Gamine finished her meal and waited patiently while the owner tabulated her bill. When it arrived, she read over it carefully, made a show of counting her coins once again, and then called the owner back over, almost on the verge of tears.
“Oh, kind sir,” she said, her voice quavering, “it shames me to say, but I now realize I do not have enough coin to cover the cost of my meal. I had miscalculated the price, and find myself several coppers short.”
The owner’s brow furrowed. His instinct clearly was to raise his voice in anger, but the expression of shame and sorrow on Gamine’s face drew him up short.
“That’s highly irregular, er, that is, custom demands . . .” His voice trailed off, and he rubbed at his wide forehead with a hand the size of a ham. “I suppose . . . We could take what you have and just call it even. . . .”
“Oh, no!” Gamine objected, shaking her head. “I absolutely will not take charity. I want to pay my way.” She wrung her hands, deep in thought. “There is one way I can raise the money quickly. A vendor not too many blocks from here owes me a day’s wages, as I swept out his shop last night. I could run and collect from him what I’m owed, which would be more than enough to cover the difference.”
“Well, I suppose that—”
“But don’t worry!” Gamine interrupted, grabbing her fiddle off the table and proffering it to the owner. “I leave with you my erhu fiddle as security. It is a fine instrument, well crafted.” She leaned closer, her voice lowered. “It cost me fifty copper pieces when I bought it used, and its value cannot have diminished by much.”
The owner took the fiddle, wearing a befuddled expression.
“If you insist . . .”
“Let me go and collect my debt,” Gamine said, hurrying to the door, “and I will be back in moments to pay what I owe.”
With that, she slipped out the door into the darkened streets and was out of sight.
The owner was left holding the fiddle, looking at it quizzically.
Temujin had just finished his meal and was himself walking out, his cloth-wrapped bundle under his arm. Passing by the owner and calling his good-byes, he caught sight of the fiddle.
“Oh, by the Eternal Blue Sky,” Temujin said, feigning awed surprise. He approached the owner cautiously, his eyes wide. “Where . . . where did you get that?” He pointed at the fiddle.
The owner shrugged and pointed with his chin toward the open door.
“Some girl, short on her tab, left it as security while she runs to get the rest.”
Temujin blinked slowly, and licked his lips. He reached out tentative hands but stopped just short of touching the fiddle with his fingertips. “M-may I?” he asked, his voice tremulous.
The owner nodded, somewhat bewildered, and handed the fiddle over.
“Oh my,” Temujin breathed, turning the fiddle over in his hands. “I cannot believe my old eyes. The fiddle is surely the work of the master craftsman Fong Li, who crafted the zither used by Pan Xo, and whose erhu fiddles were played in the court of the emperor himself.” He paused, and met the owner’s eyes. “The fiddle is worth a fortune.”
The owner’s eyes widened, and he looked down at the fiddle. Before he’d taken another breath, he reached out and snatched the fiddle from Temujin’s hands. “On second thought, I better hold on to it,” the owner said, “seeing that it was left in my care, after all.”
Temujin was breathless. “You must introduce me to the owner. I am late for an appointment as it is, but I will happily wait for the opportunity, for the slim chance, to purchase such a fine instrument.”
The owner nodded dully, unable to take his eyes off the fiddle.
Long minutes passed, and Temujin paced the floor, acting more and more desperate by the second.
“I can delay my appointment no longer!” he finally said. “Please, dear friend,” he said, bowing slightly to the owner. He wrote out his name and address on a slip of paper with quick strokes, and pressed it into the owner’s hand. “Swear to me on our friendship that you will pass this along to the owner. I am prepared to pay three hundred gold coins for this fiddle, on the spot.”
The owner’s eyes would have opened even wider if such a thing had been possible.
“Oh, yes, erm, certainly,” he stammered, looking from the slip of paper to the fiddle and back again, doing sums in his head.
“You have my eternal thanks, my friend,” Temujin said, and rushed from the restaurant, out into the darkened streets, clutching his bundle to his chest.
As soon as Temujin was out of sight, the owner rushed to the cashbox and began to count out the day’s receipts, working out how much he would be able to offer Gamine for the fiddle on her return. One hundred gold coins would no doubt dazzle the little street urchin but would mean a threefold profit for the owner when he resold the fiddle to Temujin himself.
Or so he thought.
Gamine and Temujin met in a back alley, a short walk from the restaurant.
“Hurry, my little sprite,” Temujin said, out of breath but smiling broadly. “There’s the risk the owner might seek a second opinion, and then the game is ruined. When he makes his offer, though, play up the fiddle’s sentimental value to you, worth so much more than gold, and then haggle him up to no less than two hundred coins before you agree to part with your ‘beloved treasure.’”
“I know my part,” Gamine said with a grin. She turned to hurry back to the restaurant, but a giant shape blocked her way.
“Um, excuse me?” Gamine said.
“No,” rumbled a deep voice. The giant shape resolved itself into a man, stepping out of the shadows, with one arm ending in a stump instead of a hand. “You two are going nowhere.”
Gamine dropped back into a ready stance, calling on years of martial training, but she had never faced so big an opponent, one handed or not.
“You,” the man said, pointing at Temujin with his stump. “Zhang, or Fu, or Temujin, or whatever your name is. We have an account to settle, by my reckoning.”
“Oh dear,” Temujin said as the enormous man drew nearer.
“Temujin?” Gamine asked, glancing over her shoulder at her companion, turning his name into a question. The one-handed man came ever closer, and Gamine was ready to attempt to repel him, fruitless as the attempt might be.
“Everyone remain calm,” Temujin pleaded, holding his hands in front of him, palms forward, forcing an uneasy smile. “I’m sure that we can work this out, whatever it is, Mr. . . . ?” He trailed off, raising an eyebrow.
“You don’t remember me, do you, pig dung?” the one-handed man said. “Or perhaps you don’t recognize me. I’m not surprised; the years have been long and hard, and when last we met, I had both hands.”
Temujin shook his head nervously.
“You have my most humble apologies, noble sir, but I’m afraid I don’t recollect . . .”
“The Far Sight Outpost, Green Standard garrison, five summers past.”
Temujin’s eyes widened, but to his credit his smile faltered only a moment.
“Oh, oh, oh,” he said, searching for the words. “Of course, I remember. Dear . . .”
“Xian,” the man said, looming over Temujin.
“Dear Xian, of course. I, um, I was forced to leave the area unexpectedly and wasn’t able to find you before my departure, but I assure you . . .”
“You left as soon as you had bled me of my last coin. My life turned to manure after that day, and I have you to thank for it. I’d given up any hope of properly . . . repaying you, so imagine my surprise at seeing you yesterday at that inn. I’ve followed you since then, making sure you were the man I remembered, but now that I am, we can begin.”
“Um, Temujin?” Gamine said, still in her martial stance.
“Not now, little sprite.”
“Either you don’t know your friend as well as you think, girl, or you’re cut from the same cloth as he. Which is it? Would it surprise you to hear that your ‘Temujin’ had conned an honest soldier out of
his life’s savings, over the span of weeks, and left him penniless?” Xian laughed, mirthlessly. “After your friend and I parted company, I had considerable gambling debts to cover and no access to ready coin. I ended up cashiered from the service after I was caught stealing from the company quartermaster, but not before my left hand was cut off as punishment, a reminder of my crime.” He held up the stump, his expression dark.
Gamine looked from one man to the other, unsure what to do. From the street beyond the mouth of the alley, she could hear raucous voices raised in laughter, coming closer.
“Look,” Temujin said, nervously, “I’m sure there’s just been some misunderstanding. . . .”
“No,” Xian barked, and his right hand produced a wicked-looking knife. “I understand perfectly. And you will, too, once I’ve had time to properly . . . explain it to you.” Xian smiled and stepped closer. “I won’t kill you right away, don’t worry. But in the end, you’ll beg for death.”
At that moment, Gamine caught sight of a group of young men, on wavering legs, their voices raised in drunken laughter as they staggered past the mouth of the alley.
“Help!” Gamine cried out, falling to the ground dramatically. “Rape! Help!”
“What?” Xian said, glancing down at Gamine cowering on the ground. “I’ve no interest in you, dung brain.”
From the mouth of the alley, came shouting voices.
“Look!” “It’s just a young girl!” “That guy is a monster!”
The group of young men had stopped short, crowding into one another, and peered down the alleyway.
Xian half turned and waved his knife at the group of men. “Pass on by, sprouts, this has nothing to do with you.”
The men glanced at one another and smiled drunken smiles.
“Get him!” one shouted, and they rushed forward, screaming battle cries as best they could.
Xian took a step back, bewildered, and the first of the men in the charge had the unlikely good fortune to knock the knife from Xian’s hand. The one-handed man didn’t seem to mind, but readied himself for a brawl. The men tackled Xian’s arms and legs, or let fly with punches and kicks in what they appeared to hope was an impressive display of martial prowess, but which really looked like nothing more than the stumbling antics of drunken boys.
Gamine grabbed Temujin’s sleeve and dragged him farther down the alley.
“Come away!” she said in a harsh whisper, but she didn’t have to tell him twice. While Xian was buried momentarily under a pile of drunken men, she and Temujin made their escape.
They couldn’t return to their rooms. There wasn’t time, not with Xian knowing where they were staying. They had no choice but to flee as quickly as possible. That meant leaving the city, taking with them only the clothes on their backs, their purses, and whatever they carried. Temujin still clutched his cloth-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm.
Exchanging as few words as possible, Gamine and Temujin made their way to the eastern extremity of the city—where the Grand Trunk continued to the southeast—and, under cover of darkness, left the city of Shachuan behind.
Later, as the lights of the city were far enough behind them that they twinkled only dimly on the horizon, they left the safety of the road and took shelter behind a cluster of rocks more than a mile from the Grand Trunk. Obscured from view, Gamine started a fire, glad that she always carried her fire kit tucked inside her robes as Temujin had taught her.
For a brief instant, it was almost like the many nights they had spent together after first leaving Fanchuan, when Gamine first learned the art of the trickster—the stars arching overhead, the twin moons in their stately course across the sky, the heat and crackle of the fire at their feet.
Then Temujin began to unwrap the cloth bundle he’d carried from the city, and out rolled a clay jar of wine, ideograms engraved on the side.
“Beyond compare,” he said, breaking off the wax seal. He raised the jar to his mouth and gave Gamine a weary look. “Bung your eye,” he said, and lifted the jar to his lips, wine pouring into his mouth and coursing down his cheeks and chin.
Gamine had tried wine only once and not liked it in the least, but she was thirsty and had no choice. She reached out for the jar, shrugging.
“No!” Temujin snapped, pulling the jar away from her reach. “This is mine.”
“But I am hungry and thirsty, and we don’t have anything else.”
“At first light we’ll make for the first caravanserai along the road. We should reach it by midday, or thereabouts, and will doubtless find there vendors selling comestibles. Now leave me be.”
Gamine thought to object, but Temujin raised the jar again to his lips and drank so greedily that she conceded that he needed it more than she.
The moons were higher in the sky, and the jar lay empty on the sands beside the fire, when Temujin spoke again. When he did, though his voice was thick with drink, his words were as clear and lucid as any Gamine had ever heard him say. It was almost as though her companion of these months past had been an act, a sham put on by the man now before her; or else the man she knew was a better actor than she’d supposed, and the man she saw now was the act. Either way, he spoke with a passion and intensity Gamine found surprising, with none of the habitual colloquialisms and crudities peppering his speech.
“My people are the Mongols,” he said. “And I, springing from the clan Borjigin, am a direct descendant of the great khan, Jenghiz. My people, if we revere anything, worship only the Eternal Blue Sky, which stretches above us and sees all that men do.
“Jenghiz Khan, genius warrior and king, rose from nothing and brought all the wandering tribes of the Mongols together under a single banner, creating a dynasty from nothing. He then conquered all the lands from the eastern ocean to the western sea and created a great empire. I myself was named after the great khan, whose natal name was also Temujin.
“The Han, the Hind, the Tatar, and Muscovite—all soon fell under the iron grip of the khanate. But the empire was divided as it passed from generation to generation, and later khans were not as apt as Jenghiz at maintaining their hold. So the empire shattered like glass, each nation to itself, and the Mongols were once more a nomadic people.
“Just like me. I am a nomad, and always have been, since I first got out from under my mother’s skirts. I’ve had a chance or two to settle down, over the long, weary years of my life, but I’ve always chosen instead to continue moving, to continue forward. It is the warrior spirit in me, I suppose, that refuses to let me rest.”
He paused, staring into the firelight.
Gamine considered asking Temujin if his warrior spirit was also what drove him to bilk innocent people of their life’s savings but, seeing the fire in his eyes, thought better of it.
“Warrior spirit,” he repeated, his voice low, and then fell silent.
Long moments passed, and soon Gamine could hear the rumbling of Temujin’s drunken snores.
She sat looking at the dim light of the chemical fire, deep in thought, until morning came.
Weeks passed, then months, as Temujin and Gamine worked their way from the west, pulling their familiar cons at caravanserai, way stations, and villages along the way. Almost a year after leaving Fanchuan and first embarking on their journey, they neared the great city of Fuchuan, capital of Yingzhou Province and the eastern terminus of the Grand Trunk. There, they planned to rest awhile, divide their money between them, and enjoy the comforts of city life for a time. This time they would be careful, though. Temujin hadn’t been back in Fuchuan in more than a decade, and he was not now the man he’d been then, but he would be particularly careful anyway. Neither of them had spoken about their narrow escape from one-handed Xian in Shachuan, or about the possibility that more former marks—Gamine thought of them as victims, though Temujin had forbidden her to use the word—might be waiting for them in the next town along the line.
Gamine and Temujin entered Fuchuan, leaving the Grand Trunk behind.
Temuj
in had explained that Fuchuan was one of the most progressive and welcoming cities on the planet—with temperate weather, cheap hotels, and fine restaurants—and that as a result it was a refuge for con artists and road tramps, who tended to find the liberal denizens of the city to be easy marks for the simplest of cons.
The memory of their last experience in a big city still fresh, Gamine and Temujin reached an unspoken accord. Neither suggested any new cons or angles, instead approaching the city as just what they appeared to be—two travelers weary from a long journey, ready to spend the coins in their full purses. In the months past, Gamine had come to think of games of confidence, the art of the trickster, as something best practiced out in the shadows of civilization, if at all—in dark places away from the bright lights of cities; amidst such a crush of people, it seemed out of place, even dangerous. Better to act the part of the tourist to the hilt and avoid any difficulty. Or better yet, perhaps give up the game of the trickster altogether, if some alternative could be found.
Their second day in the city, though, the temptation proved too great for Temujin.
They were in the restaurant of a resident inn situated in the shadow of the Lower Temple, opposite the square from the Imperial Fuchuan Opera House. Gamine and Temujin each sat before a steaming bowl of bird’s nest soup in the late afternoon, alone in the dining room. The owner sat at a table on the far side of the room, going over the day’s receipts.
“Where do you think you might like to visit today, little sprite?” Temujin asked. “We’ve taken in the opera house and the Lower Temple. Would you like to tour the provincial governor’s palace, see how the nabobs live when they’re at home?”
Gamine blew across the top of her soup and tried to suppress a shudder. “I’d prefer not to visit a governor’s home, actually.”
Iron Jaw and Hummingbird Page 5