no good at it. “Your good friend thought you needed some companionship.”

“Friend?”

He sounded clear-headed enough to not be drunk, which was unfortunate for her. She didn’t know how she was going to get out of this.

“What friend?”

“Li,” she blurted out.

He moved closer and seemed to be busying himself with something at the desk beside the far wall. She’d have to dart past him to reach the door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed away from the bed only to find him in front of her, now with a lamp flickering in his grasp. A pale, yellow glow filled the chamber, encircling both of them.

His features were broad and square, not like the pale-faced scholars she was accustomed to. His cheek appeared swollen below his left eye. He was too big, the room was too small, and, on her grave, now he had seen her.

“Li?” he scoffed. “Li hates me.”

She spoke quickly. “Then I must be mistaken. This must be a joke. Farewell.”

Her attempt to slip by was again thwarted when he leaned in close to look at her. There was nothing menacing about his manner, other than he was too close for her to breathe easy.

“What is your name?” he asked.

Name. She needed a name. Some fancy courtesan name. Flowers were always popular.

“Rose. Precious Rose.” She winced. That was awful.

“Rose.”

His gaze traced over her, and a spark of unmistakable interest lit in his eyes, but it was immediately banished with a frown. “Yes, a joke. They are all so very clever.”

His tone indicated this wasn’t the first of such pranks.

“I’m sorry,” he continued. “I can’t…I can’t pay you.”

Heat shot up her neck, rising to her cheeks before she could stammer out a reply. “Oh no, you don’t have to pay.” She realized how her meaning could be mistaken and blushed even more furiously. “No! I mean—”

He looked away, but not before his gaze flitted briefly over her. He raised a hand to scratch the side of his neck nervously. It was too late. She’d already seen his pupils darken with a flash of interest.

Insufferable bastard.

She was furious, embarrassed, then furious again, ignoring the fact that it was her ruse that had started it. He should have at least questioned her story. She wasn’t dressed in the finest silk robes of the elite courtesans, but she hardly resembled one of the lowly tea house prostitutes. And certainly not one foolish enough to sneak into a man’s private chamber uninvited. These scholars and their arrogance.

“You should go.” He appeared more weary than arrogant as he stepped aside.

“I should go,” she echoed, not quite understanding why she hadn’t gone already. She started for the door, but then turned. “I’ve given you my name.” Well, not quite. “What’s yours?”

“Luo Cheng.”

She watched as he turned his back to her to set the oil lamp onto the desk. This one certainly wasn’t built like the pampered scholars that came and went year after year through the academic halls of the capital. Curiosity took hold of her.

“Like the famous general,” she ventured.

He regarded her with an odd look over his shoulder. “Yes, like the general,” he sighed.

Indeed Cheng looked more suited to the imperial army than the civil exams. A quick scan confirmed that he’d returned empty-handed. Her cronies must have succeeded in stealing the book. She would return to her quarters, pay her troupe members, and receive the spoils.

Cheng had seated himself at the desk. He pulled out half an ink stick, then paused with the black stub in his hands.

“Miss…er…Rose?”

“Yes?” She was staring.

He wasn’t so frightening in the light. In fact, he seemed somewhat earnest and vulnerable. From what little she’d heard of him, she’d expected a wastrel. The North Hamlet pavilions were filled with eager students and enough wine to fill the Great River that cut through the centre of the city. They would stay until their pockets were empty of cash, not even knowing if it was night or day outside the curtains of the drinking houses. Yet Cheng had come back to his chamber early and she didn’t smell any liquor or perfume on him. He seemed ready to work, except for her intrusion.

“Do you need me to escort you home?” he asked uncertainly.

The model of politeness and chivalry too. She suddenly felt guilty she’d had him robbed, but for all his manners, he was more a thief than she was. The book hadn’t belonged to him. He’d taken it from the Lotus Pavilion.

Of course, it didn’t belong to her either—but it did now! She’d paid for it, or at least she’d paid to get it. Paid dearly from her meager earnings in hopes that her gamble would be rewarded.

“Take care.” She affected a bow as she retreated to the door. “Master Luo.”

He was watching her from the desk as she closed the door. Finally free, Jia hurried from the courtyard and escaped onto the street. She followed the glimmer of the lanterns back to the heart of the district. Drinking houses and tea parlors lined either side of the street, marked by colourful banners.

As a musician, she was accustomed to the comings and goings of the North Hamlet. Strangers arrived, became fast friends in an hour, and didn’t remember a thing the next morning. You couldn’t trust anyone in the entertainment district.

Cheng didn’t know what a treasure he’d had in his grasp. Most likely he’d taken it as a souvenir after one drunken night in the Lotus Pavilion—though Jia was certain she’d never seen him there, or at any of her other performances, now that she thought of it.

She returned to the musicians’ hall where her troupe stayed. A string of tattered yellow lanterns marked the front gate. The troupe was out in the open courtyard, sharing a jug of wine beneath the stars.

“Goddess of Beauty and Light!”

Jia affected a tigress snarl at them and they laughed. She supposed it was better than the other names they used to tease her. Grandmother. Hag. Spinster. She was not even twenty-four, but in the floating world of courtesans, she was becoming a relic.

Perhaps if she was better at smiling pleasantly and being coy, every coin wouldn’t have been such a struggle. As it was, no one wanted to watch an aging pipa player when they could watch a young, pretty one. If she didn’t gain her freedom soon, she could be turned out to the streets to beg by the time she’d reached thirty. Like most of the entertainers in the district, she owed her troupe leader for taking her in as a child and training her. Every mouthful of rice she’d ever been fed was accounted for and with each performance, he collected two coins to her one. The cash would continue to dwindle as time went by and the debt would keep growing. She could play her fingers raw every night for the next six years and never earn enough.

“Where’s the book?” she demanded.

The flute player held a bloodstained cloth to his nose. “Your lover hits hard.”

“He is not—” Jia exhaled slowly. They only did this because she always rewarded them by getting angry. “He is not my lover. The book. Now.”

The men nudged each other, grinning and remarking cheerfully about women scorned. The lot of them still insisted she’d paid to have the scholar robbed as an act of revenge. Let them spin their less than imaginative tales. She was getting out of here and would never have to look at their ugly faces again.

A fellow pipa player pulled out a bag from under his feet. “Here,” he said, dangling the sack before her. “And don’t forget, you owe us cash.”

She counted out the coins from her purse and slapped them into his outstretched hand. In the same movement, she grabbed the pack.

Before she reached her door, she was already working at the knots. She’d missed out on a night’s wages by passing up the chance to entertain at a court official’s banquet. Another fifty in cash she’d given to the dogs in the courtyard for waylaying Cheng, but the journal was worth a hundred times that.

She slipped into her room and closed the door before loosening the last knot. Her hands shook with excitement as she lit the oil candle. There were several bound books in the pack. She flipped through the first one, searching for the precious lines of poetry that would signal her freedom.

It was a treatise on the history of the later Han dynasty. She cast the book aside and flipped through the smaller notebook. The cover was plain, with none of the adornment she’d expected.

She scanned through the pages, her chest growing tighter with each column of neat black characters. Page after page, backwards then forwards, the characters didn’t change. There was no poetry there. No words of wit and genius worth thousands in cash. She could feel the coins slipping through her fingers like desert sand.

This was going to be the death of her. She was already headed to the afterlife. How had this gone so wrong?

She could storm back to the courtyard and demand her money back, but that would only get her ridiculed. Somehow this was the scholar’s doing. Luo Cheng had what she wanted, and she was going to get it even if she had to search heaven above and earth below.

Chapter Two

The note told him to meet her at the park on Longevity Street. It had to have been from the intriguing Rose. He could almost smell her perfume on the folded scrap of paper that had been tucked beneath his door.

The street was crowded with the midday traffic. It was the busiest lane in the ward, leading from the bustling East Market to cut through the heart of the North Hamlet. Cheng pushed past the basket-laden carts and street vendors toward the grey brick divider that bordered the park.

He had stayed up all night, grinding through an entire ink stick to try to recapture the words of that cursed essay. The examiners would accept such offerings of poetry and short writings, through a so-called “passing of scrolls,” before the official exam as an informal introduction. With his uncultured upbringing, Cheng had failed to recognize such traditions during the previous examination period. He’d been completely overlooked as a nobody during the oral inquiry.

Most of the fresh-faced scholars who crowded the city wards had fathers and grandfathers of notable birth and name. They were practically assured a passing mark. Cheng was only allowed within the academic halls by recommendation. Their local official had spoken of him to Minister Lo, who’d then sponsored his excursion to the imperial capital for the exams. This was his last chance to rise above his birth and bring honour to his family and hometown. He would follow every rule and custom if that’s what was required.

Yet the words wouldn’t come, no matter how much he willed them to. He needed inspiration and it had sadly abandoned him. Rose had been the one bright glimmer in an otherwise dim evening. He paused to smooth a hand over the front of his tunic at the park entrance.

She was inside the gate, standing at the edge of the grass with her back to him. Unlike the previous night, she wore a long grey tunic over trousers. With those colours, she could almost disappear against the grey brick structures of the ward. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Not that he knew what to expect, but he’d allowed himself a few whimsical fantasies.

“Rose!”

She didn’t answer. Cheng had to call her name again. He was nearly upon her by the time she swung around, startled.

“You scared me,” she accused.

“I was calling for you.”

In the close quarters of his chamber, she’d seemed so tempting. In the sunlit park, she took on a different appeal. Her skin was pale and radiant, her lips unpainted. He’d been thinking of her face all night in between verses about civic duty. Rose was more intriguing than immediately noticeable as pretty. Her almond eyes seemed too large for her face and her chin narrowed to a point like a cat’s.

Once again he was caught with his tongue stiff, his words tangled. “You sent me a message.”

She glanced over her shoulder once before whipping those deep eyes back to him. “Have you been to the Lotus Pavilion?”

The pagoda stood high just beyond the line of shops. The green tiled roof made it an easily identifiable landmark of the district. At night, the eaves would be hung with a cascade of lanterns. Even in the drunkest of stupors, one could tell where he was by the pavilion’s radiance.

“I can’t afford to drink at the Lotus Pavilion,” he said with a smirk. “Is that where you entertain?”

“Of course not,” she snapped, with the same force of denial he’d affected. She waved her hand about for effect. “If I did work at the Lotus Pavilion, would I be out here? I would be sleeping off the night beneath silken covers.”

The Lotus Pavilion employed the most sought-after courtesans and entertainers. Noblemen and ministers of the highest ranks hosted lavish gatherings there. Only the most fortunate of scholars were ever invited: ones with the right name or connections. Never him.

Rose shook her head, agitated. “What a mess.”

“Is there trouble?”

“A mess,” she muttered again, for dramatic effect. She fixed her hands onto her hips, perplexed.

Cheng was quickly reminded of why he’d ventured there, despite the crumpled draft of his essay that he’d fed into the fire for warmth. He liked mysteries. He also liked her impossibly slender waist and the flare of her hips beneath it. She was much nicer to look at than a blank page.

She looked him up and down. “I don’t understand. The description fit perfectly; tall, shoulders like an ox. Down to that prominent, jutting brow.”

“Really?” His hand flew self-consciously to his forehead.

He was trying to discern whether the description was unflattering when Rose snatched his hand away. Her long, delicate fingers circled his wrist. They were the only thing delicate about her.

“There was a large banquet at the Lotus Pavilion a week ago,” she said impatiently. “One of the attendees looked like you. Another scholar. Do you know him?”

Rose hadn’t been searching for him last night at all. He couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed. “What were you doing sneaking into a man’s bedchamber anyway?” he asked, leveling his gaze to hers.

She realized she was still holding onto him and let go abruptly. “He took something that belongs to me. Something valuable.”

With an impatient huff, she turned away, staring at the narrow width of the park while dropping deep into her own thoughts. Something about her impetuousness fascinated him. She was bold, single-minded, and very much a riddle—like the ones hidden in lanterns for lovers to solve.

“So you’re not a courtesan,” he said.

She made a disgruntled sound in response that was answer enough, but he already sensed she wasn’t one of the peach-blossom beauties that enchanted men to their chambers. Rose was a good name for her. She definitely had more than a few thorns to her.

Her gaze narrowed. “You’re going to help me,” she declared.

“What?”

“Yes.” She straightened to square off against him, which still left her a head shorter. Still she had the look of a marauding barbarian. “I have your books.”

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