by Andre Norton
But Chuko Liang left the scene of their frantic endeavors and himself climbed to the ramparts near the westward gate to see what lay before them. There was dust rising in great yellow clouds reaching to the very sky. Along two roads that dust hung, as if the jaws of a huge pincers were about to close on Hsicheng, finding the city an easy nut to crack.
The Minister watched only for a moment or two. Then again he made a stir with orders, using even Mu-Ti as his messenger. All the banners which had proclaimed the presence in Hsicheng of the forces of Wu were taken down as fast as men could pull them loose. The half-moon halberds of authority were dropped out of sight. And the word went forth through the whole city that no officer was to show himself, or make a sound, with death a quick penalty for disobedience.
Picked men unstrapped their armor, set aside their swords, spears, and crossbows, and put on the blue coats of peasants, so that they had the look of simple men. With brooms and cleaning baskets they set out in the streets to look like men whose business it was to make all tidy. Also, the foregate was loosed of its bars and pulled fully open, letting any who came see those streets clearly.
Meanwhile the Minister went to the gatehouse tower, where Mu-Ti helped him off with his armor, loosening the buckles and straps. He set aside the heavy dragon helm and his sword in its red lacquer sheath. In the place of all such war gear, Chuko Liang drew on an outer robe of gray, such as a simple Taoist priest might wear, and put on his head a black cap.
He summoned one of the youngest scribes, and to him he handed the pole of a yak-tail standard such as was carried for a magistrate. Mu-Ti, having put off his own light armor at the Commander’s bidding, picked up the sheathed sword as was his duty.
Last of all the Minister reached for a lute, which he had sent Mu-Ti earlier to seek out in the town. He tested its stringing delicately, frowning a little as he made adjustments to his liking. Lute in hand, he went out on the parapet above the gate, where two of the soldiers had set a bench. And there he seated himself, the lute across his knees, the scribe and Mu-Ti taking their places, one on either side of him as if they were in some pleasant garden, come to enjoy the quiet of a summer afternoon afar from the clamor and danger of war.
Chuko Liang, having tuned the lute to his liking, began to play and sing one of the songs of Chi Kang:
“I will cast out wisdom and reject learning,
My thoughts shall wander in the great void—
Always repenting of wrongs done—”
Having finished that song, he began another. Yet never did he sing of war, but rather of the thoughts men held in times of peace, and those verses which had been written in quiet places.
Nor did he show the least interest in what was happening on the roads leading to the city. To the best of their ability Mu-Ti and the young scribe tried to copy his calm and lack of interest in their present surroundings.
What the scribe felt, Mu-Ti did not know. As for himself, he knew an inner shrinking, awaiting with a dread he fought hard to conceal the striking of the first crossbow bolts. For now the scouts of the enemy’s van were riding below, though with the wariness of those suspecting ambush.
Then, having stared for a long moment at the open gates of the town and at the small party of three on the rampart, the scouts wheeled around and thundered back at a full gallop the way they had come. Mu-Ti grasped the sword tighter, as if holding it so, even sheathed, could afford some defense. But Chuko Liang smiled gently as he finished his song, only to begin another, this time voicing words in praise of wind-driven clouds.
Instead of the scouts, a party of officers now returned. And judging by their rich armor, they were of high rank, though they carried no name banner. Close to the wall they wheeled around and halted, and there they sat in their saddles for a period which seemed to Mu-Ti to be very long indeed. They listened to Chuko Liang as if the light words he sang carried some dire meaning, yet now he praised leaves driven by the autumn breeze. Nor did he take any notice of those below, but fixed his gaze well above their heads, as if they were ghosts without power to be seen.
Mu-Ti watched them speak to one another. One even rode closer to look within the gates along that street where men walked and swept in seeming unconcern.
That man of Wei rode back to his companions, and now he seemed to urge some course upon the most richly armored of the party. But at length the officer threw up his hand in a gesture of sharp command and they all turned to gallop away. The Minister sang on as once more dust arose. Only this time it signaled the retreat of the force of Wei. Mu-Ti drew a deep breath of wonder.
Then Chuko Liang laughed aloud and put aside the lute to clap his hands, while out of the tower came some of the civil officials who had ridden with his staff.
“Excellency, what magic have you wrought?” the eldest dared to ask. “Did you sing some spell written by the Sages that this was done?”
Again the Minister laughed. “No magic did I use, younger brother. Unless knowing a man’s way of thought is magic. There is an old saying, ‘Beware the Slumbering Dragon, stir him not awake.’ Ssuma thought that he saw here a slumbering dragon, such as that set upon my sword—caution kept him from waking it. He knows well my reputation for never doing anything not ten times thought upon, that I play not recklessly with danger. Thus, when he saw the open gates inviting him into the town, he suspected an ambush cleverly laid. When he saw me at my ease, playing upon a lute, my hand reaching for its strings rather than the sword hilt, he believed I must be so safe that I need not actively defend myself. Now he will retire, and in so doing he will meet the able Kuan and Chang already in position to give him a sharp lesson. But—had I been in his place, I would not have turned aside. He will long have reason to regret this day.”
Then once more the Minister became a man of swift action, giving orders that the town be speedily cleared of the remainder of the supplies, and that those and its people be escorted to Hunchung. For he knew that Ssuma would not be long in returning.
But the words he had spoken had already passed among the soldiers and then to the people of the town. So as he rode out among them they hailed him as “Slumbering Dragon.”
It was later that Ma Su was brought to him. And seeing the Commander he had disobeyed, the General threw himself down upon the ground, beating his forehead against the earth, begging mercy. But though Chuko Liang looked with pity on the humbled man, he said:
“When Heaven sends calamities it is possible to escape; when one occasions the calamity himself it is no longer possible to live. It is truly said that the mouth is a door leading to disaster; no less is it certain that by impatience and folly may great plans be brought to ruin. If the first words of an order fail, ten thousand will not then prevail. And no man may call himself a soldier unless he obeys the order of his leader.
“You rashly swore victory or your head, pledging this by solemn oath. Then you threw away victory, being led by the demon of pride to question the worth of carefully thought out plans. Upon your head now falls the fate you yourself asked.”
So they dealt with Ma Su even as he had, in his great conceit, suggested that they do. But Chuko Liang knew him to be a brave man with no treachery in him, only stupid with pride. So he did not allow the family of Ma Su to suffer, rather took them into his own household.
But also, at the first interval when he had time, the Minister gathered together his senior officers and showed them the report of all that had happened, which he had written out to be sent to the Son of Heaven. To this report, which ended with the account of the execution of Ma Su, he had added these words:
“He who selects the wrong man for a post of danger is himself in grave error. This person is no longer fit to be one trusted by the Throne. Therefore those undeserved honors and awards which have been given in the past to this unworthy servant, the position he holds, must rightfully be taken from him. And in addition he must be fittingly punished for the wrongs he committed in the ill use of power.”
Though his offi
cers protested loudly, Chuko Liang would change none of these words in which he resigned as First Minister. Thus the report was sent to be put into the hands of the Emperor.
At first the Emperor protested. But Chuko Liang held firm in his resolve and insisted that he was no longer fit for his post, having made such a fatal error as to select Ma Su as chief commander in the field. The Emperor honored such honesty, which held by the teachings of older, more upright days. So, though he took away the post of First Minister, still he laid upon Chuko Liang the generalship of the army, with as many rights and duties as he had held before, only the outer honor being lessened. And all men continued to speak highly of Chuko Liang as a wise and honorable man.
And they made the Slumbering Dragon a subject of song, which said to him:
“Quite open lay the city to the foe,
But Chuko’s lute of jasper wonders wrought
It turned aside the legion’s onward march
For both leaders guessed the other’s thought.”
6
Dust on the Table
“Slumbering dragon”—the words sighed through the dark room hissingly, as if the dragon himself had spoken them.
But the dragon slept upon the table, his eyes half shut. He looked just like the one on Chuko Liang’s sword. That had been silver, though, because it was on a steel blade, whereas this one was the Imperial Yellow, as it might appear on the Son of Heaven’s own banner.
The Son of Heaven! It was a long, long time since there had been an Emperor in China. Kim ran his fingertip lightly over the body of the yellow dragon. The pieces had gone so tightly together he could hardly see or feel their divisions now. The puzzle was complete.
Dragons—he studied the silver one coiling at the top, the queer blue one at the bottom, the red to balance the yellow at the sides. Had they—Sig, Ras, Artie—also met dragons?
But Shui Mien Lung held him the longest. Kim could feel again that weariness that had struck to his very bones when he had ridden with Ma Su and Weng Ping and then returned with the map and the report. He also knew again the fear that had dried his mouth, yet made his hands sweat on the hilt of the sheathed sword as he stood beside the Minister and watched Ssuma and his officers ride up to the wall.
You made no excuses, you took the blame for your errors of choice as well as act. That was what he had learned from Chuko Liang. Whole sentences the Minister had said came back to him word by word.
What had Kim been doing these past days since he had moved here, gone to the new school? When he had felt lost and alone he had made it the school’s fault for being too big, too full of strangers, his parents’ fault for moving—everyone’s but his own. No one was going to hunt him out, beg him, Kim Stevens, to be a friend. He could continue to walk in error, believing he was right, as Ma Su had done—or he could follow the path of the Slumbering Dragon.
Chuko had used his wits and taken triumph out of defeat. There were different ways to face the future: like Chuko, like Ma Su. And now he knew which he would try. Suddenly, for a moment or two he was Mu-Ti again, folding his hands together in a way which seemed right and proper, bowing his head respectfully to the yellow dragon.
“A thousand, thousand thanks, Great and Noble One,” he said in the Hong Kong speech he had not used for a long time now. “That you have kindly shown this unworthy one the rightful path is a great honor. May this one continue to walk in it hereafter.” For the second time he bowed to the dragon as Chin Mu-Ti would have done.
Then he took his book bag and started out of the dusky room. How long had he lived in that dream? An hour—two? Mother would be worried. Kim had seen her watching him with that shadow in her eyes these past days. She and Father both had asked him about school, how he liked it. And several times Mother had suggested that he ask home some school friends as he used to bring James Fong and Sam Lewis. He had not known just how to answer without letting her guess how he hated it all. Now, as Chuko Liang had done, he would face fear. And though he did not play the lute or sing in the face of the enemy, he would do what he could.
Kim ran through the dark rooms, climbed out the kitchen window, shutting it behind him. Then he halted on the porch. The puzzle! If someone was coming to clear out the house what about the puzzle? It would be taken away!
Yet he did not want to go back alone to get it. Sig, Ras, and Artie—they all had a part of it. He ought to talk to them first, ask what should be done. Suppose he stopped at Sig’s house, they might still be there—
Kim glanced at his wrist watch, a birthday present two months ago. Twenty minutes to five! But he had gotten off the bus at four fifteen—he had been here only about half an hour! Days had passed in the dream, half an hour in real time. Still, twenty to five was later than usual. And now, at all times, he did not want to worry Mother.
He could see the boys later. Better yet, he thought, suppose he called them all up, asked them over? If they could come, then they might decide about the puzzle, maybe collect it from the house together after school tomorrow. Kim put on an unusual burst of speed, running down the street, his book bag thumping against his leg, very eager to get to the phone and make those calls. In one way it would be the first battle in his own private war, his first chance to prove that he could follow Chuko Liang’s example.
Mother herself was using the phone when Kim came into the house. He could see her sitting on the edge of the couch, listening. She smiled and waved, pointing to the kitchen, where he knew there would be cookies and milk waiting. He hung his jacket and cap in the closet, set his book bag on the bottom stair, to be taken to his room later. But this time he did not take his library book out to read while he ate. What he had to think about was far more exciting than anything he could read, he was sure of that.
There were two brownies on the snack plate, and the rest of the kitchen had a good smell. Then he remembered about the bake sale at church. Mother must have promised to make a lot of things for that. He could see two covered cake tins and a couple of big pans with foil pinched over their tops. Nobody could bake like Mother. Kim nibbled around the edge of the first brownie to make it last.
“Well”—Mother stood in the kitchen doorway—”how did it go today, Kim?”
“All right. Please, could I ask some of the boys over maybe after supper? They live close—Sig, he’s down on Ashford, and Ras and Artie are close—”
“This is a school night and there’s homework, isn’t there?”
He nodded, his mouth was full of brownie, too full to let him answer politely as he should. Then he swallowed fast.
“This is special. And it wouldn’t take very long.” He hesitated, knowing that Mother would wonder what was so special and why he did not tell her all about it.
But she did not ask any questions, which was one of the best things about Mother.
“If their parents say they may come, why, yes, Kim. Maybe for a half-hour or so. But on school nights—”
“Yes,” he agreed. Rules were rules and he had never asked to change them before. But this was important. Suppose they came to clean out the old house tomorrow and the puzzle was gone! Could he leave for school earlier tomorrow without having to say why, get the puzzle safely out on the way to school? Or if he could not, might one of the others?
In one bite he ate the rest of the brownie and went to look up phone numbers, taking them alphabetically so that Ras—George Brown—was first. With luck Ras himself answered.
Kim had not thought out ahead of time what to say, and now he fumbled for the right words. After all, Ras did not know, could not know, that he had been working the puzzle, too.
Also, it was not very helpful when he said, “This is Kim” to have Ras say, “Kim who?”
“Kim Stevens. I wait at the bus stop with you.”
“Sure.” But there was such a note of bewilderment in Ras’s voice even now that Kim was discouraged. He could only hurry on and hope for the best, though he was a little afraid that the other boy would not listen to him.
For a long minute there was no answer at all. Kim felt almost as cold inside as he had on the wall of that long-ago city. Was Ras going to be angry with him, or even hang up? The silence stretched very long indeed before the other said, “Something happened to you, didn’t it?”
“Yes! And, Ras, what about it—the you-know-what—if they come to clear out the house? Could—could you come over after supper and talk about it? Maybe even if we wait until tomorrow it will be too late.”
“I’ll have to ask. What about Sig—Artie?”
“I’m going to call them.”
Ras went away from the phone to come back with a promise of “after supper for sure.” Kim had been looking up Sig’s number in the book, had his finger under it ready for the second call. And he had luck when he reached Sig, for Artie was still there, so he got them both and gathered two more promises.
When they arrived he was waiting impatiently. Father had the TV on to listen to the news, and Mother was back on the phone talking about the bake sale, so he took them straight up to his room. Sig and Artie sat on the bed, looking about them with open curiosity. Ras had the desk chair, but Kim stood, eager to begin.
“You’ve got a groovy place.” Sig studied the shelves up on the wall, holding the things Father had brought back from Hong Kong and Japan and Korea. “Hey—look—there’s a dragon!”
He pointed to a wood carving.
“That’s from Taiwan,” Kim said impatiently.
“Looks a lot like the yellow dragon on the box lid.” Sig got up and went to inspect it more closely.
