The Dragon's Breath

by James Boschert

  Rong was dressed in the sober, voluminous robes of an administrator, but his clothing carried the sheen of the finest silk. His round, smooth face and small, hooded, black eyes gave almost nothing away of what he was thinking. He stared out over a city that held few secrets from him; he knew that he was feared in this tumultuous city, and that suited him well.

  The Governor might think he controlled the city, and indeed probably did have his finger on the political pulse, but he, Hua Rong, Chief of Police, had his finger on the pulse of the city itself, and that was an entirely different matter. There was little that went on, from the depths of the squalid canal area and the Arab quarter to the intrigues and gossip in the governor’s palace, about which his spies did not inform him; and if they were tardy about providing him with information, they were severely punished.

  The noise of the busy streets below was muted at this height. He turned slightly to look over a wide expanse of the city, including the governor’s palace with its ornate tiled roofs. He glanced behind him at the spacious room that was his office. He liked to imagine that he was the spider and this was the center of his web. The ornate layout of the room, the gilded beams and intricate carvings at the top of the roof supports, as well as the polished rosewood tables and the zitan furniture, gave the impression of opulence and wealth, as well as power.

  A gust of wind brought the stink of the river to his window and rustled the papers on his desk. It even disturbed the heavy silk hangings on the opposite wall. One depicted an image of Early Spring, painted by none other than Guao Xi, which had been presented to him by the ambassador to the Emperor on his last visit to Guangzhou.

  They were comforting to the educated eye, as were the expensive and delicate porcelain vases from the time of the early Tang dynasty that held pride of place on the cabinet behind his enormous desk. The exquisite rugs on the polished floor were from the distant land of the Persians and would have cost a fortune, but he had received them in exchange for the right to trade from a grateful Persian merchant.

  From this vantage point he could see some two li distance to the gates of the Arab quarter and the coming and goings of the Arab merchants and their servants. On this particular day he had noticed a new arrival.

  A large Arab boat had sailed into view from down river, then dropped anchor. It was typical of the other seagoing Baghlah that lined the wharfs in the Arab quarter, so he didn’t remark it, other than to expect some kind of report from his people. He noticed a boat leave the ship, heading for the wharfs, before he turned away from the window to deal with the pile of paperwork on his desk.

  There was a discreet knock on the door and his secretary entered, carrying even more papers. Rong watched as the man shuffled quietly into the room, bowed deeply, and then moved to lay the papers on the pile already there.

  Rong sighed. The paperwork. Despite his small army of secretaries, most of them eunuchs, he still had to check everything. Mistakes cost money and caused problems. Rong was a meticulous man. It was a matter of survival; as Chief of Police he had many enemies, and not just among the villains of the city.

  “The signatures for the executions are on top, my Lord,” the secretary said in a low tone. He then backed away and left the Chief to contemplate the papers in front of him with distaste. Executions were messy, but his signature was needed before the governor would sign off on them. The criminals were the usual collection of rapists, traitors, thieves and brigands from the country who had been apprehended, tried by the magistrates and found guilty. The sentence was almost always death; it saved on prison expenses. Beheadings took place outside the prison walls down on the mud flats by the river. The luckless prisoners would be executed in front of the appropriate officials, not to include himself if at all possible, or the governor.

  He glanced over the pile. He noticed that the complaints from the Arab Merchant Committee about harassment from the guards at the gates of the enclosure had increased. They mentioned that their freedom to move about the city was constrained by unwarranted paperwork, obstruction from the officials at the gates, and even on the streets of the city. How could they do business with the Chinese merchants if they could not move about the city freely? Hua Rong sighed with exasperation.

  The Dashi, as the Arabs and Persians were known without distinction, whined incessantly about the bonds placed upon their own warehouses and the taxes they had to pay on arrival and departure. Fires broke out frequently, which exacerbated the situation. The Arabs blamed the Chinese, and the Chinese shrugged and asked why would they set fire to goods they needed? Rong found it irritating to sit drinking tea with the Dashi leaders, using a translator while pretending he didn’t understand them as they negotiated for the release of one or other of the warehouses to the market. However, he had become rich because of them, so he could not complain too much.

  He decided that the latest round of obstructions should be lifted... for a limited time. The Arabs knew the power of bribes, just like anyone else, so why didn’t they just apply that logic and be done? Still, they might have learned the lesson of humility sufficiently for the time being. The arrogance of the foreigners was irksome to many in the city, including himself. Despite the fact that these intrepid sailors brought to the city much in the way of exotic goods, which could not be found anywhere in China, they were unloved.

  Their religion was a singular part of the problem. Their often fanatical insistence upon there being only this ‘Allah’ and no other gods was absurd and irritating to the majority of the Chinese people, who believed in a multitude of deities, starting with their ancestors and ending with Confucius or Buddha, take your pick. Proselytizing was prohibited, especially after some unpleasant incidents in the not so distant past. In spite of that edict, some of the Arabs, the ones called Mullahs, persisted, which was why they were for the most part confined to a restricted area where they could worship their God as much as they pleased without disturbing the civilized people of Guangzhou.

  An hour later he was interrupted in his reflections and labors by another knock on the door. “Come!” he called.

  Lin Chong slipped into the room as noiselessly as a cat. He bowed deeply and then, when Rong nodded, advanced to stand before the desk with his head lowered, waiting.

  “Well, what is it?” Rong snapped. He had a lot of work to do and meetings to attend later in the day.

  “An Arab ship arrived today, My Lord.”

  “Tell me something I do not know!” Rong leaned back and looked at Lin, a broad-shouldered, tough-looking man from the west, with hard eyes and a thin scar across his right ear that continued down the back of his cheek. In spite of it, Lin could be invisible anywhere, which was just why Rong employed him.

  “It had passengers on board, Chinese passengers, my Lord.”

  Rong sat up and stared at his lieutenant. Lin was his absolute man who did his bidding in all things without question and would not be lying now.

  “Chinese you say?” That was highly unusual, although on occasion Chinese merchants had been rash enough to travel with the Arabs. Few repeated the exercise, citing primitive conditions and lack of pork and alcohol. The Chinese liked their drink at meals and found the Dashi habit of not drinking deplorable and uncivilized.

  “I have learned that the passengers are Lord Meng Hsü and his son, my Lord.”

  Rong nearly dropped his ink pen. Instead he controlled his breathing and placed both hands carefully on the dark lacquered table-top. His eyes were not focused on the multitude of rings on his fingers, however.

  After a long pause, he said, “You are sure of this?”

  “Yes, my Lord. He had to explain himself at the gates. He was dressed just like the Arab people, but he used the name of the governor and they let him pass. He is on his way to his home.”

  For one insane moment Rong wondered if it would be a stroke of luck to have Hsü intercepted and killed before he could get to the safety of his house, but then common sense prevailed. There were too many people in high places
who would know immediately who had arranged the assassination.

  “Keep a watch on the villa and make sure I know his movements. Is there anything else? Do you know the reason for this? He left in one of his own ships almost a year ago.”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Then find out!” Rong barked.

  *****

  Hsü and his small traveling entourage, consisting of his son, Jiaya and Lihua, along with two crew men Talon had assigned to him, arrived at the gates of his villa late in the hour of the Horse, which he felt was appropriate to his arrival.

  Unfortunately, the guards at the gates were newly recruited and refused him entry. While Fuling began to shout and Jiaya to plead, Hsü stayed calm, although it took an effort.

  “Go and get Fang, my bodyguard, at once!” he finally ordered the confused youths.

  They looked uncertain. They were only young men, almost boys, with not a single jot of sense between them. “Do it!” he roared, and then laid a restraining hand on Fuling’s arm. “They do not know us, but Fang will sort this out. Calm yourself, my son.”

  One of them ran off, while the other assumed an uncertain but aggressive stance to keep them where they were until help arrived.

  Fang came striding out of the building complex with a scowl on his stern face. The moment he rested his eyes on Hsü, he marched up to within three paces of his master, snapped to attention and bowed very low indeed from the waist, then bellowed at the two guards to get out of the way. “Pay your respect to your master!” he shouted, his face contorted with rage.

  The two young men fell to their knees and banged their heads on the dust of the pathway before another curt order from Hsü made them stop.

  “Welcome back, My Lord Meng! We... we had not expected you, er, quite like this,” Fang stammered. “I am humiliated that these scum did not recognize you and have not paid you the appropriate respect. Do you wish that I cut of their heads immediately?”

  Hsü winced. He knew that the very next thing Fang would request would be his own horrible suicide for allowing such a loss of face to occur.

  “I will think on it, Fang. In the meantime, I want you to educate them as to who I am, and that includes my son. They can be forgiven for not knowing... but you are to supervise their reeducation personally. I want you to find some men who actually look like soldiers to augment this sorry lot while you are at it.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “And NO, you do not have my permission to commit suicide. It is disgusting. Do I make myself clear?” Hsü demanded.

  Fang scowled into the distance and would not look at him. “Yes, my Lord,” he replied woodenly.

  “I am very pleased to see you again, Fang,” Hsü said as he walked away.

  He knew what the punishment would be, of course. Fang would sentence the two luckless youths to the cleaning of the night waste from the bowls with their bare hands for a month at least. He shrugged mentally. The process went like that, and there was little he could do to change that aspect of life in the ranks without causing loss of face all round.

  Fang couldn’t wait to cut open his belly at any excuse, just like those mad people who lived in the islands to the northeast of China who always wanted to die with the scent of cherry blossoms in their nostrils. Why they couldn’t just get along with one another was a mystery to him. It also bothered him that the guards had been such inexperienced youths. He would have to have a private word with Fang about that. He suspected that his brother-in-law, a tight-fisted man, had hired them. Fang would have had more sense.

  “I want you and one of the other guards to escort these two men back to the Arab quarter, Fang,” he called over his shoulder. “Please make sure that they arrive safely. Use my name if anyone tries to stop you.”

  He knew perfectly well that unless the police themselves intercepted them, Fang would chop anyone who threatened them into little bits, as it would be he and no one else who would escort the men back to their ship. Fang bowed in silence and stayed frozen in that position as Hsü walked away.

  Hsü gave Lihua and Jiaya permission to leave and watched them scurry off to their quarters, then he walked alone into his own property with a huge sigh of relief. His son also hastened away to pay his respects to his mother and grandmother, who were ensconced on their thrones deep within the interior of the villa. Hsü smelled the delicate scent of fruit blossoms and his ears registered the sound of water flowing; it relaxed him at once. He looked around him at the dense and complex symmetry of the gardens, the orchards, ponds and tiled roofs of the many buildings of his home, and it felt good.

  He barely heard Fang snarling at the guards, whom he had lined up and was ‘educating’ as to who he, Lord Meng Hsü was, and was only dimly aware of the frantic activity all around him. Word had spread like lightning. Servants, gardeners and other guards Ke Tou’d to him as he walked the one-hundred paces long pathway towards the inner courtyard to where the fountain was making its water music.

  Hsü ignored them all. He was savoring his garden, his villa, his world. He would have a very long hot bath, alone, but with a very attentive servant to pour piping hot water over his shoulders on request; and then perhaps a light massage. Then he would dress in real clothes. The rags he was wearing would disappear forever into the flames of a fire. There would be a meal of some real food, which he could eat at his leisure with a pair of ivory chopsticks instead of his fingers, enjoying the taste of every morsel. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, with the box safely under his left arm, and savored the moment. He could deal with his wife a little later.

  As he walked, he thought about what his arrival would mean to many people, not least the governor and his simpering intellectual minions, as well as that drain rat Hua Rong, the Chief of Police.

  His concerns with the consortium were less worrying by comparison. The contents of the box he carried under his arm would more than compensate for the loss of the ship, with a small profit to sweeten the bitterness of the disaster and leave him with more wealth to add to that which he already possessed. It was Joss that he lived at all, and that would mean the placing of burning incense at the altar of his ancestors this very evening.

  His private thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched yelp of excitement, and the small figure of Lun came rushing out to greet him. The boy literally ran into his arms in a display of appalling bad manners, but Hsü seized him and swung him into the air with delight.

  “Papa, you came! You are safe!” the boy exclaimed. “Did you come on the Arab ship?” he demanded when he had been placed back on his feet.

  Hsü tried to mask his surprise. “Yes, yes I did, how did you know? Ah, I know, your brother told you.”

  Lun looked uncomfortable. “No, Papa. I, I just knew.”

  Hsü frowned. “You have not yet met your brother then?” he demanded.

  “I saw him with Mama. He didn’t talk to me,” Lun said, looking up at him.

  Hsü patted him on the head. “I must prepare myself. Walk with me, and later you can tell me all about your studies.”

  “Yes, Papa,” the boy said reluctantly, and accompanied him to the inner courtyard. Soon he was babbling happily and holding on tightly to his father’s hand. Hsü didn’t mind at all, despite the breach of protocol.

  Later, much refreshed and wearing clean clothes, layers of silk which had the faint scent of camphor and were appropriate to his station and surroundings, Hsü and the family met at the hour of the Rabbit, just as the sun was dipping below the western rooftops of the city.

  Hsü took the head of the table, as he had always done when home, while his mother sat at the other end, and his wife to his right hand. Fuling sat on his left side and Lun was placed in the middle next to Fuling.

  Everyone, including his wife, seemed pleased and relieved to see him, although he sensed a certain coolness about her when he arrived at the table. Nevertheless, she greeted him with the usual polite terms, and when he was seated she made sure that he was served firs
t with the wine and the first of every delicacy that came to the table, even to offering him a tidbit with her own chopsticks, making the point that she was his wife in every way.

  The conversation was slow at first, but very soon his mother was demanding a full description of his travels from the day he had left. Her main concern was how he had arrived on an Arab ship.

  “Your Lun here knew about it even before you arrived, Hsü,” she stated, which drew a frown from her daughter-in-law.

  “So he told me himself,” said Hsü. “How did you know, Lun?”

  But Lun squirmed and looked embarrassed. “I dreamed it, Papa,” he muttered into his rice bowl.

  “Hmm.” Hsü decided to leave it at that for the time being and turned to face his wife.

  The woman who looked back at him, but then dropped her eyes in the usual coy deference, was still very beautiful, but a mask of hardness had turned her features to stone.

  “We have all been very concerned, my Husband. Every member of the family Hong has worried. There were reports of very bad Typhoons this year. Was it one of those that caused your ship to sink?” she asked him.

  The news of the disaster had shaken her badly. He knew why. Her brother had been one of the chief investors, along with several other rich merchants of the Hong or merchant group. She had no idea how they might recoup their investments after such a disaster. He intended to reassure her.

  “No, it was in the seas of India, not very far west of the long peninsular at the place they call Kalah Bar. A great storm came up from the Southwest and swamped our boat. We also caught fire.” There were gasps of horror at this. Hsü could see that Fuling was dying to tell the story, so he waved his hand at his son, indicating permission to continue.

  Fuling told a fairly factual account of the voyage and the catastrophic storm, adding only a few embellishments, as his father was present. His audience listened with rapt attention. When he finished there was a long silence as the family digested the tale, and even the servants, who had been silently bustling about, were still.