by Vivian Chak
***
Xiang arrived in Bianjing on a full moon night. A poet's moon hung lightly above him. But he was in no mood to drink. The enormity of what his father had burdened him with had taken from him all desire for wine, strangely enough.
He noticed that sections of the canal were being purposely narrowed. This was most likely part of preparations, for the approaching Jurchens. Xiang wondered if his father, as the Bianjing prefect, meant to flood the entire area around the city to slow their advance. It would make a ruin of the farmland for sure, but then again, so would a looting army. They would exchange one evil for another. Xiang glanced back. Lang's body lay in the cart behind him. Recalling what he had done to his teacher made him feel ill.
If he hadn't died, Father would most likely have had him killed for failing. But the thought did nothing to assuage his remorse. The alternative actions that he might have taken―disarm Lang, refuse to use his sword, or even, in emulation of his teacher, take the horse at the most opportune moment and ride for Bianjing―came quickly to mind, and hurt his head, like painful accusations.
Yet had he left Lang alive, his father would have asked him what had become of his teacher. And then his father would have been heavily disappointed, by his cowardice in a fight. Xiang refused to be weak. He would live up to his father's expectations.
Returning to the task at hand, Xiang tore his attention from Lang. The city walls, the branching canals, and wide streets filled Xiang's gaze. Shopkeepers, tavern owners, and the usual nighttime fixtures had all extinguished their lanterns early. Pathways, both earthen and watery, were devoid of populace. Even the moon was being obscured, by clouds.
Bianjing, with one of the largest populations in the Empire, was filled with the silence of a tomb. Xiang inferred that the emptiness was due to the curfew, imposed by the looming threat of invasion, but he had never known city folk to be that adherent. Perhaps it was his father's presence.
He scanned the waters pensively. The options of leaving the city were rather simple―by canal or by road. The swiftest and safest route, for any fugitive wishing to leave China entirely, would be by water. Still, Xiang was unsure. The Grand Canal, one of the oldest, Xiang knew, would have its blockages at points, particularly with the recent rise of silt carried into it from the Yellow River. And hiring both bargeman and barge was costly. The road might be less expensive, particularly if villagers were inclined to give alms to a nun of Yongtai.
No. Not a nun. Xiang was looking for fugitives from the law. One was potentially dangerous. If they attacked him, it would be fair for him to return the favour, with steel. He had no qualms forbidding him that. Xiang had felled men simply for trying to reach him with a blade. The cart thumped over uneven earth, and he winced.
He would have to stop possessing such scruples. A sword might bend, for the pliant core within, but it was the hardened outer metal that gave it a sharp edge, and its function. That was why it could shear wood. Why only metal would stop it. Xiang's face hardened. All his life, he had aspired to become his blade. His father had tried to temper him, but it seemed that he was still soft and dull. It wouldn't do.
The canal loomed large before him, water lapping softly and black without the moon. Lang's wooden cart still sounded. And before him, a melee fought out before a distant canal dock, silhouettes of men shaped against the flickering flames of lanterns.
Xiang was spoiling for a fight. This was opportune, especially since brawling among the night watch was explicitly frowned upon. He would end it quickly. Instructing the cart driver to go where his father might be, Xiang dismounted, tied his horse to the cart, and with steely authority, ordered a guardsman to row him over. No wind blew, and the stillness of the night was matched in Xiang's held expression, betraying no emotion.