Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “If they will,” said Jong. “Most of them will cower in their houses and wait until the army is gone and the danger is past.” He swore by a god whose name Zangi-Ragozh did not recognize. “What a time! If only you could heal the earth as you healed me. Then spring would come and Merciful Kuan-Yin could rejoice in her festival.” He scowled at the troops ahead and nodded his conviction. “I doubt this year many of us will observe it.”

  “It is in this fortnight, is it not?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.

  “Yes. In four days’ time,” said Jong. “I usually offer her plum-blossoms, only this year there aren’t any.”

  “She should understand,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “She is compassionate.”

  Jong looked aghast. “Her goodness is nothing to laugh about, particularly not now, when her mercy is so much needed.”

  “No, mercy is not a thing to laugh about,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed, and nodded toward a lane coming into the main road not far up ahead. “Do we take this road, or do we keep on?”

  “Do you ask me?” Jong asked in surprise.

  “You are tired—it is apparent in how you hold the reins. Since you need rest most immediately of all of us, which would you rather do? Stay on to Lo-Yang or hope for a village not too far away?”

  A small detachment of soldiers broke from the line and started down the narrow track Zangi-Ragozh had spotted. Two mounted officers rode with them.

  “Too late,” said Jong. “Probably just as well. Who is to say what would have happened had we gone that way.”

  “Then Lo-Yang it is,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and pulled up the hood of his cloak.

  “Lo-Yang,” Jong repeated dismally.

  They went on in silence for some time, until the line of travelers began to slow at the approach to the city gates. By that time the sky was paved with clouds and the rain was slanting on the wind, and threatening to become ice once the last of the faint sunlight had faded. Torches were burning in huge iron sconces on either side of the gate, sending tatters of flame to do battle with the stormy evening. The soldiers had been marched off to another entrance to Lo-Yang, and so the crowd waiting to enter was composed of merchants, farmers, and other travelers; all of them were fretful, and most were worn-out from a day on the road in the rain.

  By the time Zangi-Ragozh dismounted to address the Guard, it was full dark and the rain had grown heavier, running in the road and making Zangi-Ragozh shudder from its presence. He stepped into the lee of the gateway, holding out his travel orders for the Captain to read, and putting his right hand around his left in greeting. “I am Zangi-Ragozh, a foreign merchant from Yang-Chau traveling to Chang’an by invitation of the Emperor there. Will you be good enough to tell me—where do I go to get my customs assessment?”

  “We will deal with such matters here. My scribe is a customs clerk and will see to it that all forms are properly recorded and filed,” said the Captain.

  “Will that be enough?” Zangi-Ragozh asked. “Do you not need the chop of an official to make his judgment binding?”

  “That will be taken care of, Foreigner Zangi-Ragozh,” the Captain declared. “Make a note of his name and those with him,” he added to the scribe.

  Zangi-Ragozh pulled a string of silver cash from his inner sleeve, lifting his sen-gai to hold it out to the Captain. “I trust this will suffice to pay anything we may owe, and any other taxes that might be imposed because of the army being here.” He let the scribe take the money, continuing to the Captain, “My men and I need a place to spend the night. If you would be good enough to recommend one?”

  “I see you have two wagons, four men, and spare horses,” said the Captain, motioning to the scribe with him to make note of this. “Three of your men are Chinese and one is a foreigner, like you.”

  “Yes, a foreigner, and no, not like me,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Ro-shei comes from a city far to the west called Ga-Des. I come from ancient mountains; you would call them Carpa-Ti. But you are right: the other three men are Chinese.”

  “Barbaric names you foreigners give your places,” said the Captain, but sounding so tired that there was no condemnation in his remark. He pointed to the bottom of the sheet of paper the scribe had filled out. “If you have a chop, fix it there.”

  “I have a chop and a sigil,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “Sigil! Another barbaric thing,” said the Captain with an exhausted sigh. “Well, fix them both, if it pleases you. Then have your men come up to be identified.”

  Zangi-Ragozh did as he was told, watching carefully as the Guards looked in his wagons and inspected his horses. When all was done, he once again asked, “I asked you before for your advice, and I hope you will give it to me: is there an inn that caters to such travelers as we are?”

  “That may be more costly than the usual places,” the Captain warned him. “Such accommodations are at a premium just now.”

  “I am able to pay,” said Zangi-Ragozh, doing his best not to sound resigned.

  “Of course,” said the Captain. “Go along to the North Market and turn east on the second street, the one with the lanterns strung over the entrance. You will find the Inn of the Graceful Birches. There is a stand of trees behind it that gives it its name. As far as I know, there is room still to be had there.”

  “Very good,” said Zangi-Ragozh, swinging up into the saddle again. “May you bring honor to your ancestors.”

  “And you, foreigner,” said the Captain, his polite response marred by the suggestion of a yawn.

  Zangi-Ragozh waited on his restive horse while Ro-shei answered a few questions, and then Yao, Jong, and Gien endorsed the information on the scribe’s page. The men got back onto the driver’s boxes and at last they entered Lo-Yang.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Yao asked testily.

  “The Captain recommended an inn,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “If you will keep to this main street, I suppose it will take us to the North Market.”

  Yao rubbed his flat belly. “I’m hungry and I’m cold.”

  “If it is any comfort to you, so am I,” said Zangi-Ragozh, making his way up the broad avenue toward a good-sized walled compound that marked the heart of the city.

  Yao sighed noisily. “The North Market it is.” He clicked his tongue. “Probably on the other side of the Magisterial Palace.”

  “It seems likely,” said Zangi-Ragozh drily.

  Three blocks farther on they halted as a large group of soldiers came roistering by. Some of them were muzzily singing, but most of them were too busy drinking from wine-jugs to bother with melodies. As they reeled away toward a well-lit tavern, one of them raised a short sword menacingly at Yao’s wagon. then was dragged away by his unsteady, laughing comrades.

  “There’ll be trouble by morning,” said Yao.

  “Very likely,” Zangi-Ragozh said as he moved on. As they passed the walls of the Magisterial Palace, they saw banners that informed the city that Magistrate Wo Hai-Jian was in residence. “That should help keep order. No one wants to gain the disapproval of the Magistrate, not even soldiers.”

  “Perhaps so,” said Yao, weighing his opinions before adding, “It depends on how drunk the soldiers get, and what kind of man Magistrate Wo is.”

  The North Market was largely deserted, but on the far side a number of heavily laden wagons were drawn up in front of the customs house, most with a few men keeping jealous watch over them. Guards in their city uniforms patrolled the large square, holding impressive halberds for weapons.

  “We should find our lodging shortly,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and turned right along the second street.

  The Inn of the Graceful Birches was a short distance from the square, a large, well-made building with a busy forecourt where hostlers took charge of the horses and wagons, and two large stables off to the side; amid the general bustle of the place slaves brought cups of hot wine out to the new arrivals.

  “Thank you,” Zangi-Ragozh said as a good-sized cup was proffered, “but I do not drink wine.”

 
“I do,” said Yao, seizing one of the cups and drinking down the clear, hot liquid. “Another! And quickly!” He got off his box and climbed out of the wagon, his face set even as he strove to smile. “We’re cold, wet, and hungry! Let us have heat and a dry place to eat!”

  Jong descended more slowly from the wagon, and he frowned as he took the cup of hot wine offered. “It is miserable weather,” he remarked as he took the cup from the slave.

  “I would like to sleep in the stable with my horses and wagons; we have had a hard day on the road, and I am concerned about two of my horses,” Zangi-Ragozh was saying to the landlord as Gien took the riding horses in hand. “I will pay for a room, but I want to be sure that everything is in order and my horses are all sound in the morning.”

  “You might as well send one of your drivers to tend to your animals; you have a groom with you, have you not?” the landlord suggested.

  “These creatures and the wagons, with their contents, are mine, and therefore my responsibility, not that of the men working for me, though they are diligent and loyal,” said Zangi-Ragozh in a tone that was at once firm and conciliating.

  “Are you afraid that no one can guard your goods but you, yourself?” the landlord demanded.

  “No, but I do say that with the army in town, many things become temptations that were not before, and your household staff cannot be everywhere; the demands of soldiers are not easily refused,” Zangi-Ragozh assured him. “In times like these, no innkeeper—no matter how honorable—is proof against trouble.”

  The landlord relented at once. “You speak true, Worthy Foreigner.” He indicated the door to his establishment. “I have food waiting, and a table near the hearth that would warm your men.”

  “And you have rooms for them? a suitable chamber with proper beds and a hearth or a stove to keep them warm?” Zangi-Ragozh asked as he gave a string of silver cash to the landlord; he had three more strings in his sleeve and two silver bars in his wallet.

  “Yes. Two of my best are unoccupied. I will assign them to your men.” He started toward his door. “Come in out of the rain, Worthy Foreigner, and let us conclude our arrangements.”

  “Thank you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and gestured to Gien, Jong, and Yao to hurry along ahead of him. As Ro-shei came up to him, he pulled his manservant aside, saying, “I am planning to sleep in the stable tonight.”

  “I will do it, if you prefer,” Ro-shei said at once.

  “No,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I want to sleep on my bed in the second wagon. I need the succor of my native earth. This rain is sapping my endurance, and I doubt visiting a dancing-girl would be possible tonight, with the army here.”

  Ro-shei nodded. “Let me make up a bed for you, then, so no one will think your decision a reflection on this city or this inn.”

  Zangi-Ragozh shrugged. “As you wish.”

  “If you will give me your boots, I will change the earth in their soles, as well,” Ro-shei offered.

  “Thank you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, “but I can attend to that myself, later tonight.”

  Ro-shei nodded. “I’ll tell the men of your decision. They will praise you for doing a task that should, rightfully, be theirs.”

  “I cannot blame them for preferring a comfortable bed to a stable on such a frosty night,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “It still is their place to protect the horses and wagons, not yours,” Ro-shei said.

  “No doubt. But I need a night on my native earth if I am to continue at our present pace.”

  “So it’s not a woman you worry about, it’s those around her,” said Ro-shei, understanding Zangi-Ragozh’s reticence at last. “You’re thinking of Ignatia’s mother.”

  “Egidia Adicia Cortelle, Domina Laelius was hardly the only woman who wanted to profit from revealing too much to those in authority,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and went toward the table where the landlord waited.

  “You had best remain until the men have eaten,” Ro-shei recommended. “The landlord may not give full value for the payment if you are in the stable.”

  Zangi-Ragozh reached to draw up a chair. “See that my men have what they want.”

  The meal had just been served when three military officers came into the dining room, their heavy, quilted shai-fas still wet from the worsening rain. The leader held a company standard on a pole, indicating the visit was official; he came up to Zangi-Ragozh and put his hands together in greeting. He was a fairly young man but with the bearing of one used to authority. “Zangi-Ragozh: Captain Tan said we would find you here, Worthy Foreigner.”

  Zangi-Ragozh looked up at the officers, then rose to give them a formal greeting before saying, “I’m sorry, I do not have the honor of knowing Captain Tan.”

  “He admitted you at the gate,” said the leader. “He recommended this inn.”

  “So his name is Tan,” said Zangi-Ragozh, concealing the sudden chill that took hold of him as he realized he had played into the hands of the army and the Magistrate.

  “Tan Jia-Ni,” said the officer.

  “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Zangi-Ragozh asked with meticulous good manners. “For I fear you have the advantage of me.”

  “I am Wo Mi-Dja,” said the leader.

  Zangi-Ragozh regarded the officer a moment. “I noticed the Magistrate’s name is Wo.”

  “My uncle,” said Wo Mi-Dja. “He has brought much honor to our family.”

  Yao, who had been watching this exchange attentively, spoke to Zangi-Ragozh. “You’ve paid your fees already. They can’t claim any more.” He pointed to Gien, who was drinking the last of his hot wine. “You saw, and so did you, Jong.”

  “This is not a matter of fees,” said Officer Wo.

  There was a short, uneasy silence, and then Zangi-Ragozh asked, carefully civil in demeanor and address, “May I know what you want with me, Officer Wo?”

  “It is not actually with you, Foreigner Zangi-Ragozh,” said Officer Wo with a studied superiority. “It is with the three Chinese men who are in your company.”

  “What about them? I have legitimately employed them; there are records of that in Yang-Chau.” Zangi-Ragozh nodded toward the men at the table. “They have worked for me three years at least.”

  “And my uncle will arrange for you to receive compensation,” said Officer Wo.

  “Compensation for what?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, anticipating what was coming.

  “Their services, and the commandeering of the larger of your wagons and all but four of your horses,” said Officer Wo, a hint of fixedness in his manner.

  Zangi-Ragozh had been apprehensive about the officers’ purpose, supposing that some of his spare horses would be taken, but this was more than he had anticipated. “On what authority do you take my property and my paid employees, Officer Wo?”

  “The army has need of them, and the Emperor has given us permission to seize what we need to defend his cause,” said Officer Wo, adding with a bit of a smirk, “If this seems unfair, you may always take the case to the Magistrate.”

  “Your uncle,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “Yes. My uncle.”

  “I am not leaving Worthy Foreigner Zangi-Ragozh,” Jong announced staunchly. “He saved my life and I am indebted to him for all he has done for me.”

  “He paid us the main part of our salaries before we left, so we could provide for our families, which will be the same as stealing if we cannot finish the work we are expected to do,” Yao added. “I have a wife and a daughter in Yang-Chau. If I cannot continue to work for the Worthy Foreigner, how are they to live?”

  Zangi-Ragozh was surprised to hear Yao mention his family, for it was a serious lapse in conduct to do so, and as such, eloquent testimony to his understanding of the seriousness of the situation. He saw Officer Wo stiffen and tried to minimize the breach. “I thank you for your good conduct, Yao, and I regret that you have had to embarrass yourself on my account.”

  “I have a mother whom I support,” Jong put in, a stubborn set to
his jaw. “She depends upon me.”

  “No doubt all men have such tales,” said Officer Wo, trying not to be offended by the introduction of such private information into their arrangements. “And you”—he addressed Gien—“I suppose you have someone depending on your work for this man for a living?”

  “No,” said Gien. “But Zangi-Ragozh paid my family handsomely for me, and he is entitled for the labor he expected to have from me.”

  “All men have excuses,” said Officer Wo.

  “Hardly excuses,” said Jong. “We know where our obligations lie.”

  “To the Emperor,” said Officer Wo, settling the matter. “If you will come to the stable with me, Foreigner Zangi-Ragozh, we will settle the matter of the horses and the wagon at once.” He signaled to his men. “Kan, you stay here; Dai, come with me.”

  Ro-shei cocked his head. “What do you wish me to do, my master?”

  “I hope you will remain here. I can tend to matters in the stable, if Gien will come with me to show me where our animals and our wagons are; I will shift our chests and crates for the officer’s convenience,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and started out of the dining room toward the side corridor that led to the stable.

  Gien jumped to his feet. “I’m coming,” he said after a swift, skittish look at the Officer and his men. He followed after them at a respectful distance.

  As Zangi-Ragozh made his way toward the stable, he asked, “It appears that you are commandeering men and matériel fairly routinely: how many seizures have you made today, Officer Wo?”

  “Yours will be the fourth,” said Officer Wo.

  “All from this inn?” Zangi-Ragozh inquired, noticing the landlord staring at him.

  “No. We try to make only one confiscation per day from each merchants’ inn, in as fair a division of loss as can be arranged,” said Officer Wo with a degree of pride.

  “And the Gods of Fortune said I would be chosen for the Inn of the Graceful Birches today,” Zangi-Ragozh marveled.

  “You are traveling on the Emperor’s business,” Officer Wo reminded him. “This is also the Emperor’s business. Captain Tan noted your orders from the Vermilion Brush, and he informed us of them.”