by Alice Major
Sometimes Alasdair begged permission to go off with the scouting party. Joss would have loved to go too, but the soldiers were too superstitious to accept her company, So she and Chuan took to slipping off themselves, away from the constant creaking of carts and shouting. They would lead her pony off to the side, Joss sitting demurely on her saddle, as though they were simply looking for a private place to relieve themselves. Once out of sight, Joss would slip down from the pony’s broad back and lead him along. They took care not to get out of earshot of the army. They went just far enough to have some sense of exploration and relief from the boredom of the march; just far enough away to be able to talk about the king.
They had slipped away in this manner on one occasion and were following an uncertain little track when Joss’s normally placid pony began snuffling and jerking his head like an alarmed rocking-horse.
“What’s the matter with him?” shouted Chuan, trying to grab the bridle on the opposite side.
“Don’t know. He won’t move forward. OUCH.”
The pony had given one last tug and caught her finger painfully in the leather of the bridle. She swore and let go, and the animal took off at a determined pace into the underbrush.
“STUPID horse,” Joss muttered, heading after him.
They heard him crashing ahead of them; then heard the crashing stop suddenly. In a few moments, they caught up to him, standing in a clearing and pulling at some green leaves with his big square teeth. But it wasn’t the horse that brought them up short. It was what they saw beyond him: a ring of stones with a sifting of white ash in the centre; a pile of leather bags; rolled-up blankets.
“It’s a camp,” said Joss.
“Of course,” said Chuan impatiently. “But whose?” She knelt to examine the bags. The leather was stamped deeply with curving patterns.
“Foreign work,” she said.
“White Ti?”
“Who else?”
Joss looked around nervously. “They’ll be coming back. We’d better get back and tell Ssu-ma.”
Chuan nodded and looked over at the pony. He was nose-deep in a patch of some tall-growing, purple-flowering plant. “Summer-weed,” she said. “They can smell it for miles. Strange to see it growing out here in the middle of nowhere like this.”
“Come on,” urged Joss. She wasn’t interested in botany. She was interested in the approval they’d get form the king for bringing this news, and she grabbed at the pony’s reins. But Chuan went on studying the clearing, her eyes thoughtful.
“There is only bedding for two people here,” she said. Suddenly she went down on her knees beside a small chest, unbuckled the strap that held it closed and raised the lid.
“Here. Look.”
Reluctantly, Joss let the reins drop again and went to see. The chest was full of dull brown daggers, with blades about twenty centimetres long.
“A bunch of knives,” she said. “So what?”
“They’re metal,” said Chuan in awe, and Joss remembered the wonder with which people had examined her metal buttons. Metal of any kind was a rare, fabulous material to the Middle Kingdom.
“Take one to show the king,” she said.
Chuan seemed almost reluctant to touch such valuable things for a moment; then she picked one up hurriedly and closed and buckled the lid. A loud snuffle from the pony startled her.
“Now let’s go,” Joss urged.
They both hauled at the pony’s bridle and by holding a large bunch of summer-weed flowers under his nose, managed to get him back on the little path and jogging on at a faster rate than he would normally condescend to maintain.
Ssu-ma’s face was instantly alert when they came tumbling back with their tale. He examined the knife narrowly and questioned them intently. What direction? How far? How many knives?
“We could show you,” said Joss.
Within moments, she was mounted in front of Ssu-ma himself and trotting down the trail at the head of ten mounted soldiers. About two-thirds of he way to the point where the pony had bolted, they halted and left the horses with two soldiers in charge while the others continued quietly on foot.
At the point where the pony had bolted, Joss raised her hand and pointed silently. Broken branches and bent grass showed quite clearly where the pony had burst through the underbrush.
“That direction. Not far,” she mouthed.
With gestures, Ssu-ma directed his soldiers to fan out and make their way to the clearing. He motioned to Joss that she should stay behind, near the path. However, after the soldiers had disappeared, she followed at a little distance, walking cautiously but quickly. She was there in time to see what happened when Ssu-ma stepped into the clearing.
A man and a boy about eight years old were standing in the centre. They were looking around as though they realized something had been disturbed. At the rustle of Ssu-ma’s steps, they whirled to face him.
The man shouted something to the boy that was clearly a command to run, and launched himself for the far side of the clearing. But the boy hesitated for a fraction of a second too long. As he began to run, two of the soldiers surged in from the left-hand side of the clearing and seized him.
At the sound of his cry, the man turned back and ran to struggle with the captors. But his wildcat struggle was soon overpowered by the other soldiers who rushed in.
“Stop. Don’t harm them,” Ssu-ma commanded.
The soldiers fell back, forming a ring around the two. Wearily, the man put a protective arm around the boy’s shoulder and turned to face them. He looked past Ssu-ma to where Joss was standing in the underbrush. She wasn’t sure he saw her, but she could see his face clearly. A trickle of blood ran from his forehead down the side of his nose.
In spite of the blood, it seemed a face meant to be calm and kind—a face with the high cheekbones and dark hair of anyone in the Middle Kingdom, although the nose seemed a little broader than most. The boy beside him was so similar that it seemed probable they were father and son.
“Tie their hands,” ordered Ssu-ma.
The soldiers pulled his protective arm down to lash it behind his back. The boy also had his arms trussed to his sides. Joss felt a pang as he looked anxiously up at his father, who muttered something reassuring to him. Then the soldiers poked them into motion.
Joss pressed herself into the underbrush as they passed. She felt her chest suddenly tight—as though her arms, too, had been wrapped in leather thongs.
Chapter Nineteen
The reception area at the heart of the royal tent was almost crowded. The king sat in a carved chair with high, square arms, flanked by Ssu-ma, Ssu-kung and several of the higher-ranking officers. The prisoners, still bound, faced them. Joss, Alasdair and Chuan stood to one side, near the soldiers who had marched the captives into the tent.
From where she stood, Joss could see the profile of the older prisoner. The corner of his mouth was tucked in firmly, his shoulders were squared and he stood stone-still. But once or twice Joss saw a slight quiver in the hands tied behind his back. Beside him stood the boy. He didn’t quite come up to his father’s shoulder, but he clearly was trying to keep his back as straight as he could.
Standing near the prisoners was an elderly man who Joss had noticed from time to time during the march. He was a humble-looking soul with big front teeth and a habit of sniffing—rather like a rabbit with a cold. He was a scholar, one of the few people in the Middle Kingdom who was familiar with the language of the White Ti, and he had been brought along as a translator.
But the translation wasn’t going well. The rabbity-looking man made a few remarks to the prisoners, but got not response beyond a puzzled look from the older captive. He responded with a single short sentence.
“What did he say?” asked the king.
“Sire, he is awed by your presence.”
The prisoner repeated the sent
ence and Joss frowned. The translation didn’t ring true for her. It certainly didn’t match the man’s posture and expression. He didn’t look in the least awed.
The prisoner spoke the same short sentence a third time, and she listened intently. She sensed his language was basically similar to that of the Middle Kingdom.
The translator repeated, “He is awed by your presence, sire.”
“No he’s not,” Joss blurted out. Everyone turned to look at her.
“Do you know his speech?” Ssu-ma asked. She thought there was a hint of suspicion in his voice and floundered, “No, no.” Then faltered into silence.
“Ask him who he is,” said the king.
The translator slowly spelled out a sentence in the foreign tongue. A look of total bewilderment passed between man and boy, and the man changed to another sentence. The translator hesitated nervously, then said, “I believe . . . I believe he says he is a thief, my lord.”
“A thief!” The king thumped the arm of his chair. “I knew these White Ti to be rascals. But to admit it so coolly!”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Once again, Joss spoke before she knew she was doing it. The rabbity scholar jumped at her voice.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“He can’t be a thief.”
Ssu-kung broke the astonished silence. “Ah. So you do speak this enemy tongue.” His voice was greased silk.
“No,” she replied. “Although I think I could do as good a job as he’s doing.” She jerked her thumb at the translator, who seemed close to tears.
“Sire ... I know this language only from scrolls and study. I have had no opportunity to speak it.”
Ssu-ma snorted in disgust. “I told you to get me someone who could translate,” he said to Ssu-kung. “You should have thrown him out with the turnips.”
The rabbity man flinched, and Joss’s heart went out to him.
“Can I try something?” she said. Hardly waiting for an answer, she went towards the prisoners and motioned to the man to bend forward a little so that his forehead was on a level with her face. She looked steadily into his eyes for a few moments, hoping she could somehow reassure him with her gaze. “Don’t worry,” she murmured illogically, as if he could understand. Then she brushed his hair aside and laid the tip of her tongue lightly on his forehead.
She felt him stiffen, but she dug her fingers into his shoulder to hold him still. There was a slightly metallic taste on the tip of her tongue as if she had touched it to a weak electric battery, and she felt a faint throbbing in her own forehead. The silence in the room was so deep that it was like a ringing in her ears. Finally, she let go her grip on the prisoner and stepped back.
“Now,” she said. “Who are you?”
A shadow of wonder crossed his face, followed by the faintest expression of relief.
“I am Deng-Xu merchant and traveller.”
“And this is your son?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say earlier?”
He let his calm gaze travel around the rich furnishings of the tent. “I said you are thieves.”
“What have we stolen?”
“My goods. My trading goods and hence my profits for an entire year.” His voice was composed and yet indignant.
Joss’s attention was distracted by a sharp question from the king. “What are you saying?” She looked around to realize that almost everyone in the room was staring at her with suspicion. “Oh, sorry . . .” she said and translated the conversation.
Ssu-kung looked at her narrowly. “How does this happen? That you understand this speech?”
She answered warily. “It’s just a . . . a gift that was given to me. To touch people on the forehead and understand them.” For some reason, she didn’t add that she could extend this gift to others in the room and allow them to communicate directly with the prisoner.
Ssu-ma stepped forward and, lifting her chin, looked closely in her eyes. “And before this time, you have never heard the speech of the White Ti.”
She looked steadily back at him. “No.”
“And this is a gift that all people in your world have? The boy, for instance?”
“Alasdair can, yes. But not everybody. It happened as we came into this world.”
His grip tightened slightly on her chin. She felt the strength of his hands and his potential power over her. “This is the truth?” he demanded.
Alasdair came to her defence. “It is,” he said fiercely.
Ssu-ma looked from her face to Alasdair’s. Then, apparently satisfied, he let go of Joss’s chin and stepped back to assume his position near the king.
The king clapped his hands and said jubilantly, “You see how wise I was to bring her, Ssu-ma.”
The Director of Horses permitted himself a grim smile. “I will allow that you were fortunate, sire.”
But Alasdair, looking around the circle of faces, saw that suspicion lingered on a few of them and that Ssu-kung wore an expression of settled resentment as he stared at Joss.
Ssu-ma turned back to Joss. “Ask him his business in this region,” he commanded.
Through a series of questions and answers, Joss found that Deng was finishing his summer’s travel to trade goods throughout the southern tip of the lands of the White Ti. That he and his son were natives of the town of Xi. That Xi lay somewhere to the north.
But then the answers started to dry up. Deng would not say anything about his people, except that their leader, their “overlord,” was named Prince Min. To any question about the location of their capital, the strength of their armies, the nature of their weapons and warcraft, he returned no answer. His lips closed firmly and he stared stoically ahead.
Ssu-ma stepped forward at last with one of the metal knives in his hand. “Ask him about this.”
The merchant looked at the weapon and a flicker of resentment showed in his face.
“That is my property.”
“Do all your people carry such property?”
But Deng refused to answer any further. Eventually the Director of Horses gave up and snapped out an order to remove the prisoners. As they were hustled out by guards, Ssu-ma called, “Wait.” He walked across the room to stare closely in the prisoner’s eyes.
“Tell him . . .,” he said slowly, “Tell him there are many kinds of property. It is wise to know how to value what is most important to you.”
As Joss finished translating this, she saw the merchant’s eyes turn swiftly towards his son. For an instant, he wore an expression of ... fear? ... horror? But before she could be certain, his face settled into its impassive folds. He gave no other sign that he had heard Ssu-ma’s remark. The onlookers stood silent as he and his son were marched away.
Later, before Joss and Alasdair went to their sleeping tents, they stopped by the line where their ponies were tethered to check whether the beasts were fed and watered. Leaning against the placid flanks of her pony, Joss asked “What do you think he meant?”
“Who?”
“Ssu-ma. When he said that last thing to the prisoners. About knowing how to value property.”
Alasdair’s face was solemn. He pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes before saying, “It was some kind of threat. He wants them to talk.”
She shivered, remembering the pressure of the strong fingers on her jaw. “I don’t like Ssu-ma.” It was as though she had finally decided something she hadn’t been sure of before. “He’s capable of anything.”
Alasdair frowned. “But he needs information, Joss. I think he just does what he has to do to get through this campaign.”
“He’d do anything,” she repeated. And repeated it to herself again as she drifted off to sleep.
The beginning of the next pulse came cooler and damper than the air had ever been before. As the soldiers gathered in jostling lines f
or the first meal, Alasdair looked up at the sky. The light node was paler than he had ever seen it. The rays of Yao-chi’s thread were invisible.
“Funny,” he said to himself, looking up.
A crusty soldier standing right behind him followed his gaze. “Fog coming in,” he said, then poked Alasdair’s ribs impatiently. “Get going there.” He jumped and apologized, then set his clay bowl down for a dollop of millet porridge.
Before the meal was finished, the first tendrils of mist started to creep into the camp. Alasdair looked up to see that the line of horses behind the royal tent was almost completely concealed. The trees on the far side of the road were no more than looming, suggestive shapes. Then the fog came in as quickly and thoroughly as a chemical reaction taking place in a test tube. Beside him, the crusty soldier looked up from his rapidly emptying bowl and grunted in satisfaction.
“They won’t be marching us anywhere this pulse,” he said through a mouthful of porridge.
Soon the company commanders confirmed this prediction, shouting orders through the camp. The soldiers seemed torn between gratitude to the fog for giving them a rest from the ceaseless lashing of horses and dragging of carts, and fear of what it represented.
“It’s early this winter,” muttered another soldier near Alasdair. “We should have been on our way back home before the first fog.”
The camp battened down to wait out the weather. Joss wandered around as aimless as the mist, feeling as though it was seeping into her own soul.
She located the tent where the prisoners had been put. It was separated from the main body of the camp by the king’s royal pavilion. The prison tent was watched by two armed guards, one stationed on the north side and the other on the south. The stared coldly at her as she wandered by. Flustered, she wandered over to scratch the nose of one of the king’s personal horses.
