Saint-Germain looked up and saw Saito Masashige coming toward him, his sword in his hand.
“I have come to your room on eight separate occasions,” Masashige said as he drew nearer, and it was then that Saint-Germain saw the misery in his eyes.
“You do me honor, Saito Masashige,” he said carefully. He was reasonably certain that the foreigner would not attack him here, though this might be the proper setting for a challenge to finish what was begun under the walls of the Chui-Cho fortress three days ago.
“Honor,” Masashige scoffed. “I have none left to me. I cannot have any now.”
Saint-Germain regarded him, feeling compassion for this man. “If that was the case, why didn’t you attack me on the rocks?” His curiosity was genuine—over the centuries he had encountered a bewildering mass of codes of honor and had learned to respect them, diverse as they were.
Saito Masashige was affronted. “Defy my Lord? He ordered the fight stopped. How could I refuse him? When I acknowledged my dishonor, he refused to let me end my worthless life—”
“What?” Saint-Germain demanded, aghast.
Masashige chose to misinterpret Saint-Germain’s reaction as righteous indignation. “Well you may ask. Having ordered my dishonor, he would not let me make the cuts.” His clenched hands moved across his abdomen and Saint-Germain realized with deepest revulsion that the man wished to disembowel himself. Involuntarily his hand touched his belt, as if to cover some of the scars that lay beneath it.
“But why?” he asked, when he had recovered somewhat.
“He says that he needs me here. He wishes me to guard the gate for him, no matter what. I have tried to explain, but he is not samurai, though my Lord who gave me to him regards him as an equal. My Lord would not insist that I live with this dishonor.” His distressed features grew calmer. “My katana”—he held out his sword on his open hands—“was made for my great-grandfather, he who defeated the pirates and was regarded as the greatest hero of his day. My grandfather carried it in battle, and my father. All of them were good men, true samurai. So was I.” His eyes lowered. “The honor of my family is in this sword. It has never been defiled before.” At that his words thickened and he could not speak for a little time.
Saint-Germain could find nothing to say. He felt the misery in the other man with suffocating intensity. The katana in its beautiful scabbard drew his eyes. Finally, to end the silence, he said, “It is a fine sword.”
Masashige ducked his head. “Worthy of a true samurai,” he muttered. “Take it! Take it! Take it!” He thrust the katana at Saint-Germain. His eyes were wet.
“I will,” Saint-Germain said, his small hands closing on the scabbard.
Fiercely, Masashige went on. “Oil the blade but do not touch it with your hands, ever. There is a scroll in the hilt, under the tang. Put your name there, and tell how it came to be yours. You are a master, Shih Ghieh-Man. That ax would have killed me. It should have killed me. There is nothing I can do now but die, and that has been forbidden. But at least I have saved the katana from my disgrace.” He turned away abruptly and stalked off down the narrow hall.
Saint-Germain stared down at the katana in his hands. The scabbard was wooden, with fine carvings, and it had a dull shine in the muted light. Belatedly, Saint-Germain looked up, searching for Saito Masashige, but the man was no longer in sight.
One of a series of routine reports from the border station of Fa-Djo on the Go-Chan road.
On the day of the Descent of the Eighth North Pole King, from the Fa-Djo station, Ox Year, Cycle Sixty-five.
Only eight travelers today. In the morning, a family of herders came through with their yaks. A father and two sons. They have been on this road many times before. They deal with the weavers at Tsum-Ho, and references will be seen in other reports. They are men of T’u-Bo-T’e. They are planning to return in five days, which is standard.
Shortly after noon, two Buddhist monks came through the station, bound for a monastery farther up the mountain. The abbot of the monastery sent notification a fortnight ago that these men would be arriving, and a copy of that notification is included with this report. The men came from Hsia-Yi, far to the north, and have been traveling for some time. They left a disturbing report here, indicating that the attacks by the maurading Mongols are more widespread than we have been told they are. It would be well for the Ministries and Secretariats to investigate these activities.
Two hours before sunset, the guide Tzoa Lem, who is well-known on this road, came through with two travelers, both foreigners. The foreigners identified themselves as Shih Ghieh-Man, alchemist, and his servant Ro-Ger. Tzoa Lem has said that he will take them to the Yellow Hat lamasery and find a guide for them there so that they will be able to continue their journey. Tzoa Lem anticipates that he will be here within the month, as he does not wish to pass the winter in the Country of the Snows. He has stated he intends to return to the Empire by this road. Should he be caught in the snow, he will send word with one of the men who travel at the dark of the year.
The weather has been holding cold but elear. The signs are for snow, however, and we are advising all travelers to be on guard against storms.
Dispatchd by messenger at the hour after sunset by the captain of the station, Jai Di.
his chop
4
They traveled less than eight li that day: the rain had become sleet, cutting along on the wind, slicing at their faces and turning the trail to icy mud that crunched and slithered underfoot. The jagged tops of the immense peaks around them were lost to sight as the weather closed in.
“I know of a farmhouse,” Tzoa Lem panted as they called a halt for the fifth time that day. “It’s not too far from the main trail, and the men there are friendly. Not like some, who would rob and kill you.”
Saint-Germain nodded. His bearskin cloak covered everything but his eyes, for he had taken Tzoa Lem’s warning to heart and made sure his nose was not exposed to the freezing rain and sleet. “How long will it take to get there?”
“Most of the afternoon, at this pace. They will have barley and lamb for the ponies and a meal for us.” He gave Saint-Germain a curious look. “Unless you would refuse to eat with them.”
“Among my kind,” he said at his most urbane, “it is considered improper to … dine with more than one person. We find the act too intimate for more than two.” He had been aware for the last few days that the guide was growing more and more suspicious of him. He was grateful that Rogerio had caught game regularly and brought the animals to him, for what he explained to Tzoa Lem was ritual killing.
“It may be difficult to explain that to these men, who share everything, including their wives.” He glanced back along the line. “One of the ponies is going lame,” he remarked in another tone.
“I was afraid of that. I saw him favoring his off-rear foot earlier today. Should we unload him?”
Tzoa Lem considered the question. “There is a spare pony, but in this weather, changing loads will take more time than we can spare if we wish to get to this farmhouse before nightfall.”
“Very well,” Saint-Germain said, though he was not entirely certain it was a wise decision. “How much farther does this canyon go on?”
“Six more li. We will leave it on a goat path in little less than a li.” He pressed his pony into the lead again and the party once more set off into the face of the storm.
They had almost reached the goat trail when the pony that had been limping tripped, and with a high, terrified whinny, slipped off the path, his hard little hooves scrabbling on the rocks before he dropped away into the gorge, carrying with him the next pony behind him, who was linked to him by lead-rein. The other ponies stamped and snorted, and one reared, almost going down the cliff face with his fellows.
Saint-Germain had come out of the saddle at the first sound, and rushed back along the line of ponies, breaking the lead-rein as he went so that no other pack animal could be lost. He steadied each pony in turn as he hur
ried back along the narrow track. When he reached the place in the line where the two ponies had fallen, Rogerio, who had been bringing up the rear, was waiting for him.
“They carried two of your chests. The ones filled with earth. There is only one left,” Rogerio said loudly so that he would be heard over the wind.
“Yes.” Saint-Germain stared down into the steep, rocky canyon as if, by will alone, he could return the ponies to their places in line.
“The largest chest is left,” Rogerio added, nodding toward one of the remaining ponies.
“Get the used barley sacks, and load the earth into them, and put one sack on each of the ponies. That way, if we lose any more, it will not be…” He gestured, finding no way to express the utter vulnerability he felt at that moment.
“Immediately.” Rogerio had already turned and was trudging back down the line of ponies.
Tzoa Lem was making his way toward Saint-Germain. “It’s not good to stay here,” he shouted as he got close enough to make himself heard.
“We must unpack my third chest and distribute its contents to the other ponies,” Saint-Germain said, already working at the heavy ropes that held the chest to the crude packsaddle.
“Unpack? Here? You’re mad,” Tzoa Lem shouted.
“Then indulge me,” Saint-Germain snapped, without humor. The rope was stiff in his gloved hands and he eased the knots with difficulty.
Tzoa Lem stared astonished. In all his years as a guide, no one had challenged him in this way. “We must go on!”
“Not until this chest has been unloaded,” Saint-Germain responded in a tone that allowed no opposition.
“You hired me to guide you, and I tell you—” Tzoa Lem began but was cut short.
“I hired you and I am paying you. I would not override your instructions unless there was an excellent reason to do so. This is such a case. We will be here less time if you will help my servant and me. Three will work faster than two.” He had the first rope freed, and this he tossed away. “Put them on the trail at the break in the lead-rein,” he said to Rogerio as his servant approached with the empty barley bags in his hands.
“I’ve brought some oiled paper as well,” Rogerio sald, holding up the wide sheets. “It will afford some protection so that little is washed away.”
Saint-Germain gave a swift smile. “Thank you for that, old friend.” With a sudden exasperated movement he broke the second rope holding the chest on the saddle. Then he reached up and took hold of the huge chest and lifted it off the saddle, ignoring the appalled expression on Tzoa Lem’s face. He would think of an explanation later, he told himself as he lowered the chest to the ground.
“It’s full of dirt!” the guide said as Saint-Germain opened the lid.
“Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed as he held out his hand for a bag and the grain scoop Rogerio offered him.
“We lost two ponies carrying chests of dirt? Was that what was in the chests?” Tzoa Lem glared at them.
Saint-Germain interrupted his work. “What the chests contain is my business, Tzoa, not yours.” He was already lining the second bag with oiled paper as he spoke.
“If it is dirt you want, it is all around you.” Tzoa Lem was trying to make sense out of what he had seen.
“As any alchemist will tell you, that is not entirely true. All earth has peculiar properties—some is more fertile, some is more sandy, some is filled with clay, some with pebbles, some with leaves. This earth is … potent.” He resumed his work, filling the large cloth bag swiftly and taking a third sack from Rogerio. “Put those two on the last pony, and then come back for this one.”
Rogerio went to do Saint-Germain’s bidding while Tzoa Lem stared in disbelief.
“You are not going to unload all that, are you? Why not save a few sacks and toss the rest over the edge? It will be night shortly.” The guide’s incredulity was swiftly turning to anger.
This time Saint-Germain did not stop his work, but spoke while he scooped up the earth and poured it into the bag. “If you wish to help, it will be done sooner, but I tell you now that we will remain here until this chest is empty and every sack is filled.” He glanced up at Tzoa Lem. “This is not a matter open to debate.”
Muttering a curse under his breath, the guide turned and tramped up the line of ponies to his mount, at the head.
The earth was turning to mud, but Saint-Germain worked steadily, without dismay. He heard Rogerio’s footsteps and silently handed him another two sacks.
By the time he was finished, the canyon was sunk in shadow and though the sleet had stopped, there were a few shards of snow drifting on the wind. Saint-Germain closed the chest and with an odd sense of regret tossed it over the side of the canyon, watching as it bounced off the protruding boulders, and then was lost to sight.
“I’ve spliced the lead-rein,” Rogerio said as he came to stand beside his master.
“Good. We should be ready to go on.” He looked toward the front of the line of ponies and his face hardened. “Did you see Tzoa Lem leave?”
Rogerio’s face was shocked. “Leave? He’s gone?”
“Well, he’s not at the front of the line of ponies and his mount is missing,” Saint-Germain said with a sardonic lift to his fine brows.
“But where…?” Rogerio did not go on.
“To those friendly farmers, I suppose, the ones who live fairly near the trail.” He sighed. “There’s no use trying to find him now. We’d only get lost. Which may be what he’s counting on.” Saint-Germain glanced at the ponies, then said with sudden intensity, “Check their girths. Every single one of them.”
Rogerio did not question this order, but nodded once and started toward the back of the line while Saint-Germain began to work his way to the front. There were only seven ponies now, and it took little time to go over them. Saint-Germain was standing at the head of the lead pony when Rogerio came up to him. “Two girths are partially cut. Only on those ponies carrying loads, not those for riding.”
Saint-Germain nodded. “Yes. One of the front ponies has a nick in his girth. Those with the heaviest loads were harmed first.” He stared off toward the distant peaks. “Now, it seems we must be on guard against traps. Given the hour, I doubt that we’ll have any trouble tonight, but tomorrow, Tzoa Lem and those helpful farmers of his may well be back, full of good humor and readiness to aid us. Or they may not bother with the deception, and simply attack.” He let his mind drift a moment, then said, “Are you willing to ride through the night?”
“Of course,” Rogerio answered at once. “It won’t be the first time.”
“Indeed it won’t,” Saint-Germain agreed with the ghost of a laugh on his lips.
Again Rogerio hesitated. “What about the ponies, though? Do you think they’ll hold up?”
“They must,” Saint-Germain said simply. “We’ll rig nose bags and keep to a steady pace. I see well enough in the night that we should not encounter any serious trouble. We can rest after dawn if necessary, but I want to get out of this canyon before anything more can develop.” He gathered the lead pony’s reins into one hand and set his foot in the stirrup. “It will be best if we do not speak, I think. If you wish to signal me, use the whistle we used in Catalonia, when we were being sought by the Emir’s son. Do you remember?”
Rogerio pursed his lips and made an eerie sound, and the nearest pony whickered, ears turning. “Yes, I remember,” he assured his master.
“Good. I will use the same with you.” He swung into the saddle. “If you hear anything you can’t account for, give the signal, and we will stop at once.”
“Should we perhaps have a regular signal as well, so that each will know that the other is there?” He watched Saint-Germain.
“You’re right,” he said. “But it should not be too predictable. If we are followed, all that they need do is learn the signal and the interval for repetition, and we are no safer than we were without it.” He toyed with the reins. “The chorus of the hymn to Saint John. In Latin, I thin
k, line by line. At the end of the ten lines, go back to the beginning. You do the first half of each line, I will do the second. If too much time passes, I will do the first half and wait for you to do the second. Once every two li should be enough.”
“The hymn to Saint John, in Latin,” Rogerio repeated, then started for the rear of the string of ponies.
Night engulfed them before they had gone two li, and the wind came down off the snow like a ravening animal. Any worry Saint-Germain had had of Tzoa Lem’s overhearing them was quickly forgotten as he strove to hear the sound of his pony’s hooves over the shriek of the wind. He barely heard Rogerio’s shouted Latin phrases, and had to turn in his saddle and answer them at the top of his voice.
Sometime later they called a short halt in the lee of a rock-face, and set to making the gruel for the ponies so that they could provide them with nose bags.
“Water, too,” Saint-Germain said. “It should be warmed a little or they’ll suffer for it.” He had succeeded in starting a low fire and was measuring barley into a large iron pot.
“I will attend to that,” Rogerio said, rubbing his face with his hands. “The fur gloves help, but the wind…”
“Terrible,” Saint-Germain agreed as he added water to the grain. He was determined not to dwell on the hazards of their situation, so he said, “Can you recall anything that the soldiers at the border post said about what lies ahead?”
“They mentioned a monastery, quite near, and said that there were others. From the sound of it, the country must be made up of monks. The officer did say that the capital is on the far side of the plateau, and the roads there are often impassable after the snows fall.” Rogerio had pulled a wide, deep pan from the pack of the next-to-last pony and was emptying the contents of a waterskin into it.
“I gathered as much,” Saint-Germain said. “While the officer was questioning me, he intimated that we were foreign initiates to one of the various orders. I assumed that there was some sort of rivalry developing between two of the largest orders. He seemed to think that the Yellow Hats were the ones to watch.”
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