by Justin Hill
She had shown her father the broken sword. “He is dead,” she said.
Silent Wolf had been like a son to her father. He had taken the shards of Silent Wolf’s sword and held them tight. There was a long silence before he spoke. When he did his voice was thick with emotion. “His father did not live to see this. Who killed him?”
“Hades Dai,” Shulien said.
Her father shook his head. He had never heard of this man.
“He was a monk at the Shaolin Temple,” Shulien said. “But he was banished for witchcraft.”
Her father nodded. He was too old for anger. He took the shards and walked away.
It is what we have lost that drives us on, she thought. She shivered, and looked around. It was as if she felt the eyes of Silent Wolf’s ghost, staring down at her from the cliffs above. She put her hands to the fire. Mule Wang was oblivious. He tipped the last of the sauce into his mouth and belched quietly.
“It will be a cold night. I’ll get the cotton sacks down. They’ll keep us both warm.”
Next day they were up early. The pony went easily, trotting along the winding road that led down to the plains of Beijing. Shulien peered ahead, seeing the walls of the capital rise from the plain, and one by one the towers and palaces became distinct from one another.
As they dropped down to the level of the plain Beijing disappeared behind the trees. They started to see milestones marking the distance to the city; and the closer they came the more ornamental archways marked the miles, with ancient steles commemorating famous scholars or virtuous widows, or sons who were filial.
They came to a turning in the road. One led straight to the capital, the other led into a birch wood that skirted the foothills.
“I always go this way,” Mule Wang said. He turned and smiled. “There are no tolls this way. It is pretty too, this time of year.”
Shulien sat forward. The copper birch leaves littered the floor. The forest was filled with a pale misty light, the webs were white with dew.
“Only a few of us know this road. There’s a village up ahead. We will sleep there tonight, and you will be in Duke Te’s palace in the morning. The food there will be much better, the beds much more comfortable. But the village is good. No lice. And the woman there. She has a big pond full of catfish. You pick the one you want and they scoop it up, flapping and kicking, and five minutes later it is on your tray.” Mule Wang seemed strangely keen to spend the night there, and Shulien began to wonder what this woman was like, and what else she offered to weary carters.
But the day was drawing on, and Mule Wang started singing bawdy village songs, so Shulien sat back into the hollow she had made for herself, and shut her eyes and tried to sleep.
They stopped by a stream to let the pony drink, and then they were going again. The dark had become darker, and the wind was up. They could hear it in the treetops, which swayed back and forth, but in the green depths of the forest the air was still and cool and silent.
Too silent, Shulien thought, and sat up. At that moment there was a shout and the cart lurched suddenly to the side and toppled over, throwing Mule Wang.
Shulien struggled to shove the sacks and cotton off and jumped out. Black-robed men were leaping from the ferns. They had clubs and knives and they were already upon her. Too many, she thought as she punched the first in the throat, caught the next by his wrist and broke it with her knee. But it seemed they were not too well versed in the arts of a warrior.
She found the hilt of her sword and she pulled it free of its scabbard. It felt good to have it to hand. Now this wouldn’t be too hard, she thought, and the men hung back, like jackals waiting for one to take the lead.
She stood with her back to the cart. “Come on!” she said, and one of them looked up and smiled.
“We’re coming,” he said.
A net had been strung over the road. Shulien looked up too late as it fell on her. The rope smelled of fish. It was thick and coarse and too tough. She swung her sword, but the links were too thick. It was useless but she kicked and struggled. She heard Mule Wang shout out as the men seized him, and one of the men bent over her and struck her with a club.
Darkness came. And she knew no more.
I0
Burial was much more complicated than birth, Sir Te thought as he watched his father’s corpse being dressed in his funeral robes by a pair of nervous attendants. They were standing in his father’s small library courtyard: three halls forming three sides of a square, and the southern side enclosed by a high wall.
The courtyard was lined with bricks, and a few flowerbeds were heavy with plants that gave off a rich, sweet scent. Set into the walls were glass lanterns, shaped like fans or peaches or ornamental vases. They were all unlit, dark, extinguished.
Sir Te brought his attention back to his father’s body. The funeral clothes were neatly pressed and folded, and one by one they were lifted and used to dress the corpse in the hat and shoes of a First Degree Duke of the Imperial Family of the Manchu Qing Dynasty.
He tutted and stood up, shooed the attendants to the side. “Respect!” he said. “This is the son of the Emperor himself.”
He fretted over the set of his father’s arms. It took a long time before he was satisfied. The two attendants didn’t dare step forward until he gave them his express permission.
“Yes, put him in. But be careful, please!”
Duke Te was laid reverentially into the inner coffin, which had been packed with straw and herbs that would prevent decay.
“Would you like to have him remain in state?” the undertaker, a plump and gentle man, asked, bowing a little at the waist.
Sir Te, the eldest son, shook his head. He did not like to see his father dead. It reminded him of all the responsibilities that now lay on his shoulders. His father had tried to inculcate him into the world of wushu warriors, but Sir Te’s attention had always wandered. He was more a man of books and learning than of action. Action panicked him. But his father had made him swear to keep his work alive. The safety of the Empire depends on it, he had said with his dying breath. Swear to me, and Sir Te had sworn.
“Sir!” the man said. “Would you like him to remain in state?”
Sir Te came back with a start. “No. Once the prayers have been said, please shut the lid,” he replied, and the chief undertaker came forward and bowed.
“As you wish,” he said, and hastily motioned to his assistants. “I find that it is better not to watch the nailing of the coffin.”
“I understand,” Sir Te said, “but this is my father and I want to see that all is done according to ritual.”
The undertaker bowed again. “As you wish,” he repeated.
Shulien woke and found herself lying alone in the road. The net had been pulled off her. It was almost dark. The forest was quiet. Around her was a scene of devastation: dead men, some with black arrows sticking up from their bodies. Mule Wang lay at her feet. His throat had been cut. Only the pony was left, standing patiently, still strapped to the ruins of the two-wheeled cart. It snorted as she sat up.
Shulien pushed herself up. Her head was still sore. She felt a little sick. She soothed the pony. “Only you left. What happened?”
The horse snorted again, as if in answer.
The smell of blood had unsettled it. Shulien looked around; the ground had been tramped up. She leaned down. It was hard to see in the gloom but it was clear that a different horse had come. It was shod in the Mongolian style; a larger hoof, a heavier horse, judging by the depth of the print.
She could see how each man had died. Two lay with arrows in their backs. They had fallen forward onto their faces. The blood had pooled around them. The next had been the one who had smiled at her as the net fell. A great sword-slash across his chest had killed him. Two others had been trampled by horses, the last’s head had been broken.
Their leader
looked like a real warrior. His head was shaved and his weapon was a halberd with a serrated edge. She bent down, turned the body over. She did not know the face. He bore no sign, except for a red dragon tattoo on his body. Three arrows jutted out from his chest. She checked his pouch. There was a string of cash, but nothing else. No signs. Nothing that would identify him.
A quick and efficient killer, Shulien thought. But why had he left, and how had she escaped his cares?
Her head was sore and it was too much for her to take in. She cut the pony free, mounted up, heeled it forward.
She rode through the night, and at dawn was there for the opening of the city gates.
She approached Duke Te’s doorway, strips of red paper with bold black characters, left over from New Year and starting to fade, two white lanterns on wooden stands marking the household out as one in the clutches of grief. She had not been back here since Mubai’s death. She had said her farewells to the duke and turned away from the world of suffering. But the world had a way of pulling its hermit back from the wilds. And here she was again. She took a deep breath.
One gate was still shut, the other was propped open. In the street, on a stool, sat the gatekeeper, dressed in a long blue gown of office. He leaped up to take the reins of the pony. “Mistress!” he said, recognizing her despite the years between them.
“Gateman Shu,” she said. He had a short forked beard, and gray above his ears, but she knew him well.
“I am glad to see you here,” he said.
He hurried inside to summon the steward. Shulien followed him, stepping over the threshold.
The Taoist priest came in and sang and danced. A Buddhist priest came in and droned on through the sutras. At the very end a Manchu shaman came in, with a knucklebone rattle, bizarre animal mask, and a black whip of horsehair. His chanting woke Sir Te from a dream where his father had been complaining. “You did not bury me with the proper rites,” he said, and Sir Te had been mortified and fallen to his knees.
“Sir Te,” one of the serving girls said. She was a pleasant little thing her father had adopted from a starving family. He had promised her a life and a job, and when she was old enough he had promised to find her a good husband as well: a hard-working man with a trade who did not whore or gamble. Sir Te beckoned her in. She was not tall, but slender and willow-waisted, and she seemed to sway toward him with all the languid grace of a candle flame, gently aroused by the draft of a half-closed door.
Her name was . . . he couldn’t remember.
“There is a lady,” the girl said. She had a pleasant voice. If he closed his eyes he could imagine her plucking a lyre, singing gently to him as she undressed. “At the gates. She has come to pay her respects to your father. Her name is Yu Shulien.”
“She has come at last!” Sir Te said. “Make sure her old chambers are aired. Tell the kitchens to prepare some dishes. I shall come at once.”
The girl pursed her lips and nodded, then turned and hurried out.
Facing the doorway was the glossy-colored brick spirit screen. It blocked off all sight of the inner courtyard, and stood at the east end of the southern wall. To have the gates of the courtyards lining up with the front gate would have been bad feng shui, ghosts could have blown right through to the inner quarters.
Shulien passed around the screen into the wide entrance court, where Duke Te had entertained callers. She had many memories of this place, filled with voices and tables and laughter, but this morning, despite the pots of chrysanthemums, it had an empty and bleak feel.
A gray-haired serving girl, in blue cotton jacket and trousers, bowed quickly. “Mistress Yu,” she said. “Sir Te is deeply honored to have you here to—”
“Where is he?” Shulien said.
The servant bowed. “He is busy,” she said. “He thought you might want to wash before you saw him.”
“No,” Shulien said. “I should see him now.”
“I will make sure your mount is stabled.” The old lady nodded to the squint-eyed lad who smiled broadly, then bowed to Shulien. “This way, ma’am.”
Shulien followed the maid through the first courtyard, past potted oleanders and pomegranates that lined the path, and gave a little shade, and then through a moon door in the west wall into the library courtyard, where Duke Te had entertained Shulien and Mubai in better days.
She remembered the glass lanterns Duke Te had lit around the courtyard, but it was not appropriate now, so what greeted her was not light and color, but the stark white of mourning. White cloth hung from the doorway, it was slung from the eaves of the gray tile roof, and filled the windows like blank eyes.
Sir Te was a poor copy of his father. He was tall and thin and affected a deliberately round-shouldered stoop, like a scholar. He fretted with his robe, and wrung his hands around and around, which gave him a nervous and prissy appearance. Obsessed, Shulien thought, with all the little details.
Sir Te returned her bow with as much gravity as he could manage. “Welcome, Master Yu Shulien! We have many mourners staying with us, but you are most welcome. I have had your old quarters swept and cleaned and the beds made with fresh sheets. You should go there and wash. Didn’t my girl tell you? Oh dear. It is very hard. I have to do everything. I shall have to talk to her. I will have her beaten. I will do it myself.”
“She told me,” Shulien said. “But I insisted on seeing you.”
Sir Te’s eyes opened wide. “Oh. Really? Why? Is something wrong?”
“I think so,” Shulien said, but he did not pause to let her speak.
“Oh dear. Let me sit down. Was the journey long?”
“No longer than before,” Shulien said.
Sir Te stood back up again. Then he sat down, and stood up. Shulien waited patiently. At last the man spoke. “I had hoped you would come. My mother was sure you would.”
“So were others,” Shulien said. “I was waylaid, in Southbirch Forest.”
He put his hand over his mouth. “Waylaid? Surely not!”
“Assassins,” Shulien said.
He hurried to shut the door. “Assassins?” he hissed. “And you have led them here?”
“They are all dead. They killed my driver. They would have killed me.”
“Thank heavens!” Sir Te drew in a quick breath. He sat down again. There was a long pause. “You as well!”
“What do you mean?”
Sir Te licked his lips. “You will not tell anyone?”
Shulien shook her head.
“Well. Since my father has passed away the martial world is uneasy. Gold Phoenix was waylaid in Wuhan City and killed. In Guangzhou, Mantis Li was found in a brothel, strangled with a silk rope. You know my father worked hard to keep the best warriors in his employ. A dozen of them have been killed since he died.”
“The Iron Way is hard,” Shulien said.
Sir Te hurried to the door and peered outside before shutting the door and bolting it. “It is not the Iron Way,” Sir Te said. “It is organized. There is an enemy out there, a rogue house of warriors. One by one they are killing us all.”
Shulien looked away.
Sir Te bowed. “I need your help. I do not know where else to turn. I think they are seeking something . . .”
Shulien saw the look in his eye and understood. “I should have come earlier,” she said. “Is it still here?”
Sir Te nodded. “Would you like to see?”
“Later,” Shulien said. “First things first. I must pay my respects. Where is he?”
Sir Te nodded. “This way.”
He led Shulien through a small, intimate little courtyard, which had held Duke Te’s study, and into the second courtyard, where family members were entertained.
“My father was moved here this morning,” he said.
Shulien nodded and walked slowly, wading through memories that leaped out at her, he
ld onto her, tried to drag her down. She had been here with Mubai, just before he had been killed. She had wished many times that she had been taken first. He could have found a girl somewhere: pretty, gentle, caring. It was not her fate to be happy in love.
She had sat with him as the poison slowly killed him. They had meditated together. Rationed out each slow breath, drawn out the time left for him. It had taken too long for the antidote to arrive, but it had been long enough for him to tell her that his ghost would remain with her. She had held him at the end. Given him her own breath, lip to lip, and her breath had kept him alive for a few moments longer.
She often wondered if his ghost was around her. Perhaps it was his ghost that had saved her in the birch wood. He had told her that he would follow her.
It will not be long now, my dearest Mubai, she thought. Then our ghosts can be together.
The eaves and doorways of the main hall of Duke Te’s Palace had been hung with lengths of white cloth. Knotted white flowers hung down the side of each doorway and the faces of the family gods had been covered with red cloths. Scrolls of calligraphy memorialized the duke. Through the gateway a line of mourners was gathering.
Sir Te greeted them politely and led Shulien to the front doorway. Inside, the air was blue with incense and the flames from paper money, ingots and Duke Te’s favorite food. In the middle of the room the coffin stood on high trestles. The red lacquer was carved with symbols of luck and longevity: double happiness, long swirling dragons and clouds and pearls.
Sir Te’s brothers and sons and their wives sat along the side of the room, dressed in white with simple white caps. As Shulien stepped over the threshold an attendant, a middle-aged woman with a soft and concerned face, took a long white cloth and tied it around her waist.
Shulien felt all the eyes in the room on her.
That is her, they were thinking. That is Shulien the Warrior!
