The Northern court, foreseeing further peace, reduced its standing army to decrease pressure on the treasury. Then the Rouran launched large-scale assaults that seemed determined to break through the Wall. Faced with this sudden, grave threat, the court had no choice but to call for a general levy and conscription.
It occurs to me that from the encampment, we rode almost due north to reach our current location. Surely we are not headed to the border?
“Your Highness, where are we going?”
The princeling raises a brow, as if wondering how I haven’t guessed yet. “The capital.”
Relief washes over me. There will be no place as fiercely defended as the capital. “This has been a grand tour for me. I’ve never seen so much of the North.”
I haven’t seen much of the South either. But in the South I did not feel geographically constricted: Lake Tai is so vast; it always seemed to me that simply by plying its waters I could reach anywhere I wished. In the North we have been penned in by the dimensions of our courtyard.
I wonder how everyone at home is faring. What will Father do with the time he normally spends overseeing my training? Will Murong find himself suddenly starting his martial arts tutelage? And who will help Auntie Xia with threading needles and picking out grit from dried beans?
“Has it been difficult for you, leaving home?” asks the princeling quietly.
It is discomfiting how well he reads me while he himself remains a complete enigma. “I don’t want my family to miss me too much—but I also don’t want them not to miss me at all.”
“I’m sure they miss you just the right amount,” he says, rising.
I stand up too.
“Eat more,” he instructs. “Sleep early. I’m going out for a walk.”
I envy him the kind of pass that lets him roam abroad at this hour, unconcerned with the wrath of night watchmen. But I’m also thrilled at the prospect of some privacy. After I finish my dinner, I visit the commode in our part of the inn, which actually has a door. Then I ask for hot water to be delivered to our room, which comes quickly.
Not knowing when the princeling might return, I don’t dare disrobe, but wash only my face and feet. When I’m done, I collapse onto my cot and am instantly asleep.
I don’t know how much time passes, but suddenly I’m awake, my heart pounding. The princeling stands at the foot of the cot, studying me in the light of a lantern, his gaze intent yet unreadable.
I grip Heart Sea’s hilt, my motion unthinking, instinctive, my breaths reverberating in the silent room.
“Still awake?” he murmurs. “We ride at dawn.”
Then he walks away to his own bed. The light goes out. He lies down and seems to fall asleep immediately.
But my heart goes on pounding for a long time.
We cover more than two hundred li the next day. The ride, like the previous day’s, is largely silent, though Captain Helou proves himself an amiable companion at our midday meal. From time to time I get the sensation that the princeling intends to say something to me, but he never does.
We have barely spoken at all since I awakened to find him standing at the foot of my cot, pinning me in place with his gaze. In my mind I have gone over that moment again and again. The jolt of awareness that made my heart race and my breaths shallow—that wasn’t only alarm, but also a lightning-like branching of heat that left my fingertips tingling and my entire body tense. Even now, as I think back, those sensations spark and spread, threatening to tilt into chaos.
But what bothers me isn’t that I feel those things. It’s that I felt a similar, perhaps identical, unrest the last time I fought Yuan Kai. Am I that inconstant, or am I still convinced, deep down, that he is Yuan Kai?
My instinct is to look in the princeling’s direction. Instead, I bury my face in my noodle bowl.
After lunch, we stop at a saddlery shop. To my surprise, after a brief consultation with the princeling, the saddler comes and fits a padded cover on my saddle.
My backside has been feeling tender—I’ve never ridden so much. But though I might have winced now and then, mounting and dismounting, I haven’t said anything to anyone about my discomfort.
“Try it, young xiong-di,” says the saddler. “It should feel nicer now.”
This time I do not forget my manners. I sink to one knee before the princeling. “This humble conscript thanks His Highness for his boundless kindness and hopes a lifetime is enough to repay it.”
My eyes are on his boots, but I feel his gaze as he replies, “Our country is in peril and more than ever depends on the valor of her sons. Be brave, Hua xiong-di, and you will have repaid me a thousand times.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Late in the afternoon, we arrive at Pingcheng, the capital of the North.
When I was nine, I visited Jiankang, the Southern capital, a grand place—opulent, even, in certain parts. But it is an opulence marbled with a seediness so unmistakable that as young as I was, I recognized it and felt uneasy the entire time I was there.
Pingcheng is nothing like that. In fact, if I hadn’t been told, I might not have guessed that it is an imperial seat. Set it down in the South and it would have been considered a middling city—acceptable, but without anything special to recommend it.
But that it is a well-laid-out, well-constructed, and bustling place is remarkable in and of itself: Less than a hundred years ago, Pingcheng, which literally means “city of peace,” was sacked in war, and almost everything has been rebuilt since.
It is also quite northerly, fewer than three hundred li from the Wall. But it sits in a basin surrounded by mountains on three sides—north, east, and west—and that natural defense must have been considered a significant advantage in the choosing of a capital in uncertain times.
I’m not sure what I expect to see inside the gates. A Xianbei stronghold, perhaps, where everyone dresses in nomad garments and speaks Xianbei. Where I will feel like a complete foreigner.
The prevailing fashion does seem somewhat impractical—the sleeves on men’s robes practically sweep the ground—but overall, the residents are not dressed all that differently from what I have seen elsewhere in the North. And while the accent takes some getting used to, I understand everything that is being said around me.
To my Southern ear, Northern words are like fists. When I first arrived in the North, every time I passed by a marketplace, I thought fights would erupt. But what I took to be loud, nasty exchanges were often nothing more than neighbors and acquaintances asking after one another’s latest meals. It is the same here. Flights of staccato, sometimes explosive-sounding syllables accompany friendly smiles and affectionate demeanors. Hawkers and stall-keepers throng the streets. Men joke and brag from the balconies of wine houses. Old women haggle while exchanging tips on how best to deal with arthritic shoulders.
And everybody speaks Chinese.
Where are the Xianbei people in the capital of this Xianbei dynasty?
We leave the busy thoroughfares and arrive in a quieter district, where streets are paved with slabs of granite and homes are hidden behind high walls topped with green glazed tiles.
At last we come to a long blind alley with only one set of doors opening onto it. The doors are large and red-lacquered, spangled with dozens of bronze ornamental studs. As we dismount, two black-clad servants rush out.
“Your Highness! Your Highness has returned safely!” chirps one of them, taking charge of the princeling’s horse. “Fu-ren is waiting. She’s impatient to see you.”
Fu-ren—her ladyship. His mother?
The princeling’s expression tenses. “She’s back from her retreat?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” says the servant, oblivious to his reaction. “His Grace sent word about the war and she returned with the messenger—got in just before the city gates closed last night.”
The princeling gla
nces at me, then at the front doors standing open to welcome him home, and hesitates, as if he is no longer sure he has come to the right place.
The servant, confused by this delay, asks, “Does Your Highness have any other instructions for this lowly lackey?”
His Highness frowns, shakes his head, and marches into the ducal residence, Captain Helou and me in tow. The first courtyard inside is a rather bare, utilitarian space. Here the lackeys lead our horses away, and a more important servant comes to offer his greetings.
“This young xiong-di is Master Hua, who is a rare hero despite his tender age,” says the princeling, though his age can’t be much less tender than mine. “Hua xiong-di, this is Master Yu, our majordomo.”
“Welcome, Master Hua,” said Yu.
“Thank you, Master Yu. I can only hope that my presence here will not add too greatly to Master Yu’s duties.”
“Of course not, Master Hua. It is our honor to host young heroes such as yourself.”
I reply with more florid language about my gratitude. Then the princeling says, “Master Yu, will you show the captain to his lodgings? Hua xiong-di will come with me.”
That the princeling wishes to keep me by his side both alarms and flusters me, but somehow doesn’t surprise me as much as it should. I interest him—that I know by now. But I’m not sure whether that’s due entirely to my skills.
The royal duke’s residence is sizable but not magnificent, at least not by Southern standards. We walk past a reception hall, then a small warren of alleys bordered by self-contained courtyards of different sizes. One is large and entirely set aside as a garden. But the year is young yet, and the capital, more than four hundred li north of where I was yesterday morning, is much, much colder. The pond at the center of the courtyard seems to have barely thawed from the winter, its waters still and deep green. Beside it, boulders have been worked and arranged together so that they resemble a precipitous miniature hill; the small pines that grow in the crevices of this rockery make me think of winter, of snow falling off clusters of shivering needles.
The princeling’s private quarters are in a medium-size courtyard immediately beyond the garden, with two suites of rooms, one set facing south, the other facing east. The most important resident of a courtyard always has the south-facing rooms—they are warm in winter and cool in summer.
The princeling walks into the south-facing suite. The first room is an elegantly simple reception room, where a young male attendant, no more than eleven or twelve, is laying out tea and refreshment. The princeling calls the boy Xiao Yi and asks after his parents, then instructs him to make ready a room in the east-facing suite for me.
My heart leaps. If I’m to have a room of my own, in a separate suite, then I might be able to wash tonight.
When the boy has left, the princeling turns to me. “I need to offer my greetings around the residence. Hua xiong-di, please help yourself to the refreshments.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
He is a son of the family coming home. Of course he needs to call on his elders to inquire into their well-being and let them know of his safe return. He disappears into a room deeper in the suite. When he reemerges, gone are his simple travel clothes. In their place, he wears an amber brocade overrobe trimmed in dark green, with long, loose sleeves that are almost two handspans wide at the cuffs. A green-enameled gold band encircles the knot of his hair.
I try not to stare. And I’m glad that he, like the rest of us, has never seen an accurate reflection of himself. It would turn him vain. It certainly would turn me vain, if I looked like that.
Our eyes meet. He stills, then resumes pinning a braided jade ornament onto the silk sash at his waist. “Hua xiong-di, please remain in this courtyard. I will be back before too long.”
Odd that he issued me such a reminder, as if I were a nosy child. Then again, after he leaves, I’m terribly tempted to be exactly that and peek into his private rooms.
Fortunately the boy, Xiao Yi, returns to lead me to the east-facing suite. As I enter, I let out a gasp of delight: Two entire walls are covered with books. And not only paper volumes, but antique silk scrolls and even-more-antique bamboo strips, strung together and carefully rolled up.
Summer months in the South are too warm for vigorous activities after lunch. Father and I sometimes took a covered punt and a stack of books from his collection and let ourselves drift on the lake until sunset. Part of my dissatisfaction with the North has to do with the lack of books in our new life—we had to leave most of Father’s collection behind when we fled the South.
Xiao Yi brings more tea and refreshments and lights the lamps—it’s getting dark outside. Then he absents himself and I fall upon the princeling’s books. The Four Books and Five Classics, the Records of the Grand Historian, the essential commentaries—all the titles considered indispensable in the library of a well-educated person. A well-educated man, that is; a woman reading so much would make people uneasy—not that it has stopped me.
There are also collections of poetry, and treatises on philosophy, medicine, horticulture, and every other subject under the sun. I choose a volume titled The Arithmetical Classic of the Gnomon and the Circular Paths of Heaven—I don’t remember ever seeing books about mathematics or computation in Father’s collection.
The room is obviously a study. But it is perhaps also where the princeling was instructed in the classics. Certainly there are places for a tutor and two pupils: The head of the room has a raised platform on which sits a low table; below, across an aisle from each other, two more tables, smaller and less ornate than the first.
I unfasten my sword, gather a plate of delicate, round bing, and sit down at one of the smaller tables with my book. Three lines into the second page, I hear footsteps approaching. Very, very light footsteps, followed closely by two sets of much heavier ones. The party of three arrives in the courtyard. I can’t see them through the paper-thin panes of mother-of-pearl on the window, but I hear Xiao Yi come running to greet them.
“Fu-ren! This humble lackey didn’t know fu-ren would be here. This way please, fu-ren. I’ll also bring tea and a brazier immediately.”
“I don’t need tea or a brazier. Where is my nephew?” rings a clear and clearly cross voice.
Not his mother, then, but his aunt. And the term she uses for “nephew” indicates that the princeling is her sister’s son.
“His Highness went to offer his greetings to His Grace,” Xiao Yi says. “And then he was going to call on your ladyship right away. He must have been detained by His Grace.”
The woman sighs. “You are right. I’m still too impatient. He’s probably already at my —”
She stops. I imagine her frowning.
“Why is there a light on in that room? Is someone in there?”
“His Highness brought back a young hero, Master Hua.”
“Oh? This is the first time he’s invited anyone to stay in his own rooms. Go knock on the door for me. I want to meet this Master Hua.”
Hastily I rise and straighten my clothes—my blue overrobe is dusty and wrinkled after two days in the saddle. The knock comes. I open the door.
Beyond the threshold stands a beautiful woman of about Father’s age. Behind her are a pair of maids, each holding a lantern covered in pale yellow silk. The princeling’s aunt opens her mouth to say something, only to gape at me, her expression a complicated snarl underpinned by shock, dismay, anger, and finally a great grimness.
I grow alarmed. Surely my clothes are not that offensively rumpled.
“Master Hua, is it?” she says stiffly.
All at once, her speech sounds strongly of the South. Why does the princeling’s aunt have a Southern accent?
I bow. “This humble conscript greets fu-ren. Fu-ren, please forgive my intrusion. His Highness has seen some use in this humble conscript and has treated me with every undeserve
d kindness. Will fu-ren please come in?”
She stalks into the room, leaving her maids outside. “You are from the Lake Tai region.”
“Yes, fu-ren. Fu-ren has keen ears.”
“And your father is Hua Manlou?”
I blink. This is not something she can glean merely from my accent. Then I notice how she phrased her question. There are different ways to refer to someone else’s father. Her words convey little respect but much disdain.
My eyes narrow. “Fu-ren is acquainted with my father?”
My tone is still deferential, but I take a step toward Heart Sea. It is easy for a swordsman to make enemies, and Auntie Xia has at times alluded to Father’s wild youth.
Footsteps. Someone is running in our direction at a flat-out sprint.
“Oh, yes, I am acquainted with your father,” says her ladyship, her tone caustic. “And you are Hua Muyang?”
As I debate whether to correct her, the princeling bursts into the room and skids to a stop. Breathing hard, he looks at his aunt, at me, then at his aunt again. But his first words are to the servants. “You three, don’t stand around in the courtyard. Go to your other duties.”
When they have dispersed, he closes the door and salutes her ladyship formally. “Auntie, my apologies. Father has several lords and ministers in his study and didn’t want me to miss his discussion with them. I left as soon as I could and stopped by your courtyard, only to learn you already came here.”
He sounds calm enough, other than his still-irregular breaths. Yet I hear a rising desperation in his words. I think back to his reaction when he learned that her ladyship had returned unexpectedly. He glanced at me then, outside the front doors he was suddenly reluctant to enter.
Did he know, somehow, that she would take one look at me and know my exact lineage? And does that mean—my head spins—that he too knows exactly who I am?
When her ladyship says nothing, he exhales and puts on a placating smile. “Has Auntie been well? I understand you arrived back only last night. I hope the trip was not too taxing.” Belatedly I notice that when he speaks to her, he takes on a Southern accent that is similar to hers but much less noticeable.
The Magnolia Sword Page 6