by G R Matthews
Tales from the
Stone Road
G R Matthews
Foreword
Welcome once again, or for the first time, to the land of The Stone Road. You don’t need to have read the novel(s) to enjoy these tales but if you have then you might just nod here and there as you learn a little more of the world.
If you want to find out more about the world and its people then first book is available on the Kindle or as a paperback at quite reasonable prices.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GHNPY28/ for the UK
http://www.amazon.com//dp/B00GHNPY28/ for the USA
I’d appreciate any thoughts and reviews of these stories on either the Amazon site and/or
Goodreads (https://www.goodreads.com). You can also find me on twitter: @G_R_Matthews
Bargaining Chip
Bargaining chip
“Not that,” Zheng snarled.
“Sorry,” Chan-jaun carried the large, leather bound book in her tiny hands and edged it back onto the table. “What next, Daddy?”
“Can't you think for yourself? You're more fucking trouble than you’re worth. Pack that into the trunk,” Zheng pointed at a brass candle holder.
The little girl, standing on tip toes to reach the top of the table, wrapped her fingers around the engraved metal and pulled it into her arms. She sagged under the weight, tottered over to the trunk and dropped it in.
“Careful,” he shouted. “Better still, leave it alone. I'll finish the packing. Be a damn sight quicker. Go and sit over there, out of the way, and don't speak. If your bloody mother hadn't up and died…”
Chan-jaun looked down at the dust-coated, wooden floor and moved over to the stool that her father had pointed towards. She clambered up onto it and sat still. The weight of memories, heavier and more valuable than gold, rested on her small shoulders.
“Stop snivelling, girl,” Zheng snapped as he continued to shove clothes and jewellery into the trunk.
A loud banging sounded through the house. Zheng stopped packing and raised a single finger to his lips. She echoed the motion but where he had a pinched, worried expression on his face she wore an innocent smile. The door rattled in its frame again.
“Open up, Zheng. We know you’re in there,” a voice commanded, muffled by the thick wooden door.
Zheng crept over the small window and risked a peek outside, “Fuck.”
“Open the bloody door or I'm going to kick it in and drag your sorry arse out here,” the voice screamed and the banging on the door intensified.
Zheng wrung his hands and cast a panicked look around the room. Nothing offered the help he sought. “All right, I'm coming.”
He stood and beckoned to Chan-jaun. Together they traipsed down the stairs to the main room of the house where Zheng drew back the bolt that held the door closed. The instant the bolt cleared the metal housing, the door was thrown open, the heavy wood catching Zheng full in the face. He staggered back, swearing, holding hands up to his face. Blood welled up between his fingers.
“Mind if we come in?” the large thug said as he stepped through the doorway followed by a younger, smaller man. Both carried the thick bladed Dao sabre that was popular amongst soldiers and civilians alike. The blade was a long as the wielders arm, sharpened on one side, and curved upwards to the point. The hand guard at the base of the blade was a simple disc of metal.
“He wants to see you,” the large man spoke through the greasy beard that adorned his face. His eyes passed over Zheng and focused on Chan-jaun. She moved closer to her father, uncomfortable under the gaze.
“I’ll be right there,” Zheng grabbed a rag from the work surface and held it against his nose. “Give me a chance to get cleaned up.”
“We’ll wait,” the younger man said in a calm tone.
“We ain’t waiting. He doesn’t care what state you’re in,” the large man corrected. “You ain’t gonna care much either once he’s done with you.”
“Ah,” Zheng backed up a step, “what’s the chance of just forgetting you found me?”
“Not much,” the large man said.
“You shouldn’t have stolen from him,” the younger one said.
“You can have the money. I’ll double it,” Zheng backed up another step. “Triple it.”
“Zheng, money is not going to work. That belongs to him. Don’t take anything that belongs to him. That’s one of the rules. You broke it and you are going to pay for it. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.” The young man’s voice was hard but there was a note of resignation.
“Time to go,” the large one said, his eyes wandering back to Chan-juan.
“No,” Zheng back up again and tripped over his daughter, hiding behind him, falling to the floor. “Please, no. There must be something I can do.”
“There isn’t,” the young one said.
Zheng cast a fear-filled glance at the young man and then to the other. He caught glint in the older one’s eyes, “Take her. Let me go and you can do what you want with her.” He grabbed his daughter, dragged her round and held her out as an offering to the large thug.
“Well now,” the large man had a hungry look in his eyes.
“Take her. Let me go and take her,” Zheng pushed her forward again as he scrambled to his feet, hope lighting his eyes. “And the money too. Just let me go.”
The large man took a step forward, “A young bit of flesh and the money. That’s a good bargain, that is.”
“No,” the young man said.
“We could tell him that Zheng was gone when we got here. Left in such a hurry that he hadn’t even packed his stuff. He’ll be happy to have the money back, we get to keep a little for ourselves and we get to have some fun with the young‘un here.”
Chan-jaun stood in between the thugs and her father, looking back and forth between the two. “Daddy?”
“You’ll do as you’re fucking told, girl.” Zheng took another step back, distancing himself from his daughter. “Might have a use after all.”
“No,” the younger one again.
“You ain’t never had young flesh? It’s different, special,” the large one spoke, his voice deeper than before and he re-adjusted his trousers. “Once you have there ain’t no going back. You get the taste for it.”
“No,” the young man said. There was steel in his voice.
“What the fuck do you know?” The large man turned on his fellow thug. “You been here, what, three months and think you know it all. Little piss-ant runt. Fuck off outside if you don’t want a piece. Take her old man with you. I’ll be out in a while.”
Chan-jaun, a tiny figure between the thugs and father, began to cry.
“Shut your howling, girl.” Zheng shouted.
“No,” the young one didn’t bend or back up before the dangerous mix of anger and lust displayed on the older man's face. “We came here for Zheng and we take him. We do our jobs and that’s it. You want to be a pervert; you do it on your own time and far away from me.”
“Fuck off, little man,” the older one swung a fist at the younger.
Chan-juan cried louder as blood sprayed from the severed neck of the old thug. It drenched her, dripping through her hair and soaking her dress. The old thug collapsed to the floor, his eyes gazing at Chan-jaun but seeing only darkness. Bright red blood continued to pump from his neck as if his heart had not received the death message and continued to beat.
The young man wiped the blood from his Dao sword on the murdered man's legs. Zheng ran into the small kitchen area and wrenched the small cleaver from its hook. He held it in front of him, waving it back and forth; a talisman to ward off the spectre of death that had re-sheathed its sword and was now advancing on him.
&n
bsp; “Zheng, you’re a worthless piece of shit. Less than a man, never a father. He wants to see you and he will.” The young man dropped his sword to the floor, “Doesn’t matter to me whether you're alive or dead. Maybe matters to him, as he wanted to kill you. Put that little knife down and you get a few more minutes of life.”
Zheng screamed and lunged forward, slicing downwards towards the unarmed man’s neck. Chan-juan turned her head at the scream and with dazed eyes saw the young man catch her father’s hand as it descended. He twisted his wrist, turning the blade inwards towards her father. With his right hand he struck, and pushed, at the inside of her father’s elbow. The hand holding the cleaver pushed too and with the sharp blade of the cleaver her father cut his own throat. He died in silence.
“Well, little girl, looks we will be leaving this town,” the young man knelt in front of her, his eyes as soft as cotton. “Sorry about your Dad but then I reckon you’re better off without him. I’m an orphan too and I turned out fine, kind of. My name is Jing Ke.”
He led the blood covered girl out into the sunshine.
The Duke’s tree
Chapter 1 – Of trees and business
“Who owns the land in the centre?”
“Strictly speaking, Lord Deshi, no one owns it. The locals consider the tree a good luck symbol for their village so they built around it.”
“A sacred tree?” Deshi stroked his thin moustache.
“Yes, Your lordship. I spoke to the chief, village legends say that if anyone tries to cut down the tree then bad luck will fall upon the rest of the village.” The aide bobbed his head as he spoke.
“And the last time someone tested this legend?” Deshi strode forward to the brow of the hill to stare out across the village. There it was, right in the centre, a tall tree that towered over the one storey buildings, its wide crown sheltering and embracing the village. The road ran down the hill and straight through the village, detouring only to go around the base of the tree.
“The chief cannot recall the last time, My Lord.”
“Really? Well let’s go meet the chief.” Deshi returned to the carriage and settled into the cushioned seat, closed the door and waved the caravan forward through the open window. The carriage wheels trundled over the rough ground, their wooden frames creaking and bouncing over stones and potholes. Deshi placed a bracing hand on the interior frame and gave his wife a smile.
“We’ll soon be there, Sying.”
“We’d better be, Deshi,” she snapped back at him. “Why I couldn’t stay in Ya’an is still beyond me.”
“Because I wanted you to see the countryside and I don’t trust you with the guard captain. I’ve seen the way you make eyes at him,” Deshi closed his mouth and prepared himself for the inevitable argument.
“I have to look at someone, Husband. It is sure you never look at me anymore. Is it that I am too old for you now? Is it because I won’t bow down and kau tau at your every whim?” She slapped the closed fan she was holding into her palm.
“Sying, must we have this argument every time and must it always be my fault. You haven’t been the seductive temptress that I married for a long time? You haven’t climbed into my bed with anything but cold feet, cold heart and even colder shoulders since Qiu died.” He sat back against the padded carriage seat.
“And why is that? Because all the time I was pregnant with Qiu and when he fell ill, you were off with the serving girls, tumbling around their beds without a care in the world. And you didn’t stop when he died. You just carried on going, pushing your little hoe into the furrow of every serving girl who smiled in your direction and half of those that didn’t.”
“A proper wife would understand her husband’s needs and make him happy.”
“A proper husband would care for his wife and child first and put his own selfish needs second.” Sying turned her head away and gazed out of the window signalling an end to the argument. Further words would go unheeded; she was gone, back into her memories of Qiu. Every argument ended this way and he was never sure who won, or who was keeping score.
Deshi sighed. Yes, he had taken a bit of ease and pleasure with the serving girls during Sying’s pregnancy. What else did she expect? He was the Duke of Ya’an, a noble from a long lineage. It was a nobles right to do with the servants as he pleased. She’d known that when she married him. It was a marriage of politic and expediency bringing both his and her family greater power. And with great power comes greater riches, a saying her father had kept repeating during the negotiations for the marriage. Her duty was to serve him and deliver a son to carry on their families tradition. Qiu’s death had hurt him too, didn’t she understand that?
“My Lord?” The question hedged its way past the curtain.
“Yes, what is it?” Deshi called back.
“The chief's residence... erm, house. We've arrived, My Lord.”
“Good. About time.” Deshi heard his harsh tones echo from the wooden walls of the carriage and took a deep breath, releasing the anger in a long, slow breath. “Wife, let's go meet the chief of this soon to be rich village.”
“And make ourselves even richer, no doubt,” she muttered.
Deshi paused in the act of opening the door and took another deep breath before stepping down from the carriage and onto the road. He thought even referring to the dry, dusty, hard packed mud as a road was compliment too far.
“My Lord Deshi of Ya'an,” the ragged dressed chief performed a deep bow from the waist. “Welcome. Would you do me the honour of taking tea?”
“Of course, tea would be most welcome,” Deshi returned a small nod of confirmation. “My wife, the Lady Sying, will be joining...” he tailed off as he realised she had not yet stepped down from carriage. “She is tired. The journey is long one and she is not used to travelling. Perhaps she will oversee the disposition of our travel luggage to the inn.”
“Your pardon, Lord, the village has no Inn. One was never needed and we had no advanced warning of your coming. You are welcome to my house for the length of your stay,” and the chief turned to indicate, with the sweep of his arm, the flaking plaster and rotting wood of his abode.
“I would not dream of putting you out of such a house, Chief. My entourage will set up camp on the flat plain not far from the river. We will be comfortable and not be staying too long.”
“If such is your wish, My Lord.” The chief bowed once more. “May I inquire as to your business in our village?”
“I like to tour my province, to see what problems I may solve and what information I can gather. I am always looking for ways to improve Ya'an. Let us have that tea and you can tell me all about the village. I must confess that the tree in the centre intrigues me.”
“Of course, My Lord.” The chief turned and led Deshi into the central room of the house where they took up chairs next to a small table. A black iron kettle and two porcelain cups rested upon its unadorned surface and the thin wooden chairs creaked as they sat.
Deshi looked around the room as the chief poured the tea. Clearly, the chief's limited supply of money had been spent on the inside of the house rather than the outside. The exposed beams were stained dark and planed to a smooth finish. On the walls hung a variety of paintings all depicting scenes of battle. Above a wooden chest, in pride of place upon the far wall were two swords and round metal shield.
“From the war,” the chief said, “the founding of the empire.”
“You’re not old enough to have fought in that,” Deshi turned away from his inspection of the weapons. He guessed the chief’s age to be around fifty from the fine lines around the eyes and the grey hair. It was, he thought, hard to judge the age of rustic folk, a life in the sun had such an effect on their skin. Still, the empire was nearing the celebrations for its first centenary. The wars that led to its founding had lasted almost as long before that.
“Not me, my great-grandfather. He founded this village around the tree. Them are his swords and shield. I never could get quite clear w
hy he carried two into battle but that’s what he did, and how he made his name.”
Deshi grunted and lost interest. The future interested him not the past. “Tell me about this tree then? It takes up a prime area of land in the middle of your village.”
“Always been there, like I said, My Lord. My father told me it was a special tree and that his grandfather, the man with two swords, had a fondness for it. He made it village law that no one could cut so much as a single branch. Said that as long as we looked after the tree then the village would be safe.”
“Superstitious nonsense, surely.” Deshi sipped at his tea.
“Maybe, my Lord Duke. However, we have kept to that law and the village has been safe and prospered.” The chief smiled, “Been many a marriage made under that tree on a spring evening. Folks go there to get the tree’s blessing. Harmless fun but it brings us together.”
“I am not interested in little customs. I am interested in the land that tree takes up.” Deshi placed the porcelain cup back onto the plain table.
“May I ask why, My Lord?” The chief re-filled the Duke’s cup.
“Simply put, that land belongs to me now. I am claiming it, as is my right as Duke.” Deshi picked up the fresh tea and stared into the chief’s eyes as he drank. He watched for a reaction, reading the tightening lines and furrows appearing in the sun darkened skin. There was shock, certainly, fear, a little, but beyond that was something else. Deshi savoured the flavour of the tea as he pondered.
“I’m not sure the villagers will like that, My Lord. The tree is the heart of this village. It hasn’t belonged to anyone before.”
“I’m sure they’ll get used to it after a while. And, if they don’t, I expect you to make them get used to it,” Deshi responded.
“Of course, My Lord.” The old man’s foot began to tap on the floor.
