“By the Gods of War and Thunder!” Kung swore, then turned on his heel as he left them.
The tribunal hall was quiet but for the distant sound of Kung’s footsteps. The remaining four Warlords regarded each other uneasily.
“I think it would be best if we began with an assessment of our current preparedness,” Shao said after a moment, and went to Wu’s desk. “Magistrate, do you mind if I use your brush?”
“Of course not,” Wu Sing-I said distantly. He listened as Shao Ching-Po began to talk of roads and trails, of passes and bridges and fords. All the while his ears once again resounded with the hideous cries of the dying, the rush and clatter of fire, the relentless beat of the hooves of Mongol ponies which had remained with him since that terrible night when Shu-Rh was razed. He knew it was useless to put his hands to his ears, for the sounds were within him, and, he had begun to fear, would be with him forever.
Text of an Imperial edict, calligraphed by the Vermilion Brush and distributed throughout the Empire by court messengers.
On the Feast Day of the Descent of Kuan Te in the Year of the Ox, the Fourteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, from the Dragon Portals of the Imperial City within K’ai-Feng.
The heat of the summer has begun its embrace of the Empire, and the great activity of the people indicates how much promise they see in all their works. Surely this is in accord with the Will of August Heaven, for it shows that all the people know how wise it is to practice industry and to rely on the gods for their aid and protection. We are well aware that there are dangerous men abroad in our lands who would work to destroy all that which all have striven so mightily to achieve. There are those who declare that the perspicacity of the Elevated Ones is to blame, and that there has not been sufficient provision for the determination of our enemies, but those who are aware of the intent of the laws of the gods know that this is not the Way of Heaven, and that the danger is there not through the will of the Elevated Ones, but because misled and benighted barbarians are unwilling to seek the path of virtue, and instead have determined to subjugate this land to their impious will.
When General Yueh met with the Mongol rabble in the field, he wisely employed the formation of the Frolicking Wolf Cubs, and the men of Temujin were routed. We inform all of you of this so that none may doubt that the enemy is contemptuous and not worthy of the concern of those who live within the borders of the Empire. General Yueh has sent back the horses, batons and heads of the, Mongol leaders he vanquished, and these have been displayed to the Court and the city of K’ai-Feng and none may doubt the truth of the report. It is the intent of the Vermilion Brush to inscribe words to the honor of General Yueh upon his arrival in the capital, so that all will know his accomplishments and worth.
Were it only the Mongol warriors we had to oppose, there would be little question of the swift, victorious outcome for the Imperial forces, but it is the most profound source of grief that this is not the case.
There are those of this nation, depraved, dishonored, seduced, who in their error and despicable waywardness have given their aid and abilities to the agents of the Mongol vermin. Unmindful of the ancient wisdom of Kung Fu-Tzu, departed from the Way of the Taoists, rejecting the Buddha’s Threefold Enlightenment, they have blinded their eyes to all but the trophies of pillage. They make themselves lower than the rabid foxes who menace the farmers and their kin alike. They are like the poisoned wells that offer false relief. They are in league with the disruptive spirits in the earth who slumber, and then shake down the world in their petulant wrath. There can be no peace and no haven for such as these. They are lost to themselves and to the vast numbers of the Empire.
Mercy is ever an attribute to him who sits on the Dragon Throne, and it is the greatest good to which the wise man will strive. Yet mercy must be tempered with reason, and justice is that which is merciful to the greatest number. It is no credit to the wise man that he show mercy to the criminal who has determined to slay all his family. That is precisely how the current turmoil has revealed itself, and the wisest course must be taken for the greatest good. For that reason, all nobles, army officers, Warlords, militiamen, Magistrates and Tribunal officers are authorized to seize and hold any person they have reason to believe is acting for the benefit of the Mongol forces. There need be no public endictment, no formal accusation other than that of arrest, and this edict gives discretionary power to all the above-named authorities to try, condemn and execute such persons as are found to be supplying aid to any associates of the Mongols. In order to avoid public scandal and possible riots in outlying regions, the authorities named in this edict are encouraged to proceed clandestinely and to pursue their inquiries with a minimum of public attention. Orders of execution must be preserved for district archives, and copies sent to the Master of Imperial Records, but the full body of evidence and similar documentation, given the turbulence of these inquiries, will not be required with the same stringency as attend on other criminal matters, and the force of the law will not bind the authorities empowered with the usual limitations.
It is sobering to think that this fertile and delightful land could be the object of such perfidy as the Mongols have demonstrated, but it is best to realize how great their desire is, and to determine to oppose it with renewed dedication.
Inscribed with the Vermilion Brush, with the provision that copies be made and distributed to all nobles, army officers, Warlords, militiamen, Magistrates and Tribunal officers, and with provision that copies may be made for district archives.
the Imperial chop
8
Earlier that evening the militiamen had broached two kegs of rice wine, as an aftermath to the midsummer feast. Women from the farmsteads as well as from the stronghold were given free access to all of the little stockade and were quick to take advantage of the opportunities this provided. Farmers sat with their defenders over their earthen cups in the main hall while ribald songs and breathless laughter came in through the open windows from the courtyard.
The evening was hot, with a sultry promise of rain before morning. This in part accounted for the loosened clothing and shiny skin of most of the revelers.
Jui Ah had got hold of a two-stringed lute and was singing the old ballad “Her Garments Fell Like Petals” in a raucous and lascivious manner, urged on by the men around him. As he launched into the third verse, he swaggered to the foot of the stairs that led upward to T’en Chih-Yü’s study. The guffaws of his companions both stung his pride and urged him on to more outrageous verses. He knew that Chih-Yü could hear him, that she was sitting alone in that high room, away from the festive gathering. After making a brief appearance at the banquet and giving a pithy and rousing speech, the Warlord had retired to her study so that, she insisted, the others would feel entirely at liberty. But Jui Ah wanted to be with Chi-Yü, isolated in that little room, in the humid night, to watch her flushed with heat, ready to be a woman for him, instead of his Warlord.
In the song he had reached the part that described what the lover saw when his mistress opened her shift and let it drop to the floor. He tried to imbue the words with his will, so that T’en Chih-Yü would appear to him and do the same as the girl in the ballad. The gut strings felt hot under his fingers as he sang.
“Jui,” one of the armorers shouted over the general noise, “there’s better things to pluck on than strings. F’au makes a prettier melody than the lute,” he cried, putting his arm around the shoulder of the woman F’au.
Realistically, Jui Ah knew that even if Chih-Yü wished to invite him to her bed, she would not do it in front of this company, but that did not stop him from desire for just such a public acceptance. He sang the fourth verse in a kind of defiance, though he knew his audience was growing restive.
“Tell me, Jui,” F’au called out merrily, “how you would treat me if my robe were open for you.” She had a roguish eye and was known to be available to militiamen. Her husband was over fifty and had said that he no longer had a use for women, but still wished for sons
, and raised only the most perfunctory objections to her lovers. “I know how to please you,” she said in her melting voice, tempting him. “A man should sleep with silken cushions, not swords.”
This brought a wave of howling approval from the others in the hall, and one or two obscene suggestions were added to her invitation. These were greeted with high good humor, and Jui Ah himself had to grin at the most incredible of them.
“Jui Ah,” F’au murmured as she came up to him, her dark eyes softened by the wine she had drunk and her voluptuous body moving her light cotton sheng pan suggestively.
With a sudden oath, Jui Ah thrust the round-bodied lute away and reached for F’au, clutching at her urgently, his hand slipping into the unfastened opening at her neck. To the sound of whistling and hoots, Jui Ah bore his prize out into the dark courtyard and told himself as he pressed F’au onto her back that this experienced and carnal woman was far preferable to the fiercely remote Warlord in her study, and for a time, as he plundered F’au’s flesh for their mutual pleasure, he almost believed it.
The hall was empty but for a few sleeping men sprawled in the corner when Saint-Germain finally crossed the floor and went quietly up the stairs toward that closed door that had so tormented Jui Ah earlier in the evening. He wore a long, loose garment of fluted linen that was wholly unknown in China, the old Egyptian kalasiris. His heeled Byzantine boots were out of place with his clothes, but this did not disturb him unduly. He had chosen the kalasiris because it was cool and because it was in accord with the Imperial edict that required foreigners to wear non-Chinese clothing. When he reached the top of the stairs, he hesitated, asking himself again if it was wise to visit T’en Chih-Yü. Though the question went unanswered, he raised his hand and knocked at the worn, red-lacquered door.
“Who is it?” Chih-Yü demanded sharply. There was no encouragement in the tone of her voice.
“Shih Ghieh-Man,” he answered, speaking softly. “You sent word earlier in the evening that you wanted to speak to me.”
“That was at dinner,” she said after a slight hesitation. “It’s very late.”
“I have been occupied in my laboratory,” he explained, though it was not entirely the truth. It was probably sensible to leave, he told himself, but did not turn to go.
In the hall below him, three militiamen had reeled in from the courtyard, shouting for more wine. The men lying in the hall stirred and one of them yawned and belched as the new arrivals found themselves a corner.
The door behind Saint-Germain opened and Chih-Yü whispered to him. “Hurry in, by heaven. I don’t want those sots talking scandal.”
Saint-Germain obeyed at once, saying, “Considering their condition, I doubt you have anything to fear. You could probably walk an elephant through the hall and they wouldn’t notice.”
Chih-Yü put her hand to her head. “I’m glad I posted the sentries before the feast began or we’d be wholly exposed. As it is, I hope that the Mongols don’t decide to attack tomorrow morning. We’ll be incapable of any action against them.” She was wearing a thin silk sheng go and very little else. As she stared at Saint-Germain, she seemed to realize the impropriety of her dress, and drew the long robe more tightly around her.
There was a quiver of lightning that blanched the room and flickered away almost at once.
“I should have come earlier,” Saint-Germain said as he looked at Chih-Yü, seeing her fatigue in the darkness under her intelligent eyes.
“And I was about to thank you for being circumspect,” she countered lightly as she took her place at the table again. “I’ve been reading most of the time, and”—she paused as thunder battered at the hills—“and I have lost track of the time, I fear.”
“Your reading must be fascinating.” He said it sincerely enough, knowing Chin-Yü to be a well-educated woman.
She indicated the old scroll lying open between two paper-covered lanterns. “Mo Tzu.”
“Mo Tzu,” he repeated as he watched her, watched how the light from the two lanterns fell on her face and well-defined lips, how her sheng go stuck to her body where it was moist. He forced himself to speak. “Mo Tzu. He was the one who was Kung Fu-Tzu’s rival, wasn’t he? The man who was opposed to aggressive war and musical entertainments. He wrote a treatise on universal love, didn’t he?”
Chih-Yü looked up at him, her face filled with surprise. “You’ve read the classics.”
“Yes, of course, some of them. Is that so unusual?” He had come a few steps nearer and the light from the lanterns fell on his face, too, hiding the full power of his penetrating eyes in shadow, but emphasizing the angles of his features, the ironic curve of his mouth and the slightly aslant line of his nose.
“In a foreigner, yes.” She had started to roll up the long, well-worn scroll, but stopped, saying, “I was interested in the part that tells how Mo Tzu went with his disciples to various villages to teach the people there how to defend themselves from large military forces, so that the peasants and farmers would not be at the mercy of the warring Princes. I thought perhaps I would discover a better strategy.
“And did you?” He rested his fingertips on the worn surface of the reading table.
“A few things, of little consequence, though I might put them to use, if only to give the farmers something to do.” She sighed once as she finished rolling the scroll. As she wrapped the two silken ribbons around the flaking paper, her eyes strayed to his face. “Tell me, why did you come so late?”
“I told you, I wasn’t through until a little while ago.” He could not keep from smiling, yet he could find no reason to smile.
When she was satisfied that the scoll was properly secured, she returned it to its appropriate container among the many that stood on the high shelves that flanked the northernmost window. A sudden rush of modesty came over her, such as she had not felt since she was a child. It confused her with its unexpected intensity that was combined with a new anticipation of pleasure. She clasped her hands, and then, most deliberately, opened them with the assumption of an ease she could not feel. “Shih Ghieh-Man,” she said as she turned to look at him.
“Yes, Warlord T’en?” There was a sad amusement in his eyes that intrigued her.
With an effort, she recalled the questions she had wanted to ask him earlier that evening. “Tell me, is it possible do you think, for this stronghold to withstand”—she looked away as lightning spurted through the clouds and was gone—“an attack by Mongols?”
“A real attack?” he asked kindly, wishing he could reach out and turn her face to him once more. “You mean a fighting force and not a raiding party?”
“Yes.” She felt his presence in the room as indisputably as she heard the drumming thunder.
“The storm is getting closer,” Saint-Germain remarked inconsequently. When he spoke again, it was in a different voice, one that was low, like the melody from deep strings. “Do I think this fortress could withstand a real onslaught by Mongols? No, I don’t. And neither do you.” He saw her lips tighten against an outburst and he leaned forward across the table. “You asked me for my thoughts, Chih-Yü, and I have given them to you. Would you rather I lied?”
“No,” she murmured. She was looking down at her hands now where they lay clasped in her lap. She had learned what she wished to know, she told herself sternly, and the fact that Shih Ghieh-Man agreed with her evaluation of their chances should not amaze her.
With his uncanny understanding, Saint-Germain said, “Don’t condemn yourself, my dear. It takes a great deal of courage to be willing to face reality and go on in spite of it. You have done more than many others have been able to.” The others included a few of the most illustrious and notorious names known to men, and he did not know how he could explain this to her.
“Go on?” She attempted to speak lightly and failed. “Shih Ghieh-Man, what choice is there? If I order the valleys evacuated and send the farmers into the hills, they will die at the hands of highwaymen or fall prey to starvation when winte
r comes, and it will not matter that they have been saved from the Mongols. It isn’t safe to send large numbers of people into the towns, for they are not skilled in any way that would give them work to do, and there is no place for them. They would be reduced to beggary…” She broke off as a sudden drunken shout came from the courtyard below, only to be quieted by a warning from the men at watch at the gate. There was a trace of a line between her brows that deepened as she continued. “Even in the towns, there is no assurance that they would not fall at the hands of the Mongols if the town is attacked. So what is left to me? As long as my people defend their own lands and their crops and their livestock, they have reason to fight, to resist the invasion and to keep good heart. But if this is lost to them, what is left?”
His face was moon-pale in the sudden jagged light, and then at once indistinct in the muted glow of the lanterns. “Chih-Yü,” he asked softly, steadily, “what do you want of me?”
She bit her lower lip, her usually purposeful expression marred by doubt. “I don’t know.”
“I haven’t sufficient cynicism to pretend that you want me to dismiss your anxieties as insignificant.” Thunder rang over the hills and rolled down the two small valleys. He waited until it had faded.
Chih-Yü shook her head forlornly. “No, don’t pretend. It’s bad enough without that.” She stared at the nearer lantern as if it were a beacon of safety. “I’ve spent most of my life in the company of soldiers and militiamen. It’s what I was born to. But I like the sound of the ch’in when it is played well, and I am truly sad that I can’t have a place for beautiful things here. It’s foolish to want such things, yet when I saw the exquisite things you have…”
Saint-Germain recalled the rapacious Magistrate Hao Sai-Chu, who had claimed the Byzantine mosaics as tribute, and his face hardened. “Yes?”
Though he strove to keep the tension from his voice, she heard it, for she looked up sharply. “I only meant that I wonder if it’s wise for you to risk those beautiful things.” The lightning was more prolonged, cleaving the length of the sky. “I’ve never risked keeping such things here. I’m sorry now that I didn’t choose one or two things, simple things, to make this room less austere.” She made a complicated gesture as she looked up at him once again. “You’ve been far, and yet you take precious things with you. I saw many of the treasures that came in those cases from Lo-Yang.”
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