Space Lawyers: A Collaborative Collection

by Nat Schachner; Arthur Leo Zagat

  The Manchu captain stuffed the folds of his garments to the bursting point. He could carry no more. “Close the hidden chamber,” he ordered, “and beware, lest you tell any other of its secret.”

  The priest hurried to obey, watched the burly figure with crafty, enigmatic eyes. Mangu cast a hasty glance around, and moved to the door.

  It was time to go. Already could be heard the shouts of the invading soldiery, hot on the scent. The old priest stiffened at the noise. Terror seared him as he harkened. He ran after the retreating warrior, grasped him by his garment.

  “Most noble one,” he panted, “you promised me my life.”

  The Manchu shook off the feeble clutch. “That I did, and I have kept my promise. I have not slain you.”

  “Nay, protector, but I hear your comrades in the distance. Soon they will be here, and they will kill me.”

  “What business is that of mine?” Mangu responded indifferently. “I but promised not to harm you, and that I shall not.”

  The old man was beside himself with fear. “Do not abandon me. Mercy, mercy!” he shrieked.

  MANGU stared curiously at this ancient creature who clung so tenaciously to life. Life was only for the young and lusty who could enjoy it to the full, not for dotards. He shrugged and moved on.

  The shouts came nearer, mingled now and then with shrill screams. The priest was palsied. Animal moans burst from him; he glared wildly about.

  Ah, a thought struck him. The crafty look crept back into his eyes. He ran with amazing speed after the retreating Manchu, caught up with him.

  “Great captain,” his cracked voice trembled in its urgency, “take me to your leader, the Lord of all the Manchus. I have word for him that is of the greatest purport.”

  Mangu stopped abruptly, stared at the Ming in bewilderment. “What is this thing that the most high T’ai Tsung needs must hear it?”

  “It is for his ears alone.”

  The Manchu was impatient. “Harken, old man, you impose upon my good nature. The great Khan grants no audience to the idle vaporings of such as you. If you do not cease from troubling me with your foul clamor, I shall be tempted to forget my promise, and myself separate your worthless head from its scrawny neck. Begone, ere it be too late!” he concluded sternly.

  But the old man was not to be thus thrust aside.

  The cries of the looting soldiery were approaching dangerously near. In his terrible fear, he clung to this one ray of hope in spite of threats of violence.

  “Most noble captain, I beg you—hear me!” His voice rose to a thin shriek. “The life of your Lord, the very fate of your people, depend on what I have to say. I, only I, can save you all! Take me to him safely. He shall reward you greatly, I promise you.”

  Mangu, in spite of himself, was impressed by the desperate urging of this strange creature. Perchance there was something in what the old fool said.

  As he stood there musing, the door burst open mid a great clamor and shouting, and a mob of drunken soldiers poured through the gap. They were staggering under silken robes, golden goblets helmeted their heads, precious ornaments of jade dangled from their persons.

  The foremost of the rioters beheld the ancient Ming priest. With joyous cries, they pounced upon him, seized him with ungentle hands. “O outlived reptile of accursed lineage, give us your hidden treasures, or we slit your wizened throat.”

  The priest struggled feebly in his captors’ grasp, crying feebly on the Manchu captain. “Save me, the Emperor will reward you,” he gasped.

  Mangu strode forward with naked weapon. He thrust his way vigorously through the reeling mob, sent the priest’s tormentors spinning with the flat of his sword. “Hence, men of the Chin Tatars! This man is my prisoner. I take him to T’ai Tsung. Stand aside and let him be.”

  Angry growls arose from the sobered soldiers, mutterings that needed only a spark to translate into action. But Mangu faced them haughtily, eyes flashing fire. Someone recognized him as a Captain of a Thousand. Terrible would be the wrath of their Lord if they attacked an officer.

  So they stood aside with hate-filled eyes and let the proud captain pass. The Ming slunk by, hugging closely the burly form of his rescuer.

  T'AI TSUNG, Lord of the Chin Tatars, conqueror of Chung Kuo, the Middle Kingdom, sat in state on a throne in the great royal tent pitched in front of the battlemented walls.

  A great burly figure, his huge knotted muscles bulged incongruously in the flowered silks of the despoiled Mings. The high slant cheekbones, the generous spacing between the coal-black eyes that could flash terribly on occasion, the bold aquiline nose with flaring nostrils marked him as of the race of Timur and Jingis. The broad forehead, the proud, haughty pose of the head, the black wiry beard proclaimed one accustomed to command, whose least whim was law. But the great fleshy lips that gleamed redly under the short curling mustache, the feeling of exuberant life that emanated from the vigorous body, were proof enough that he shrank not from the flesh-pots.

  A hard rider, a warrior to whom the fierce clash of weapons was as the breath of life, a mighty feaster and drinker after the swink and toil of battle—such was the great Khan.

  Even now he was lolling on his throne, a goblet filled with the pale rice wine of the Chinese gurgling down his throat, while two huge bronzed slaves waved great fans rhythmically before the royal presence. Already was he aping the luxuriousness of the conquered race.

  An interminable string of weeping, frightened Chinese maidens passed in review before him. Those who pleased his fancy he designated by a nod. They were immediately hurried to the women’s quarters of the royal tent.

  The sturdy gruff Manchu nobles saw, and liked it not. “Methinks,” grumbled one to his comrade, “our Lord forgets the simple virtues of our race. He would become as one of these degenerate Mings. Look at him being fanned like a very woman, and mincing with perfumed water. Pah.” The indignant chieftain spat his honest wrath.

  His comrades gazed apprehensively around. “Ssh,” he whispered, “it would not be healthy to be overheard. I care not for such pretty danglings myself, but rest assured, our Khan is no milksop. When the occasion arises, he will once more prove himself the mighty warrior he has been in the past.”

  The other shrugged his shoulders skeptically.

  A sudden commotion at the entrance to the great silken tent brought the grumbling to a halt. A cowering, decrepit figure was dragged into the sacred presence by one attired in the trappings of a Captain of a Thousand.

  Mangu prostrated himself deeply before his dread Lord. The priest, half dead with fright, groveled with outstretched arms in the dirt.

  “Hear, oh mighty one, greater than Timurlane and Jingis Khan. This vile carcass I have brought to you is a priest of the Ming women, who pretends he has news of great import, touching your most sacred life. It was for this I saved him from the death he merited. I know not whether he in full sooth knows aught, or if he be a rank impostor.”

  T’ai Tsung bent a black brow on the groveling wretch. “What have such as you to say that concerns me, the Son of Heaven? Speak, and woe betide you if it be idle chatter.”

  The Chinese priest raised himself, trembling. “All-powerful one, whom Heaven itself protects, my story is for your ears alone. When told you would not wish it to be in others’ memories.”

  Mangu sprang forward. “Nay, oh Lord, heed him not,” he clamored; “this misbegotten shape of evil may be possessed of magic powers, and seek to work unholy enchantments on your sacred self.”

  “Stop!” The Emperor’s voice was terrible. “Think you that I, a descendant of the Sky, need fear his feeble powers? Old man, it shall be as you wish. Let one remove himself from our presence at once, except my Nubian mutes, and Mangu, who shall keep the door of the tent.”

  With backward steps and numerous bows, the Manchu nobles hastened to go, lest their ruler’s wrath blight irrevocably. Only Mangu remained to guard the door, and the giant slaves ranged on eith
er side of the throne, great curved swords on ebony shoulders.

  The Khan frowned blackly. “You have gained your audience. If your story meets not with my approval, you will curse the day that you were born. Speak!”

  The shrunken Chinaman had somewhat regained his confidence. He fumbled in the folds of his garments. Mangu watched with hawk-like eyes, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his body tensed to spring at the slightest untoward sign.

  The priest drew out a small object, held it in the palm of his bony hand. Mangu stared at it from his vantage-point.

  A carved bit of jade the size of a robin’s egg. The soft satiny sheen of its green, the infinite delicacy of its carving, awakened covetous desires in the captain’s breast. “The old scoundrel,” he raged inwardly, “to have tricked and bemocked me thus! Had I but known this rare ornament was on his worthless person, I had slit his throat from ear to ear.”

  Once more his fascinated eyes strayed to the splendor and glory of it. A magnificent throne, on which, in divine majesty, sat a child, clad in the resplendent robes of an Emperor of the Celestial Kingdom. Around the dais on which the throne was set, could be descried, deep graven, a train of marvelously minute Chinese characters. The whole was encircled by a sinuous dragon, its scaly body seemingly instinct with life.

  T’ai Tsung had half arisen from his throne, staring strangely at the palely glowing gem. Even the giant mutes held unwonted gleams in their mask-like faces.

  The Emperor’s voice was queer, hoarse, when he spoke. “Give it to me—at once.” He stretched out an imperious hand.

  THE priest of the Mings hastened to obey. The Manchu Lord held the precious thing in a hand that shook. Long he gazed into the green depths, as into a crystal ball that mirrors the future darkly. He seemed in the grip of a mighty emotion, as if the bit of jade held in its translucence a powerful magic, a magic that could sway his destiny, and the fate of nations.

  “What inner meaning holds this strange device? What secret power does it contain?” he demanded, half in awe.

  The withered priest prostrated himself once more before the feet of the conqueror.

  “Great Son of the Morning,” he intoned, in the voice of one long dead, “in your all-wisdom you have felt the spell. Now I see the prophecy was true, though I mocked it when first it was revealed to me. Know then, oh Chosen One, this curiously carved jade was given me many, many years ago, by an aged lama from Tibet, whom I succored when he was weary with travel and the harsh burden of life.

  “Before he departed to his ancestors, he entrusted it to my care, and told me of an ancient prophecy. Some day, he said, a race of conquerors would come out of the north like a cloud of locusts, and the fair land of Chung Kuo would be harried with fire and steel. If, perchance, the jade Throne and Child should come into the hands of the conqueror, then the prophecy would be fulfilled. ‘Let but a Child, a babe of their race, be seated on the Dragon Throne, and he and his descendants shall be Emperors of China. The dynasty he founded,’ so ran the prophecy, ‘shall blossom as the lotus blooms, and be mighty rulers in the land, but only as long as the magic jade is safely held. Should it ever pass out of their hands, then calamity shall come to pass. The great dynasty shall end, and Chung Kuo be wrested from their dominion.’

  “Long years I held it secretly, nor said aught to anyone. But yesterday, when your victorious army was hammering at the gates, and the city was surrendered, I lost what little wits I had. In my utter folly, I spoke of it to Ts’ung Ch’eng, who has since gained the peace beyond. I recited the tale, unthinking. He demanded of me the jade, vowing that he would break it into a thousand bits, even as he would dash your power to the ground.

  “I dared not say nay to my Emperor, but I knew the truth. Heaven had spoken, and it were sacrilege to defy its decrees. Nor I nor the Emperor himself could change unalterable fate.

  “Quickly I thought what I must do. Pretending utter submission, I promised to bring it immediately. Instead, I hastened to my chamber, secreted the precious amulet on my person, and hid in a place I alone knew of, from the wrath of Ts’ung Ch’eng.

  “This morning I ventured forth, to bring the jade to your august self, deeming the Mings fled and the temple deserted. But a band of courtiers, to whom Ts’ung Ch’eng had delegated the search for me, waylaid me unawares. I refused to talk, and I was being put to the torture when your captain rescued me.”

  Mangu leaned forward anxiously. Was the old devil going on to tell of the cache of jewels, and his rifling of it? But the priest had ceased, and Mangu relaxed in great relief.

  Again with fascinated eyes, T’ai Tsung gazed into the jade’s green depths. To Mangu it seemed as though a subtle emanation irradiated through the great yellow tent.

  The great conqueror pondered long the curious prophecy. The wine goblet dangled in his hand, the spilled amber fluid formed little pools beside the throne. Mangu watched with bated breath. When the silence had lain so long in the tent that speech seemed a thing forgotten, T’ai Tsung raised his head. There was that in the black-bearded countenance that sent queer little shivers through the bowels of the Manchu warrior.

  “Old man,” he said to the bearer of the jade, “you have spoken truly. The ancient prophecy is now fulfilled.” Mangu started. “Nay,” he told himself excitedly, “the Emperor is mistaken. A child in arms must sit on the throne, so ran the prophecy. Has he forgotten, or heeded not?” He was on the verge of blurting out, when he stopped, in cold sweat at his narrow escape. T’ai Tsung followed a very simple method in disposing of annoying interruptions. The captain shrank back hastily, but the Emperor had not heeded the gesture. He was still speaking. “The Throne and Child is in our hands, and no power on earth, no demon of the air, shall wrest it from our grasp. Forever shall it stay with us, and forever shall the dynasty of T’ai Tsung reign in the land of Chung Kuo.

  “Aye,” his voice was vibrant with curious emotion, “my race, the issue of my loins shall rule this land. None other, do you understand?”

  There was that in his glance that bespoke a desperate resolve. Mangu wondered.

  “As for you,” he bent a strange look on the bowed figure before him, “it is but meet that you be fitly rewarded for your devotion. I promise you your wildest desires shall be more than quenched. The Manchus are not niggardly in their bounty.”

  He clapped his hands. “Ho, Mangu, call in my nobles. Inform my treasurer to bring in caskets of gold and jewels—yea, many of them, and cause my infant son, Shun Chih, to be escorted into my presence.”

  The burly Manchu hastened to obey, the while gritting his teeth in an ecstasy of bitterness and rage. Curse the lying dog! He, Mangu, had been tricked like a very child. The precious jade would have been his, had he but wit enough to search the cunning priest. Then his would have been the rewards from a grateful Emperor! Yet no sign of his inner turmoil was betrayed by his impassive countenance as he gave the required orders.

  MANGU reentered, and bent low before his lord. The priest stood a little to the side, absorbed in thought. “Oh Heavenly One, it has been done even as you have commanded. In but a little while, the nobles of our realm shall gather here.”

  T’ai Tsung eyed him keenly. “Come hither,” he ordered, “I have somewhat to say to you.”

  Mangu, startled out of his bitterness, hesitated, moved forward uncertainly. Had the devil spawn then betrayed him, and the stolen treasure? Already he felt the keen edge of the executioner’s ax cold against the nape of his neck.

  T’ai Tsung searched him with eyes that seared. Mangu dared not look up.

  The voice of doom was in his ears. “Come closer.” Mechanically he approached until only inches separated him from his sovereign.

  What were these words, whispered low so that only he could hear? Hardly could he grasp the full import—yet as he harkened, every nerve a-tingle, a vast relief flooded o’er him.

  “And so,” concluded the Khan in barely audible whisper, “I make you custodian of the Jade
Throne and Child, token of a mighty dynasty. No one but you knows its secret. Guard the talisman with your life. Let not the slightest whisper of its purport escape you. Your line and lineage shall be its hereditary protectors. Take it.”

  In his bewilderment, the Tatar captain felt the cool silky jade in his clenched palm. Without knowing what he did, he slipped it into the pouch of his leather garment.

  The Emperor stepped back. “Go back to your post,” he spoke loudly.

  Mangu was conscious of a great elation. His head was high. His Lord had singled him out for signal honor. He would prove worthy of the trust!

  While this passed, the great tent had slowly crowded with the warrior Manchu nobility. They were buzzing with excitement at the unwonted summons. The set, strained look on their ruler’s face was proof enough of the importance of the occasion. Before the throne were open caskets, heaped with flashing gems and gold coins, a princely ransom. And who was that strange figure, that incredibly old Chinaman, standing humbly in the cleared space, yet with a crafty smirk on him. Shun Chih, a grave little lad of six, wide-eyed in childish bewilderment at sight of the crowded tent, sat next to his father. The great Khan’s arm encircled him with a caress that was tight in its intensity. At least some few remembered the fierce clutch when they thought afterward.

  When the buzz of expectancy had risen to fever heat, T’ai Tsung rose proudly from his throne. The haughty eagle of the North was in the grip of some strong emotion, yet no one could detect a tremor in the cold, even voice.

  “Hear me, ye nobles of an ancient race. Our task is ended. All Chung Kuo lies prostrate under our conquering tread. We are the Lords of the World, and what we have conquered, we shall hold. The race of T’ai Tsung shall rule forever from the frozen ocean to the heated waters of the south.”

  The fierce Manchus clashed their weapons and shouted approbation.