Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The Magistrate of Shu-Rh,

  Family name Wu, personal name Sing-I

  his chop

  9

  Two Mongol scouts had been captured the day before and now hung from trees not far from the Mao-T’ou stronghold. Their skins had been peeled back in strips so that their naked bodies seemed dressed in tattered rags.

  “You should not have killed them.” Jui Ah glowered at Saint-Germain. “They are the enemies of this land. Killing them was not appropriate.”

  Saint-Germain regarded the militia Captain narrowly. He could sense other men in the courtyard were listening to their exchange, though he made an effort to speak quietly. “They were past being men when your soldiers finished with them. What is the point in preserving life, if you call a heartbeat life, in broken flesh?” He felt tired as he asked, and hooked his thumbs into the wide leather belt he wore around his Frankish pelisse.

  “Of course!” Jui Ah scoffed. “This is not your land, foreigner. These are not your people. You have not heard the screams of your loved ones come from the flames of a burning house—”

  “I have,” Saint-Germain corrected him grimly. “More than once. But let it pass.”

  Jui Ah was not going to be put off. “It means nothing to you if the Mongols come. You have only to offer your skills to them and you may leave us to our fate with no more than a single backward glance. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do it,” Jui Ah went on, his tone accusing, “because we all would, if there were any way to do it.” He folded his arms, making no effort to conceal the sneer he wore.

  “I doubt you or I or anyone else here will have that option.” He had asked himself how it would feel to die the true death at last. The Mongols beheaded their captives and burned buildings. Either way, he would be dead at last. He had been thinking of his home, far to the west, and those of his blood who were left behind. Saint-Germain raised his fine brows and regarded Jui Ah.

  “How do any of us know what you would do?” The taunt was deliberate, and again the Captain of the militia waited for Saint-Germain to reply.

  “You don’t,” Saint-Germain said dryly, noticing that there were a dozen men watching now, Jui Ah’s men.

  “Then you must not be offended if we question your loyalty.” There was a glint in his eyes as he stared at Saint-Germain. He was clearly hoping to provoke Saint-Germain to action.

  “Would my offense make any difference to your opinion?” Saint-Germain inquired before he turned away.

  Jui Ah reached out and grasped Saint-Germain by the shoulder. “You haven’t accounted for yourself, foreigner.”

  Saint-Germain stopped. “Remove your hand.” His voice was cool and formidably controlled. He did not look at the restraining hand at all.

  “Not until you explain yourself.” There was a kind of feral glee in Jui Ah’s burst of laughter and he jerked at Saint-Germain’s shoulder in an effort to turn him around.

  “Remove your hand.” This time it was a command. Saint-Germain had not responded at all to the force in Jui Ah’s arm.

  The other man had turned pale with wrath and uncertainty. He knew that Saint-Germain should have stumbled when he pulled at his shoulder, but the foreigner had done nothing. “You’re not answering.”

  “Nor will I until you take your hand away.” His dark eyes were intense as live coals, but Jui Ah could not see them and did not read the warning there.

  One of the militiamen started forward as if to warn his captain of the sudden danger he saw in the black-clothed foreigner, but Jui Ah was too angry and waved the man away before he could speak. “I won’t have any man talk to me that way. I am Captain here. I am the Commander. I’m the one the men will follow in battle, not you. I am the one who will defend the Warlord. You’re lower than turtle excrement. You’re not suited to feed crows.”

  “I tell you one last time to release me.” Saint-Germain’s tone was almost conversational. There was an expression on his mouth that might have been a smile had it the least humor in it. He was poised lightly.

  “Release you?” Jui Ah repeated with mockery. “I’ll release—” He did not finish, for Saint-Germain had rounded on him, his arms coming up so that they caught Jui Ah low in the chest with a resounding thump. The militia Captain staggered back, gasping for air, his arms swinging wildly.

  Without a word, Saint-Germain started away, heedless of the men watching him in amazement. He was almost to the corner of the courtyard when a brick smashed into his back.

  Jui Ah could barely speak. His face was contorted and his steps were as unsteady as an infant’s, but he glared at Saint-Germain with open ferocity as he lurched toward him. “You!” The word came in a rasp.

  Saint-Germain watched as the militia Captain picked up the long curved blade of a pike from where it had lain beside a stack of unfinished shafts. Jui Ah swung the steel blade so that it hissed through the air in lethal promise. “This is madness,” he said, knowing that the men would not listen to him. With deep resignation he began to unbuckle his belt.

  “You think I don’t know about you?” Jui Ah demanded. “You, with your fine foreign airs and your sorcery, you’ve enchanted Warlord T’en, you’ve made her your slave.” Sparks flew from the courtyard paving stones as the pike blade glanced off them. “You’re the one who has convinced her to make that ditch. You’re the one who has turned her against us. You’ve seduced her!” He was less than ten paces away from Saint-Germain now, and the pike blade was held at the ready. It was fine steel, Saint-Germain thought, for he had made it himself.

  “Jui Ah,” he said as he wrapped the ends of the belt once around each hand, “if you must fight, there is an enemy beyond these walls who will give you more than enough battle. It is foolish to fight here.” He sidestepped the first angry thrust of the pike blade.

  “Coward! Liar!” The steel descended again, missing Saint-Germain’s foot by less than a handbreadth. Jui Ah was grinning as he took another step closer to Saint-Germain.

  It was no use to talk, Saint-Germain knew. The trouble was far beyond that. With unhappy determination he set himself to the fight. The belt was taut between his hands and he moved into a partial crouch. His stance was oddly graceful and as Jui Ah took another swing at him, Saint-Germain dodged swiftly, much faster than the Captain of militia had anticipated.

  “Dog’s head!” Jui shouted as he recovered for his attack.

  This time, as the pike blade cleft the air, Saint-Germain snapped his belt outward, the metal-studded leather snaking toward the steel blade. It wrapped around the tang once, then fell away as Jui Ah cursed in the name of half the demons in China. Saint-Germain caught the end of his belt and wrapped it around his left hand again, then stood, waiting.

  Jui Ah held back a moment, assessing the older man’s chances. It would not take long, he thought, to wear down that insolent foreigner. A man of his years would not have the stamina for close combat. He smiled and thumbed the pike blade.

  More men had come into the courtyard, and one of them had offered to take bets. His comrades had motioned him to be quiet, but a few were already reaching for the wallets looped around their belts. Saint-Germain saw this and was appalled.

  “You cannot run from me all afternoon,” Jui Ah called, gloating as he approached once more, bringing the Pike blade up to strike.

  Saint-Germain took the belt into his left hand and began to spin it, making it sing and blur in front of him, like a shield. He started to feint to one side, and was relieved when Jui Ah was misdirected.

  Down came the blade, an arm’s length from where Saint-Germain stood. The belt continued to whirl.

  Jui Ah was puzzled. He knew something of staff-fighting and had been taught classical boxing when he was younger, but he had never encountered this style of defense. He lifted the pike blade and used a number of quick passes, testing the barrier. Once the belt had been arrested, but it wound along the blade, and Saint-Germain had pulled at it sharply, almost dragging the blade from Jui Ah’s hands.

  F
rom that exchange on, Jui Ah was more circumspect. He kept his distance and moved in swiftly, darting with the steel blade in the belief that he could bedevil Saint-Germain into exhaustion.

  Betting began among the militiamen, and shortly there was a vociferous clamor as the fight progressed. The gatekeeper came away from his post, though he was awaiting the Warlord’s return with her daily patrol. This was much more exciting than staring out at the hot afternoon.

  “Come closer!” Jui Ah shouted as once again Saint-Germain eluded him. It was infuriating to be unable to rush his opponent. Jui Ah looked about him for a more suitable weapon. It had become a matter of pride with him now to beat this foreigner to his knees with all of the militiamen watching.

  For an answer, Saint-Germain stepped nearer, bringing the belt up so that the heavy steel buckle spun by Jui Ah’s face. The metal winked in the sunlight, and then was gone as Saint-Germain moved off to the side again, luring Jui Ah after him.

  There was a flail sitting out on a barrel, its thick wooden handle ready for rewrapping in leather. The rods were joined to the handle by a stout loop. Each was tipped with a small, spiked ball of iron. It was a dangerous weapon, requiring skill to use. Jui Ah tossed the pike blade aside and grabbed the flail.

  This was one weapon that Saint-Germain knew he could not fight with only a belt. He flung it away and retreated before Jui Ah, never taking his eyes from the rods of the flail.

  “Coward! Coward!” Jui Ah called out in derision. He began to swing the flail, the long rods clattering. “Not willing to face up to this, are you? Foreign worm!”

  Saint-Germain kept his silence, watching for his opportunity. He felt no disgrace in his withdrawal. There was little significance in it, and, he noted with a degree of irritation, Jui Ah was growing cocksure as he came after Saint-Germain.

  “Like the taste of iron, foreigner?” He shifted the flail in his hands, taking a wider grip on the haft. “Think how these little balls will kiss you.” He squinted as the afternoon sun slanted into his eyes, and was not aware that Saint-Germain had led him into this position.

  The stones that paved the courtyard were uneven, and Saint-Germain was wise enough to move cautiously. But now that he had the sun behind him, Saint-Germain began to weave, darting first one way, then another, forcing Jui Ah to rush forward unwarily.

  A few of the militiamen shouted a warning to Jui Ah, but he was now too confident of the outcome to heed them. It would end soon, he could feel it. He brought the flail up over his shoulders.

  Saint-Germain made one quick, supple motion, seeming to fall toward Jui Ah, but catching the man’s chest on his back and lifting him into the air. Without pause, Saint-Germain rose to his feet, reaching around to grab the militia Captain by his arms, tossing the man across the courtyard to land on the stones with a sickening sound of breaking. Saint-Germain turned toward Jui Ah, and found a party of horsemen in the unguarded gateway. He stiffened, and the other men turned toward the sound of hooves.

  “Explain this!” T’en Chih-Yü commanded as she brought her sorrel into the center of the courtyard. Her right hand was on her sword hilt, the left on the reins. “Explain.”

  The gatekeeper rushed forward, reaching up for her bridle. “There was a fight.”

  “I can see that.” Her voice was icy and she refused to look at either Saint-Germain or Jui Ah.

  “I was afraid it might become a brawl,” the gatekeeper temporized as he went on. “I thought it was best if I—”

  “Left your post?” she inquired. “What if there had been a party of Mongol raiders? What then? Who would have stopped them? You? No.” She looked around at her militiamen. “And the rest of you. What came over you?” She beckoned to the two men who had patrolled with her. “I want you to take the name of every man here. Every man. And I want those names before sunset.” Her face was still with fury.

  “Warlord, it was not that way.” The gatekeeper clung to her bridle. “There was danger—”

  “Be silent.” She cut off his protestations. “Ling, what is the condition of the Captain of militiamen?”

  The man she had singled out rushed over to the fallen Jui Ah and made a rough inspection of him. Jui Ah groaned and swore as the soldier rolled him onto his back. “His leg is broken, Warlord. The rest is scrapes, cuts, and bruises. “No,” he amended. “The collarbone is broken on the right side, too.”

  “It was that sow’s udder of a foreigner!” Jui Ah screamed up at Chih-Yü, his face contorting now that the pain had hit him.

  She sat her horse rigidly, some of her tension communicating itself to her mount, for the sorrel’s ears were laid back and he champed at his bit nervously. “Very well. Who began it?”

  A babble greeted this question as every man who had watched vied with the others for the chance to give his version of what had happened. Jui Ah had provoked the foreigner, who had attacked him with demonic fury. No, it was Jui Ah who had attacked, but the foreigner had driven him mad. No, Jui Ah had been under the control of the foreigner’s sorcery, and had been set to fight so that the foreigner could vanquish him at last: Jui Ah was fortunate to be alive.

  “That last is correct,” one of the militiamen said calmly. “If you had seen how Jui was cast through the air…”

  “I did see. I saw a great deal.” Chih-Yü dismounted, giving the reins over to one of the grooms, who was grateful to lead the horse away and escape the castigation which all of them surely deserved.

  Jui Ah had managed to sit up, but he moaned as he breathed, sucking in air in gasps. His chest was bloody and the ends of his broken collarbone scraped together once, so that he almost lost consciousness. He tried to point at Saint-Germain, who stood alone in the courtyard, his dark eyes fastened on Chih-Yü. “Cur! Vile son of a diseased jackal!” he raged.

  Chih-Yü walked over to her Captain of militia and stared down at him, her face quite pale now. “You will say nothing more,” she ordered him, her manner dispassionate though she was full of turmoil. She had known for some time that Jui Ah desired her: he had made no secret of it. His lust was inconvenient but she had chosen to ignore it. Now she knew she had been unwise, for he had allowed himself to regard her possessively. She had the right to blame him, but was not quite capable of doing so. “I should send you away,” she said at last. “I should order you to depart now, before your hurts are treated. But I cannot afford to do that. We’re too shorthanded as it is, and no matter how incorrectly you have conducted yourself, I cannot allow myself to do as custom and law require.” With that, she started to turn away.

  “Whore!” Jui Ah shouted after her.

  Chih-Yü swung back and brought her scabbard up, slapping it against his face. “No man in this stronghold may call me that, no matter what I choose to do, or with whom!” Now her face was flushed and the masklike composure stripped away. “I am Warlord here. Remember that, all of you. If I wish to take a lame camel to my bed, that is my right, and not one of you is entitled to question it. Is this understood?” She held her scabbard up and her eyes raked over every man in the courtyard but Saint-Germain.

  “That foreigner has bewitched you,” Jui Ah muttered through his split lip.

  “No one has bewitched me,” she said, quite suddenly calm. Then she gestured to Ling. “See that he is bound up, and the bones are set.” Her scabbard was returned to her belt as she left Jui Ah to cross the courtyard to where Saint-Germain stood.

  “I have medicaments, if you wish,” he said softly as she came up to him.

  “No, nothing should come from you. It might seem that you are making reparation, and that would not be wise.” Her eyes met his and there was worry in them. “Are you safe? Did he hurt you?”

  “I am not easily hurt,” he said to her kindly. “I’m sorry only that it came to this.” As he glanced around the courtyard, he went on, “Do you think you should be speaking to me this way? Jui Ah is not the only man here who resents me.”

  Audaciously she put her hand on his arm, knowing that this familia
rity would be noted by all the men watching. “It is not their place to question me.” She was a small woman, coming no higher than his chin, and she wore her strength with a curious fragility that stirred Saint-Germain deeply. “They should be aware of what is happening.”

  He bent his head toward her and whispered, “I thank all the forgotten gods that you are a Warlord and not some mandarin’s Third Wife, relegated to the women’s quarters and wasting your intelligence and your courage on accounts and running a household.”

  Chih-Yü stared at him, astonished. “If that is what must have become of me if my brothers had been … satisfactory, then I, too, am grateful to your forgotten gods.” She glanced over her shoulder to where three militiamen were struggling to get Jui Ah onto a plank to carry him to his quarters. “Dog’s tongue,” she said contemptuously.

  Ling heard this and was so suddenly nervous that he dropped the corner of the plank he carried, and the others, after a few frantic, scrabbling moments, also lost their grip on the rough wood. Jui Ah shrieked as the plank crashed to the flags. Chagrined, Ling made a self-deprecatory gesture and motioned to the others to pick up the plank again.

  They had almost raised the board all the way when one of the men caught a glimpse of something lying on the ground just where the plank had been. Ling tried to reach it, nearly stumbled, and pointed to the thing. “It fell out of Jui Ah’s wallet,” he said apologetically.

  “Oli?” Chih-Yü asked, wishing to be rid of the man. “What is it?”

  One of the militiamen bent down to retrieve the thing. “A string of cash, I think.”

  Hearing this, Jui Ah cried out in fright. “Not mine!”

  “Since when does a militia Captain turn down cash?” Chih-Yü inquired as she reluctantly approached the little group of men around Jui Ah. “A string of cash? How much is it?” She held out her hand to the man with the pierced coins on their leather thong. “Let me see them.”

  “It’s just from gambling,” Jui Ah insisted, his voice high.

  “But you said they weren’t yours,” Chih-Yü reminded him as she took the string in her hands and inspected the coins.