“Don’t alchemists make weapons?” Yao was suddenly curious.
“Some do,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“No wonder the Wen Emperor wishes to see you,” Yao exclaimed. “This explains everything. And here I thought you were just pottering among your potions and powders!”
“You’re disrespectful,” Jong reprimanded him.
Zangi-Ragozh wanted to change the subject. “If you want to serve me a good turn, Jong, say nothing of your treatment or any of my private skills to the customs officials, or any other authority in the town.”
“Why should I not?” Jong looked shocked at this suggestion.
“Because the less the officials know of me beyond what goods I carry, the better it will be for all of us,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Is there anything wrong with what you do?” asked Jong.
“No; but the officials might not see it that way. Why do you ask?” Zangi-Ragozh looked over at Jong. “To whom have you talked?”
Jong shrugged and pressed his hands together. “I told the landlord that you had given me a remedy that ended my illness.”
“Praise may be misunderstood,” said Zangi-Ragozh, who had seen more than his share of such misunderstandings over the centuries. He dismissed this with a wave of his hand that he hoped showed none of the dismay he felt. “I should bathe, and then I must go to the Inn of the Two Camels to assist Official Lang in questioning Ahmi-Tsani. Ro-shei, when you order the meal for the men, will you reserve the bath-house for me? Take silver to pay for it all.”
“That I will,” said Ro-shei, holding out his hand for the short string of silver cash Zangi-Ragozh handed to him. He glanced at the two men, his concern routine but unfeigned. “Would braised lamb and onions do for a start? Rice bowls? And a variety of dumplings?”
Yao nodded. “You know what would suit us. Pork of some kind, and the lamb would be nice, and a good, sustaining soup. Nothing fancy, but more than bean-paste in water. Something with a little fire in it, to keep out the cold. The dumplings can be spicy, as well. They make peppery ones in this part of the Middle Kingdom, and they whet the appetite.” He laughed at Jong, who regarded him in disgust. “We must eat, Brother Jong. You know that as well as anyone.” He nodded to Zangi-Ragozh. “So long as we don’t starve, you may keep your customs and dine in private.”
“Rice wine and mountain tea,” added Jong, as close to an apology as he could manage. “If you have no objection, Worthy Foreigner?”
“Why should I have one now, when I have not had any before?” Zangi-Ragozh asked wryly. “By all means, order what pleases you.”
“Then, if there is any minced beef, I’d like that as well,” Jong dared to suggest, and saw Zangi-Ragozh signal his consent.
“I’ll have it sent up, and the bath-house reserved. I’ll let Gien know that supper is coming.” Ro-shei nodded once and let himself out of the room.
“These are very good rooms,” said Yao as soon as Ro-shei was gone.
“Gracious of you to say so,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he went to take out a clean sen-hsien, this one embellished with silver embroidery on the black silk, showing his eclipse as a decorative border at hem and cuffs. “I will wear this after I bathe,” he announced.
“It should impress the customs official,” said Yao as he hunched over and crossed his arms so that he could rub his shoulders. “Weather like this! It wears on me.”
“On all of us,” said Jong. He rose and stretched. “I hope to sleep well tonight.”
“I hope we all do,” said Zangi-Ragozh with an irony that was lost on Jong and Yao. Then he gathered up a small case and left the men alone while he went down to the bath-house.
When he returned, he was carefully groomed, his hair damp and combed into neat waves, his face newly shaved. As Ro-shei helped him dress and shielded him from the curious eyes of Yao, Jong, and Gien, who sat over their rice-bowls eating their supper, he said, “I will probably not be back until late. If you will see to everything in my absence.”
“Of course,” said Ro-shei.
“I need not have asked.” Zangi-Ragozh hesitated, then removed a seal-ring from his wallet and slipped it onto his hand. “As bona fides,” he added in Imperial Latin.
“You are uneasy,” Ro-shei observed, smoothing the hang of the silk, and speaking the same language.
“Yes. This weather troubles me, and now the report of yellow snow—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Do you believe the account?” Ro-shei asked, his own skepticism revealed in the tone of his voice.
“Yes,” he answered slowly. “I do. It is so unlikely that I cannot think how the Persian would come to invent such a tale.”
“Have you ever seen such a thing before?” Ro-shei asked.
“Not yellow snow, but something like it, and so have you,” he added. “Do you recall when we were at Lago Comus, when Vesuvius erupted?”
“I recall,” said Ro-shei, his mouth set in a severe line.
“There was ash falling from heavy clouds,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Not yellow snow,” said Ro-shei.
“No, not yellow snow,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed. “But that was high summer—August—and still, the ash blighted some of the crops.”
“And there were unseasonable storms,” said Ro-shei. “I take your meaning. But what would be the source? And what would turn the snow yellow? There is no volcano in this region, nor have there been any accounts of one, and no peasants fleeing ruined land. There are no rumors of such an event.”
“What are you talking about?” Yao inquired, downing most of a cup of wine.
“Hazards of travel,” said Zangi-Ragozh in Chinese. “I hope the Persian can tell me more this evening.” He looked over Ro-shei’s shoulder. “They’re restless,” he added, once again in Latin.
“It could be a problem.”
“It could,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed, and held up his hand. “If I did not feel the lack of sustenance, I would wait, but such opportunities may not come again for several days, and I would prefer not to rely completely upon the horses.”
“Then you will try to—”
“—to acquire nourishment,” said Zangi-Ragozh quickly. “When I have finished with Official Lang, I will take a turn about the town. Official Lang may have one of his assistants watching me, and I would rather he find out as little as possible about me, so I will avoid women’s establishments. I have already drawn too much attention to myself, and Jong’s obliging boasts on my behalf will only make things worse if there is an inquiry.”
“Do you think there will be?” Ro-shei asked, speaking Chinese again as a knock sounded at the door.
“I trust not, but I would be foolish not to be prepared,” Zangi-Ragozh said, also in Chinese, then raised his voice. “Who is it?”
“I bring two more jars of wine,” called a voice from outside.
Yao spoke up. “I asked the waiter for them when he brought our food.”
Ro-shei went to let the man in. “Put them down and tell me what to pay.”
“The price paid for the meal more than covers it,” said the waiter. “Your master must be a very prosperous merchant, to be as openhanded as he is.”
“He is more than openhanded,” Jong said, preparing to launch into a recitation; had he not caught the warning glance from Zangi-Ragozh, he would have said more, but stopped himself in time and pointed to the empty platters and bowls. “Just look how well he feeds us!”
“Shall I remove those?” the waiter asked, cocking his head toward the aftermath of supper.
“As they like,” said Zangi-Ragozh, going past the waiter and out of the room. He made his way down two flights of stairs to the main hallway, and along it out into the street, where the business of the day was coming to an end under a cloudy sunset. The Inn of the Two Camels was at the corner, and he walked quickly through the gathering dusk and into the hostelry, going directly to the parlor he had requested earlier that afternoon, noticing the strong odor of sandalwood in the main c
orridor as he went.
Ahmi-Tsani was there before him, in a sen-gai of curly shearling wool over a clean cotton robe of pale blue with a number of little brass buttons; clearly he intended to make a favorable impression on Official Lang. He rose from his low stool and offered Zangi-Ragozh a greeting in the Persian style, which Zangi-Ragozh returned. “You are good to come, and I thank you most heartily.”
“I am glad to be able to assist you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, “but it would be wiser to speak Chinese until Lang comes. You do not want it to be reported that those listening could not understand you.”
“Oh? You think someone is listening?” Ahmi-Tsani asked.
“I think it very likely,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“But I don’t speak Chinese well,” Ahmi-Tsani reminded him.
“You speak it well enough for mild pleasantries, and that is all that are needed at present.”
“If you think it best,” said Ahmi-Tsani, shaking his head slowly. He motioned to one of two chairs drawn up near the fire. “Sit down.”
“That I will,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and settled back against the cushions. “This is very comfortable.”
“Good,” said Ahmi-Tsani, and went back to his stool. “When did you arrive here?”
“Shortly before midday.”
“Today, then.” For a short time, the Persian said nothing more, then asked, “Have you found travel hard?”
“Not precisely hard, but more trying than usual, what with the situation around Chang’an. Not all the fighting is over,” said Zangi-Ragozh, considering his answer conscientiously. “And, as you know from your own experience, the weather has been a problem.”
Ahmi-Tsani laughed aloud. “One may say that!”
“When did it turn, do you remember?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.
“Oh, over a fortnight ago, certainly. Perhaps three weeks.” He folded his hands and looked steadily at Zangi-Ragozh. “You know something.”
“I suspect something,” Zangi-Ragozh corrected him with a self-deprecating turn of his hands, “and it is strange enough that I doubt my own assumptions, which I have no means to prove, in any case.” He thought back to his journey from Yang-Chau and felt a quick, odd tweak of alarm.
“Do you say there was a change in the weather during your travels?” Ahmi-Tsani persisted. “Just as we experienced?”
“About three weeks ago? Yes. It seems that was about the time the clouds came. Shortly after we crossed the Crane River, spring faded.”
Ahmi-Tsani frowned. “Three weeks, you say?”
“A few days less, but about that. I recall that after we crossed the river, there was a bad storm, and nothing improved after that.” He thought a long moment, then gave a single, small shake of his head. “Well, it is not a thing any of us can change, whatever it is, and whatever its cause.” Sitting forward in his seat, he put his mind to the immediate situation. “Let us consider how you are to win the good opinion of Official Lang.”
Text of a letter from Professor Min Cho-Zhi at Yang-Chau to Zangi-Ragozh at Chang’an; delivered sixteen months after given to a merchant for delivery and never received.
To the most highly regarded foreign merchant Zangi-Ragozh, Professor Min Cho-Zhi sends his greeting and this report on the state of his property in Yang-Chau, with the assurance that the household continues as the merchant Zangi-Ragozh stipulated it should, and in accordance with the instructions he provided.
Jho Chieh-Jen, the steward, has informed me that the household has used more wood for fires and cooking than was anticipated would be needed. This is due to the lateness of the spring, but it is not cause for alarm, as the supply left was ample and could be used as steadily as it has been for another ten fortnights without impinging on the wood for winter. He also tells me that because of the cold, the trees in the orchard are late coming into bloom. There has been more rain than usual, and it has been less wholesome than in some years, which has caused concern among the men maintaining the orchard and gardens, for they tell Jho that some of the plants are dying, and the trees may not bear much fruit this year.
Sheh Tai-Jia reports that the first foal of the season has been born, but is not doing well, showing little inclination to be active, and preferring to remain at her dam’s side; she does not thrive, and although she suckles, she shows little sign of flourishing. Now that two other mares are about to deliver their foals, Sheh is deeply troubled, because he is worried that the new foals may be as afflicted as this first one is. He wishes you to know that he will use all his skill to bring about better health in the foals, but that he fears this year may be a poor year in the stable.
Food in the markets is still quite expensive, for the farmers complain that their spring crops are slow in taking root, and that has meant dragging out the winter vegetables and the pickles for longer than Meng would like. He has drawn his own supply of rice and preserved fruits to improve the meals he serves, and the household remains properly fed, but without the variety of dishes usually available in the spring. Meng has taken to sending two of his assistants directly to the local farmers, to purchase food from them before they take it to market.
In other domestic concerns: I have taken the liberty of ordering repairs on the outer wall, for some of the stockade logs are rotting, their wood becoming porous and weak. If repairs are not undertaken quickly, the trouble will spread, and so I have ordered the work done, in the full conviction that it is what you would do if you were here. I am going to order regular inspections of the wall, just in case a beetle or other pest has got into the wood. If I have the wood inspected regularly, it may be possible to stop the damage before the stable or the house is damaged. If it seems necessary, I will expand the inspections to include the house and stable. Sheh and Jho both agree with this decision and have offered to help in the inspections.
I have received little news of your ships, although I am sent weekly reports by your senior clerk, Hu Bi-Da, providing a log of his activities and the developments at the warehouses and docks. He informs me that the Morning Star is still in port, and that Captain I Mo-Ching is unwilling to put to sea while there are so many reports of storms. Hu reports that nine ships have been confirmed lost in these frightful storms—fortunately none of them yours—and there are rumors of many more, but there is as yet no way to obtain certain news.
This completes the information I wish to convey. May the Gods of Good Fortune watch over you in your travels and bring you safely back to Yang-Chau, and may you prosper in Chang’an. Be certain that in your absence your affairs and property are being looked after honorably. I will report again in three or four fortnights, unless there is good reason to send you word before then.
Min Cho-Zhi, Professor
(his chop)
6
“We may still reach Lo-Yang by nightfall, don’t you think?” said Jong, huddled on the driver’s box of his wagon; although all his fever was gone, he still tired more quickly than the rest, and he was getting thinner. He glanced at the heavy clouds above, and the company of soldiers marching ahead of them on the road, and shook his head.
“We may,” said Zangi-Ragozh from the back of Flying Cloud. He felt the cold less keenly than the rest, but he was glad of his leather sen-gai and curly lamb hat that shielded him against the stinging wind and persistent rain.
“Isn’t this supposed to be spring?” Yao complained loudly from his place behind Jong’s wagon, expecting no answer and getting none. “Where’s the sun? Where are the blossoms?”
Zangi-Ragozh said nothing, making an effort to keep on the road without letting his horse get mired in the deep ruts. He glanced back to be sure Ro-shei was still in his position at the rear, behind Yao’s wagon. He was growing uneasy, and what had been worry was turning to anxiety as the days passed and the weather grew steadily worse. “Lo-Yang is only two more li, and we have a few more hours of light.”
“If the clouds part,” said Jong with a kind of gloomy satisfaction. “The wind is growing worse, and the rain is increasin
g.”
“So it is,” said Zangi-Ragozh, aware that Gien had his hands full looking after the spare horses they were leading, for the approaching storm made the animals restless.
“Do you think you will be able to reach Chang’an before summer?” Jong went on.
“If the weather does not improve, there is not going to be a summer,” said Zangi-Ragozh severely.
Jong shrugged fatalistically. “It might as well be the Fortnight of New Snows.”
“True enough,” said Zangi-Ragozh, not speaking the rest of his thoughts—that a year without a spring was also a year without a harvest, and that would mean famine.
“The army doesn’t help, tearing up the roads and pillaging the farms,” Jong continued as if taking satisfaction in this grim outlook.
“The army must eat, as must we all,” said Zangi-Ragozh, feeling a pang of hunger; it had been six days since he had visited a woman in her sleep, and that encounter, sweetly poignant as it had been, no longer nourished him.
“At the cost of the rest of us. The army has the might to claim whatever it wants.” Jong paused, then asked what had been on his mind. “Must we stay in Lo-Yang? With so many soldiers inside the walls, there could be troubles.” He grew more forceful as he went on. “You know what soldiers are like.”
“You’re worried that we could become targets of … shall we say, excessive spirits?” Zangi-Ragozh suggested.
“It could be,” said Jong. “Who in Lo-Yang would be willing to stop army men if they chose to rob us?”
This made some sense to Zangi-Ragozh. “It is a danger, but so is remaining in the countryside, for soldiers may well seek out small villages to seize food and livestock.” He did not add and women.
“Or commit other outrages,” said Jong primly.
“My point exactly,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “At least in the city there are officials who have a duty to protect the place.”
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 10
