Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “So I have been told,” Saint-Germain agreed with a sigh. Though he respected the traditions of this country, he occasionally found them infuriating. “I will see that your praise is repeated.”

  “Fine.” He popped one of the honey-and-almond confections into his mouth and smiled. “When I was a child,” he said a moment later, “I thought that honey was the most delicious food on earth. My father showed me how to find a honey tree, but did not tell me how to deal with the bees. I learned a great deal from that.”

  “And you still like honey,” Saint-Germain added.

  “Oh, most certainly.” He was busy with the refreshments a little longer; then he moved the tray to one side and established himself more carefully in his chair. “This business with Feng Kuo-Ma is symptomatic of more serious issues. When you were forbidden to continue teaching at the university, we all felt it was an arbitrary and overly cautious move, but I am no longer certain this was the case. The news from the north is grave, and the south is unwilling to accept the extent of the danger.” China’s division into two separate kingdoms was irritating to both the northern and southern rulers, but the north, dealing with the ravening horsemen of Temujin, was starting to negotiate for an alliance with the south.

  “Why should they? They have experienced almost no attacks. They probably think that if they wait, they will be able to take control of the north again, when the Mongols have made you more willing to compromise.” He had seen such plans laid before, but knew that success was far from assured.

  “There has been an embassy dispatched to the south in the hope that they will listen to reason.” He sighed, smoothing his robes with his soft hands. “These are most unsettled times.”

  “Yes.” Saint-Germain waited, knowing that Kuan Sun-Sze had nearly reached the reason for his visit.

  “There was a Warlord at the university a few days ago, one of a distinguished military family. She is the heir to a great general—”

  Saint-Germain interrupted. “She? A Warlord?”

  “It is most unusual,” Sun-Sze conceded. “Yet it has happened before, and General T’en was not an easy man to refuse. One of his sons suffers from a crippling disease and the other is debauched. He had only his daughter, and she has proven herself worthy of his trust.” He said this quickly, as if to excuse the woman. “She is much in need of aid. She commands her father’s stronghold, in the west. The nearest city is Lan-Chou, though her outpost is many li distant. There is not time for her to appeal her requests for troops to the High Court in K’ai-Feng, and those in the ministries here are too much burdened to be able to assist her. The Secretariat of Armies and Supplies has sent her word that they will not be able to respond to her petition until after the end of winter. She has said that she cannot be gone from her stronghold for so long.”

  “That’s wise of her,” Saint-Germain said, feeling sympathy for this female Warlord who had tried to breach the walls of custom and protocol that protected the ministries and secretariats in the old capital.

  “She has come to the university three times now. She says that she needs one skilled in the sciences of war. T’en Chih-Yü has indicated that she needs more and better weapons, machines of defense and a plan for the best uses of her resources, which are not extensive.” He looked up at the carved beams of the ceiling. “There have not been many who were interested in her problems, for most of our scholars are not in any way desirous of participating in battle. A few of the students were excited at the prospect, but they had little to offer Warlord T’en, and she expressed her regrets that she could not avail herself of their assistance.”

  So this was what the older scholar had come to tell him. Saint-Germain nodded slowly to himself. “And does the Warlord T’en,” he began in a slightly formalized style, “insist that her aid come from one of her own countrymen?”

  Kuan Sun-Sze’s sigh was audible. “I have taken the liberty of mentioning you to her, and she has said that if you are willing to speak to her, she would wish to discuss matters further with you.” He cleared his throat. “It would require some time to aid her and in the days you are gone. I am confident that much of the dislike of foreigners will abate. Also, when the ministries and the Magisterial Tribunal learn that you have gone to assist the arming of a Warlord, many of their doubts must be quieted forever.” He looked at Saint-Germain, hoping for a response, but the foreigner was silent. “It is hardly fair that one who has been of such great assistance to us should have to prove his good intent, but though there is much talk of virtues in this world, few are often found. There is much wisdom in extending yourself on T’en Chih-Yü’s behalf.”

  “I am aware of that,” Saint-Germain said slowly. “There is no one else who can help her?”

  “No one in the court here can approach the high councils, and the Dragon Throne, well…” He sat forward, making a steeple of his fingertips. “There are those who say that one of the reasons that the army has not been sent into the west is that the military tribunals believe that those lands are lost already, and they are saving the men and equipment to defend the capital.”

  “And what do you think, Sun-Sze?” Saint-Germain inquired.

  “I think that T’en Chih-Yü needs your help. I think that if she stays here, no matter how high her petition is presented, she will ultimately be disappointed.” He had said this quite precisely, looking at his touching fingers instead of Saint-Germain. “It would be a sensible move for you to make, my friend. It would be a realistic solution to your predicament.”

  Saint-Germain felt a forgotten ache return within him. “It would also benefit the university and my students if I were to … disappear for a time, too.”

  Kuan Sun-Sze had the grace to be embarrassed. “Yes, that is true. It was not my primary consideration in asking you to aid Warlord T’en, but it did occur to me.”

  “Thank you for your honesty.” He got up and walked to the terrace. “What if the Mongols make an all-out assault on the west? Is there any way Warlord T’en’s stronghold could resist?” Though he did not expect an answer, he was disappointed in Kuan Sun-Sze’s silence. “Under such circumstances, my presence would make little difference to the Warlord T’en.”

  “But there may not be a full assault. Now that they have taken the Northern Capital, and Temujin is calling himself Jenghiz Khan, it may be enough.” He was repeating speculation he had heard, but he reiterated it without conviction.

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do,” Saint-Germain reprimanded him gently. He had braced one forearm against the doorframe and was staring out into his garden, thinking how beautiful it was, and how much he would miss it.

  Kuan Sun-Sze turned slowly and studied his host, whom he had known for fifteen years and who was still so much a stranger to him. “I was thinking that once you are into the west, it would be no great difficulty to continue back toward the lands of your people.” He knew that he should not have put it so blatantly, but the words were out now.

  “When I left Europe,” Saint-Germain said as he continued to look at the trees of his garden, “four of my blood had been most barbarously killed by hysterical townspeople in Lyon. They confined my … kinsmen to a barn, and then set it afire. Between this crusading fever and the fear of heretics, there are few places for those of us who…” He could not go on. As he pressed his forehead against his raised arm, he said wearily, “Mongols or monks, what difference? Tell your female Warlord that I will speak to her.”

  A moment before, Kuan Sun-Sze had been convinced that Saint-Germain would insist on staying in Lo-Yang, and he had been prepared to honor that decision. He was so startled to hear Saint-Germain agree to meet with T’en Chih-Yü that he blurted out, “You relieve me.”

  The breeze was soft off the fields, and the garden was filled with the clear morning light. Saint-Germain could see the closed door behind which Ch’uan-T’ing still lay asleep. He chided himself for the fondness he felt for this place, his friends, his students. Surely, he told himself, after all th
is time, he must have learned how futile it was to care for houses and friends and students. Yet the pain of loss tore at him, and he had no cure for it.

  “When will you see her?” Kuan Sun-Sze asked, and brought Saint-Germain out of his profitless introspection.

  “Today. This morning. As soon as possible.” He stood up and turned his back on the terrace and the garden beyond.

  Text of a safe-conduct from the Ministry of Warfare in K’ai-Feng.

  On the Festival of the Descent of the Nine Kings of the North Star in the Year of the Rat, from the Secretary of Co-Ordination of the Regional Militias:

  The bearer of this document is a foreigner known as Shih Ghieh-Man. He has long been a resident of Lo-Yang and for a time was an instructor at the university. He travels with one bodyservant, also a foreigner known as Ro-Ger, and six hired riders. He carries three wagons of goods which have been inspected and authorized by the Magisterial Tribunal of this city. His destination is the Mao-T’ou stronghold, where he is to work for the Warlord T’en Chih-Yü.

  All reasonable assistance is to be rendered to the foreigner Shih Ghieh-Man if it is not inconvenient to do so. In disputed areas, proper escort must be provided in order that he may successfully carry out his duties at the Mao-T’ou stronghold. Shih Ghieh-Man has agreed to pay for his lodgings and the lodging of those who accompany him, but in areas where such is not conveniently available, the commander of the nearest garrison or the Magistrate of the nearest city is requested to house him and his party, though compensation may be asked at the discretion of the commander or the Magistrate in question.

  Reports of the passage of the foreigner Shih Ghieh-Man and his party are requested at the Ministry of Warfare.

  At the order of Secretary S’a Tieh-Pao, by the hand of the scribe Ma Cha, written at the Offices of the Ministry of War in the Street of the Yoked Oxen in the city of K’ai-Feng.

  3

  About noon it started to rain, the water wind-sharpened so that it drove like minute darts against the party on the road that was quickly becoming a swath of mud between rapidly filling ditches.

  Saint-Germain brought his horse back close to the wagons and kept a wary watch over them, fearing that the wheels might become mired in the deep ruts. He had pulled his long woolen cloak tightly about him, but knew that he would be thoroughly soaked by the time he reached the city of Tuan-Lien, no more than five li distant. Squinting through the rain, he could make out the walls and the Buddhist temple outside the southern gate.

  One of his riders cursed as his mount slipped and floundered in the mud. The others watched him apprehensively until he had the horse under control and heading down the road once more.

  “Master!” Rogerio shouted as he brought his mare up close to Saint-Germain’s big gelding.

  “What?” He could hardly hear his own voice, let alone any other but the wind’s; he held his gray steady and tried to listen to what Rogerio had to tell him.

  “The third cart! The back wheels are sliding! It may be trouble with the axle! Or…” The middle-aged manservant looked up from under his soggy straw hat and shook his head in bewilderment.

  “Or it could be the rain. These aren’t the best vehicles I’ve ever seen.” He knew that Rogerio had not heard all he had said, but that was just as well. He forced himself to answer loudly and carefully, “Watch the wheels! If there is any trouble, let me know at once!”

  Rogerio nodded to show that he understood, and dropped back beside the faltering wagon.

  It was more than an hour later that Saint-Germain and his traveling company drew up at the gates of Tuan-Lien. There were no guards to greet them, and the massive wooden doors were bolted closed from within.

  Saint-Germain gave a fatigued and exasperated sigh, then dismounted to look for the entrance gong to summon the guard. He moved slowly as he made his way along the wall. The ground underfoot was slippery and every step splashed yellow mud over his boots and leather Byzantine-style trousers. He turned the corner of the walls of Tuan-Lien and saw the outline of the Buddhist temple again. With a little more briskness in his step, he made his way toward the temple.

  An old priest came to the door in response to Saint-Germain’s prolonged pounding, slid the door open a handbreadth and peered out into the night.

  “Where is the bell?” Saint-Germain shouted, hoping that the old man was not hard of hearing.

  “The bell?” was the answer. The old man’s voice was high as a boy’s, as if in age he had returned to the innocence of youth.

  “To get in!” Saint-Germain said loudly. “We’re travelers! We need shelter!”

  “Oh, but the gates are locked,” the priest said mildly, and moved as if to close his temple door as well.

  “I know that,” Saint-Germain said, raising his hand to stop the old man. “Tell me where the bell is and I won’t trouble you any longer.”

  The old priest tilted his head to one side. “The Magistrate won’t like it.” He seemed about to close the door, then stopped. “You may tie your horse to the front railing. The bell is on the north side of the walls, but there is an entrance to the city from this temple.”

  Saint-Germain closed his eyes with relief. “There are others with me. May I bring them here?”

  “I suppose so. How many are there?” His face grew guarded and his hand tightened on the door.

  “There are eight of us. I have six riders, my manservant and myself. If that is not too many…” Saint-Germain could tell that the priest was openly pleased to hear this and he resolved to find out more when he had brought the others to the Buddhist temple. “I will return shortly. I would very much appreciate it if there might be hot wine for my riders.”

  “And for yourself?” he inquired cynically. “What do you require?”

  “Nothing,” Saint-Germain said, knowing it was not quite the truth. Later, he promised himself, he would seek out a singsong girl on one of the streets where the widows of poor men lived. “You are kind to ask.”

  The priest stared at him, shrugged and closed the door with the assurance that he would be ready to admit the travelers shortly.

  After leading his horse around the temple and tying it to the rail the priest had mentioned, Saint-Germain made his way back to the eastern approach where Rogerio and the riders waited with the carts. The rain was heavier, less stinging and more battering. His sodden cloak was little protection now, and he wanted to be rid of it.

  “Master?” Rogerio called out as he saw Saint-Germain come into view. The wind had made tatters of the brim of his straw hat and he looked like nothing so much as a mounted scarecrow with rags flapping around his lean frame.

  “The priest at the temple will take us in!” he shouted back over the storm. “The west gate!”

  Rogerio nodded vigorously to show that he understood, and tugged at his drooping mount’s reins to pass the word to the other six. He turned once and saw Saint-Germain trudging back toward the south wall. Slowly the little party followed him.

  “If you will come this way,” the priest said as he opened the door to Saint-Germain, “you will find a room there on your left. The baths are there. No doubt you will want to use them.”

  Saint-Germain put one hand to his brow. “Indeed. You are most courteous to a foreign traveler, and I most humbly thank you for the kindness you do me and those accompanying me.” He exchanged polite half-bows with the priest, and trod off in the direction the old man had indicated.

  He was sitting in a darkened, steam-filled room when he heard the others arrive, announcing themselves with tramping feet and exhausted curses. He poured a last bucket of hot water over himself and rose, leaving the bath free for the others of his party.

  In the private dressing room he had been allocated, he looked about for his clothes, and was vexed to find them gone. Even if the priest had intended to have them dried, he found the kindness awkward, for he did not relish spending the evening in a borrowed robe. He was looking for his boots, in the hope that they had been left beh
ind, when he heard the door behind him open.

  “This is the foreigner?” asked a voice Saint-Germain had not heard before.

  “It is he, Elevated One,” was the priest’s answer as he hovered in the doorway.

  Saint-Germain had turned and found himself confronting a harried middle-aged man with a pursed little mouth and restless, narrow eyes. He was clad in the sheng liao of a high official, and his cap of stiffened silk indicated that he was the local Magistrate. “August One,” Saint-Germain said, concealing his annoyance as he made a formal bow. He felt ludicrous in his wide towel, but he knew that denying this acknowledgment was unforgivably rude; he tied the end of the towel high under his right arm as he straightened up.

  “En Jen,” said the Magistrate with a nod toward the old priest, “has very correctly informed me of your arrival.”

  “I am grateful he did,” Saint-Germain said, and knew that the Magistrate was offended to be addressed as an equal. “I had planned to present myself and my credentials to you as soon as I was appropriately attired, and I hope you will forgive me for my lack of clothing.”

  “You had planned to present yourself?” the Magistrate echoed nastily. “Had you really? I have only your word for that, foreigner.”

  Saint-Germain felt a quiver of alarm but kept it in check. “If I could locate my clothing, I would be honored to present you my safe-conduct from the Secretary of Co-Ordination of the Regional Militias in K’ai-Feng.” He hoped that this simple declaration would be enough to still the suspicions that were obviously possessing the Magistrate.

  “Fine words, but what has a foreigner to do with the Secretary?”

  It was, Saint-Germain realized, likely to be a difficult interview. He forced himself to respond with an affability he did not feel, “I have little to do with the Secretary: I have never had the honor of meeting S’a Tieh-Pao. I am going to the Mao-T’ou stronghold to work for the Warlord T’en Chih-Yü.”

  “And the Warlord, does he expect you?” Behind the unconvincing blandness there lurked a dangerous smugness. The Magistrate seated himself on one of the two benches in the room.