by G R Matthews
Just like the inn-keeper the day before, the man’s whole demeanour changed upon seeing the seal and information flowed from him like water from a burst dam on the yellow river.
Chapter 29
“Wake up.”
The darkness was pierced by the sound of her voice. Eyelids fluttered open, letting a dim light in. He saw her. A misty outline, a blurred shape in the paltry illumination of the early dawn. He let them close again, blocking out the light, and submitting to oblivion once more.
“Zhou, time to get up.”
The thought of being awake wandered across his mind, aimlessly. He let it rest a moment, pondered it from both sides and let it go on its way. Sleep was preferred.
“Now, Zhou. We don’t have time to rest. They could still be chasing us.”
That thought stamped into his mind and shouted at the part of him that favoured sleep. The warm, fuzzy thoughts, the dream of just a few moments more under the blanket, refused to listen, turning over and pulling the cover up to its chin. The new thought, the one that screamed the Mongols were after him, that they would kill him, yanked the covers away to poke the recumbent thoughts of sleep.
“Zhou.” The voice injected his name with a note of frustration and urgency.
“I’m awake,” he mumbled, forcing the dream of sleep away and accepting that it was now time to wake up, to be part of the day.
“We have to go,” Xióngmāo said. “By midday we should be far enough along the trade road to turn south and make for the mountains. If we stay on the road they stand a better chance of finding us, either them or one of their assassins. Our only advantages are distance and that, hopefully, they do not know our final destination.”
“I hurt.” Zhou heard the whine in his voice, he was not proud of it, but the mad ride yesterday had left no time to rest.
“Life is like that,” she answered, no sympathy in her tone.
Xióngmāo had been the one to wake him. The morning half-gone and Zhou’s position, leaning against the stone wall of the room, had left him with a crick in his neck and an ache in his buttocks. The Mongol was still there, the curved sword embedded in his chest, face frozen in a rictus of pain. The ruined eye socket had dribbled fluid down his cheek.
She had not asked many questions, just dragged him upright, packed their belongings and made sure that he had changed into cleaner clothes. With the bloodied clothes in the bottom of his pack and as much evidence of the struggle wiped from his hands, they had descended the stairs and enquired about their order. The owner was still asleep, but the staff confirmed that everything was in order. Xióngmāo had asked for the horses to be brought round and they loaded the full saddle bags.
Without a backward glance, Xióngmāo had led them away at a steady pace until the Inn was lost to sight. At that moment she kicked her horse into a gallop, a cloud of dust and sand obscuring the hooves. Zhou did his best to follow. Many miles later, she slowed, let the horses walk and recover before kicking them into a gallop again. The same pattern was repeated all day, the only concession to rest was at midday when they walked the horses and ate some of the dry food they had purchased. Way too soon, for Zhou’s liking, they were back on the horses.
In the late afternoon, they began to pass caravans that were heading east to the Empire and the Inn. They had exchanged pleasantries with the guards, news of the roads ahead and been on their way. The meetings were polite and friendly, the two of them were no threat to the caravans with their many guards and information was freely traded.
The night had been cold. Even with a blanket of cloud the earth had not warmed enough in the early winter sunlight to provide any comfort. Xióngmāo had also forbidden a fire. Despite it all, Zhou had slept, untroubled by dreams.
Now, in the early dawn glow, he was forced to confront the reality of the previous day’s ride. Every muscle, joint and bone hurt. Standing was a struggle. His brain sent the commands to his thighs and knees, and they fought him all the way. Straightening up, unbending his spine, felt like trying to bend cold iron with his bare hands. There was resistance and the sharp edges bit into his flesh.
“We’ll eat in the saddle,” she said and he groaned at the news. “There is no time, Zhou. We have to get to the mountains and we are being chased. So stop moaning and groaning.”
Zhou stared at her back as she bent to pack the bags, lifting them as if they were nothing and tying them to the horses. Even his sleep muddled brain had detected the worry and concern in her words.
“What’s wrong?” he said. Yesterday, in amongst all the running and riding, there had been little time to talk.
She hung the last bag on her horse and her hands fell to her side, shoulders slumped. “Tell me again the name of the one who captured you, the one who spoke to you in the Mongol camp.”
“Yángwū.”
“I was not sure when you said it the first time and we haven’t discussed it much. Did he tell you who he was?”
Zhou tottered a few awkward steps towards her, blood and feeling ever so slowly returning to his cold, aching muscles. “He said he had been a Wu.”
“And I didn’t believe you,” she said and climbed into the saddle.
“Why?”
“Because Yángwū died, should have died, a long time ago, hundreds of years ago, when I was still young.”
Zhou forced his legs to lift him up into the saddle and, holding the reins, he clucked the beast into motion. Young was, he knew, a relative term for Xióngmāo. It could mean anything from a teenager to two centuries.
“Yángwū was Boqin’s teacher, and Dà Lóng’s. It was they who found out what he was doing in the Spirit realm, capturing spirits and experimenting on them. You know enough, Zhou, to understand that the spirit is the original animal, all the others are descended from it. Harm it and you harm them, not straight away but over the years and centuries that branch withers and dies. When they found out, they told the others and a great meeting was held. The heart was used, contacted, I am not sure how, to strip away Yángwū’s access to the Spirit and he was cast out.”
“But he lived,” Zhou stated.
“Apparently,” Xióngmāo said. “I don’t know how. Without the spirit he should have lived a mortal life and died of old age.”
“Why do you believe me now?”
“Because I cannot see any other option. He knew me on the Wall. He has told his agents who I am. He uses the name and the story he told you about his awakening is the one that Boqin and Dà Lóng told me.” She turned in the saddle to look at him. “I am worried because our enemy knows the secrets of the Wu and, according to his claims, has the power of two other realms behind him. Those are enough, but add the army of Mongols and the Empire is facing a threat stronger than ever before.”
“He said the Mongols were a distraction,” Zhou said.
“He may of lied, though I suspect half of it is the truth. He has somewhere to be, the same as we do and I worry that they are the same place.”
# # #
Even with the wide strip of material wrapped around his face, the sand sucked all the moisture from his mouth. Whipped up by the wind, the cold sand had battered them since early morning. It found its way in through any gaps in their clothing and extra layers they had added. It itched and rubbed. Scratching only made it worse.
Three days ago they had left the trade route and, at first, the going had been easy. The sand and rocks had provided firm enough footing for the horses and Xióngmāo had slowed the pace. This had seemed like a blessed relief until she told him to walk a little way behind the horses and obscure their tracks. For half a morning, he had trailed a blanket and broken off shrubs over the hoof prints. It was not perfect, a skilled tracker would spot it easily, but wherever the rock outcropped through the sand, Xióngmāo would lead the horses across it, leaving no trace. The worst part of his role was dung collection, adding the steaming lumps to the blanket as he followed along.
For all the pain he suffered riding a horse, it was better than covering their t
racks or picking up horse dung and he was relieved to be back in the saddle during that afternoon.
Yesterday the wind picked up and there was no need to erase the sign of their passing. Early gusts, lighter than those they were exposed to now, caused little ripples of sand to move across the desert floor that kept Zhou mesmerised for a time. Soon though, the gusts grew in strength, a cold wind coming down off the mountains on the far horizon. These picked up the grains and started to throw them around. Xióngmāo had stopped and delved into their packs, retrieving an arrangement of cloth and straps that she fixed around the horses eyes and nose.
By evening, the gusts had grown stronger and in the early darkness they were forced to stop in the lee of a tall outcrop. While Zhou held the horses, Xióngmāo erected a small shelter. Not quite a tent, certainly not on the scale or complexity of the Mongol tents, this was merely a few windbreaks. Flexible bamboo rods that could be tied together, a strong material that she unfolded and, using more ties, secured to the frame. There was no roof. Two of the breaks extended from the rock past a small sleeping area, curving in at the end where the horses were encouraged to lie down.
A small fire was erected at the base of the rock. Zhou tended it for a time, adding small sticks and dried dung to create pungent, smoky warmth. The rock itself was smooth at its narrow base and widened out into a rougher mushroom shape towards the top. They slept in discomfort.
Morning, if such could be called the barely seen glow of the sun through billowing gusts of sand, came too soon. Zhou woke to find himself covered in a fine layer of sand, reminiscent of the volcanic ash months ago. Outside of the shelter the sand was deeper. Measuring it against the windbreak, Zhou estimated that a layer the height of his knees had been deposited overnight. As they deconstructed the windbreaks the sand poured inwards, covering the evidence of the fire.
Out of the lee of the rocks, the wind blew harder and sand stung their faces. There was no time to stop and wait out the storm so they resorted to the extra layers of clothes, the improvised facial coverings and pushed onwards. Frequent breaks were needed, whenever they could find a moment of shelter to feed and water the horses, clear out accumulations of sand from the beasts ears and nostrils. It was slow going, navigating only by the reckoning hints of the sun’s position in the sky.
Conversation was impossible during the day and only at night, once the meagre shelter was erected could they communicate and plan.
“You know where we are?” Zhou had to raise his voice to be heard above the moaning of the wind.
“I have an idea,” Xióngmāo said.
“An idea?”
“We are heading in the right direction. Once the storm clears, we will have a better idea and we can alter our course if we need to.”
Zhou shook his head and sand cascaded down in front of his face. “How long will it last?”
“I have no idea, Zhou.”
“You don’t know?” There was a moment, when he heard her answer, when he was sure his heart stopped.
“Don’t sound so surprised, Zhou. There are lots of things I don’t know. I may have lived a few centuries, read a lot and learned a great deal about life, but the good thing about living this long is seeing the changes, and noting how quickly they can happen.”
“Changes?”
“The Empire has been around for a long time, Zhou,” she said, “but do not mistake it for permanent or unchanging. People change, technology changes, even the culture and traditions change over time. One of the older Wu studied it for a time, looking through the records, speaking with the others and going out into the world. She called it ‘drift’. Little changes happen all the time. Someone reads something wrong, or misunderstands a tradition, and they explain this to their sons and daughters, who go on to foster this error in their children. Or there is some momentous occurrence, a flood, a drought, an earthquake, a volcano, and the results of that pass into tradition and memory. Sometimes they are forgotten and others things take their place. Culture and society drifts along with these changes. Some things appear unmoving, like these rocks here, but are changed slowly by the pressure of events, the sand grinding away at the base of the rocks, smoothing and changing their shape.”
Chapter 30
Gang checked the window again. The seventh or eighth time in the last twenty minutes.
“It’s dark,” he said.
“It has been dark for over an hour,” Liu said in return.
“Then why hasn’t the boat docked?”
“Gang, it’s a boat. It relies on the wind, tide and power of the oarsmen’s arms, if it has any. It will be here tonight. Patience.”
“I don’t like boats,” Gang grumbled. “Unsteady and prone to sinking.”
Haung let their bickering run its course. They were bored waiting and the no drink rule Haung had insisted upon, when they took up their seats in the dockside restaurant, was not helping Gang’s mood.
“Have another bowl of ribs,” Haung suggested. “The boat will be in soon.”
Gang puffed out his cheeks, blew out the breath whilst rubbing both hands on his belly and said, “Not sure I could fit another rib in.”
Liu laughed and Gang did his best to look offended.
“I need some more tea anyway,” Haung offered. “I’ll order some more ribs just in case you feel like you could squeeze another one in.”
Haung waved the waiter over and placed his order. In all honesty, the waiting was boring. The restaurant was at the lower end of the market, but it was close enough to the docks, and the berth the Cāngyíng dōng máquè was to take up, to make their suffering worthwhile. The three pots of tea they had shared were pleasant enough and certainly cheap. Though, given the choice, Haung would have paid more to drink out of cups that did not have so many chips they threatened to cut his lips whenever he took a sip.
Outside the window, the dock work continued into the night. The tide did not respect the workers’ family life or need for sleep. In the time between tide changes, and as the river rose in height, the activity on the docks went on at a furious pace. The channel itself became cramped with ships arriving and departing. Zhigu was a town on the rise. The urban area was spreading, Haung had seen that from the hills that morning, and the presence of the road to the capital was a major draw for the shipping companies.
Lanterns hung from the eaves of buildings. The sweeping tiled roofs arching upwards to meet the second storey were lost behind those yellow and orange glows. In the light of the small flames, men and women plied their trade. Sailors staggered, legs trembling with combination of alcohol and a floor that did not tilt and roll, down the streets. Dockers carried loads between warehouse and ships. Employees of both sexes tried to entice passers-by into their gambling dens, restaurants or brothels.
Liu poured the tea, a small measure into each clay cup and picked up his own. The ribs, short, dark and covered in a glistening layer of honey, stayed untouched in the bowl. Haung leaned back in his chair, the cheap wooden construction providing little comfort.
The door to the inn opened and small child came in. A boy, Haung guessed, though it was impossible to be sure, the smudges of dirt and the greasy hair disguised much of the child’s face. The boy’s eyes scanned the room and, spying Haung’s group, picked its way through the tables towards them.
“Master,” the urchin said, bowing, “the boat’s coming in.”
“Thank you,” Haung placed a few round copper coins, the standard square cut from the middle of them, into the child’s dirty hands. When the hand did not retreat, Haung placed two more coins in it.
Sharp little eyes darted a glance to the coins then, with a measured look, into Haung’s own. Fingers closed around the coins and the child bowed once more, a quick sketch rather than a full bow, before leaving.
“And we call ourselves civilised,” Liu said.
“Greedy little monster,” Gang said.
“The boat’s coming in” Haung spoke before they could begin another session of bickering.
“We had best be out there to meet it.”
Outside, the wind was picking up and there was a fresh chill in the air. The three men walked the short distance from inn to berth. Sailors and the others out and about took one glance at the hammer that rested on Gang’s wide shoulders and gave them room.
They cleared the last of the streets and stepped onto the dockside proper. To the right, the east, ships were lined up along the wharfs. Some were long and tall, square sailed and square ended, both at the prow and stern. Others had smoother lines and sails like an arch, all made of individual panels and strong braces. A few, the larger ones, had two sails and fortified sections at the front and rear. Most however, were low, single sailed and piled high with cargo.
The boat they had been awaiting was tying up in its berth. Thick ropes came spiralling out of the darkness and the dock workers wrapped them around rings and posts set into the dockside. It was clear that this vessel carried little cargo. The fortifications on the prow, resembling a tower, were high and those at the stern only a little lower. It was impossible to see over the rail, but Haung could hear movement as, he guessed, the sailors and soldiers tidied up the last bits of their voyage and readied themselves for the pleasures the town had to offer. The dock workers, dressed in ragged clothes and heads covered to keep off the first few drops of rain that had begun to fall, waited for the plank to be lowered.
Haung, Liu and Gang stood with them. The large man kept pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. Minutes passed before there was, finally, some indication that the ship was ready to disgorge its passengers. The rail swung open and a long, wide plank of wood stretched out and then lowered towards the dockside. A dock hand grabbed either side and pulled it down, tying it loosely to the small wooden rings on the docks. The tide could rise and lower, but the plank would hold steady allowing crew, passengers and workers to enter or leave the ship without too much trouble.
Another short wait and the occasional flutter of conversation from above. Then the first passenger, wearing a dark robe with little adornment or jewellery, began to tread down the plank. The robe hung from their shoulders, flowing and rippling as they descended the plank, brushing the ground as they reached the bottom and stepped onto the docks. The newcomer’s head was covered likewise in dark cloth, with only a small slit for the two dark eyes to peer out of. Around their waist, a leather belt, thin and worn, from which hung a weapon. In the darkness, Haung could see little of it save a grip big enough for one hand and a simple cross-guard.