by Harold Lamb
yurt, my men will follow and slay you for the weapons. If you give them now, you will not die, but there will be no payment.” Khlit's teeth gleamed under his mustache.
“A jackal snarls when it may not bite. But who fears a jackal, Dokadur Khan?”
The other's hand went to his sword, and his lip lifted in a snarl. But Khlit did not look at him.
“Nameless one of unmentionable fathers!” the Khirghiz swore. “It is well you are in the Togra. You cannot leave unseen, and my men will take the weapons from your carcass before you are a mile into the defiles.”
Khlit knew that Dokadur Khan would do his best to keep his promise. But he knew he was safe as long as he remained in the yurt. He leaned closer to the other.
“Harken, Khan,” he said slowly, “we be two men with wise heads, you and I. Women quarrel over trinkets. I have heard that Dokadur Khan is skilled above other men in taking horses and in plundering where the danger and the spoil is the greatest. I have seen that this is true. Hey, you are a falcon that takes only the swiftest fox or the strongest antelope.”
Mingled feelings showed in the Khirghiz' flat face. Pleasure combatted suspicion. His guest was one who cared nought for his feelings, yet who implied that they had common interests. A man of pride and, perhaps, one with a message.
“The falcon that flies highest,” he responded surlily, “can best see the game afoot. Here in the Togra we hear of events in the steppe and over the frontier.”
“Then you have heard when the Dragon Emperor comes to Liao to hunt.”
“Within a week or less.”
“With many followers?”
Dokadur Khan threw back his head with a roaring laugh. “Nay, you must be from a distance, if you know not that Wan Li hunts with an army. Aye, an army of thousands; blue and yellow banners of spearmen, armor-arrayed beaters by the hundred;
the nobility of Liao province. His pagoda is moved upon the backs of fifty oxen—”
“Rare plunder for a shrewd man.”
The khan stared, his grievance forgotten.
“Wan Li's court! Nay—” he shook his head helplessly—“the Forbidden City itself is not safer than the imperial riches. A hundred beaters die in the time between sunrise and dark, for his sport. Have the Rakchas sent madness upon your head?”
Khlit shook his head, and the Khirghiz saw that there was no folly in the keen, deep-set eyes under the tufted gray brows.
“Nay, Dokadur Khan, I would not steal, even from Wan Li. But spoil! There is the reward of the brave fighter. Is the Son of Heaven too high for the glance of a khan such as yourself? Nay, I have seen the citadel of an empire taken by men who had no other virtue than that they rode three hundred miles in three days.” The light of memory in his eyes, the Cossack told the plainsmen what he had seen—a part of it—in his journey from Russia through Persia to Mongolia. As they listened, the men drew nearer the fire eagerly. Here was a tale fit for true men!
“Truly,” protested the khan at the finish, “I fear not the men of the Dragon Emperor—even though the guards of the Golden Tomb be near at hand in the Liao Hills. But I have not two thousand men. It cannot be!”
“Can a hooded falcon strike? Nay; only one that soars.”
“But how?”
Khlit pointed across the fire to the west.
“A fool tells what he is about to do. From where I have come are men who have no fear of the Dragon army. This much will I say. Be watchful during the hunt. For the end of the hunt will be the Seventh Moon, which is favorable to foes of the Dragon.” There was no mistaking Dokadur Khan's growing interest. Khlit's recital, capped by his vague promise, had fired his tarasun-heated brain.
“By keeping your men ready with arms at hand and your eyes keen. Is the Dragon the only one to hunt?”
Dokadur Khan pondered this with an air of wisdom. There was respect in the glance he cast at Khlit, also burning curiosity. He was aware that his followers were stirred by the words of their guest, and he did not wish to appear ignorant of what was afoot on the steppe.
When the talk ended, Khlit had gained two points. He had aroused the interest of the brigands and possibly gained himself allies, of a sort, if he should need them in the Togra. And he had taken the khan's mind from his pistols.
Of this last Khlit could not be sure. Morning might bring thought of his promise to take the weapons to Dokadur Khan. Men of that type were fickle. It might be well not to put him to the test. His respect for Khlit had mounted; still . . .
Khlit settled the matter himself by stealing from the tent long before dawn when the encampment was wrapped in sleep. He attracted no attention. Yet, when he walked to where his horse was picketed, he heard a step beside him and turned, hand on sword.
“Lord,” a small, high voice came out of the darkness, “I had thought that the honorable one might leave before it was light. I read wisdom in his look, and those who are wise do not trust to Dokadur Khan. So I waited without the tent.”
Khlit peered at the shadow beside him and made out the figure of the boy to whom he had thrown the meat. He laughed softly.
“Eh, little warrior,” he chuckled, “you will be a leader of men some day, and perhaps a horse thief.”
“If the honorable one says that,” cried the urchin proudly, “it will come true. I listened under the tent wall, and surely the honorable one has the wisdom of the earth at his will. It was such a tale as I have never heard.”
The boy kept close to the Cossack's side as the latter saddled his horse and mounted.
“Now,” he whispered importantly, “I will show the khan a way to leave the Togra before the riders of Dokadur can reach him.”
Khlit leaned down. “Have you a horse, O one who will be great?”
“Nay,” the lad muttered; “they say I am too young—” “Come, then,” chuckled Khlit.
He swung the child up to his saddle peak. The lad gasped, half in fright, half in pleasure.
“Show me now this way from these cursed ravines.”
By dawn they were many miles from the encampment. Khlit had little fear that his trail could be followed. Still he did not rein in his horse until they reached at midday the last of the ridges and came out on the level plain. Then, to the boy's sorrow, he set his comrade down.
“Harken, little khan,” he growled. “Before many hours the men of Dokadur will come out near here. If not, go to one of the sentinels. Bear this as a free gift from me to Dokadur. Bid him not forget the seventh moon.”
He put one of his pistols into the hand of the delighted lad and added some beef as an afterthought.
“It will earn you a better share of mutton,” he laughed. “Say to the khan that I forced you to come with me. And remember the seventh moon.”
“He shall hear,” swore the child, “on my life!”
“I doubt it not. Health and honor to you!”
With that Khlit spurred off eastward across the plain in high good humor. As long as he was in view, the boy stood in the defile holding the weapon clasped tight. Not until Khlit had vanished did he remember he was hungry and eat the dried meat. It was well, he thought triumphantly, that the old khan had not offered him reward. For true men do not reward one another, more than the trust between them, for a service asked and given.
II
A water-clock tells the passing of time: if the owner of the clock dies, it will not stop. Only when there is no more water will it
P Chinese proverb
At one of the locks on the upper Liao stood the fish-house of Lun Chang, of lowly ancestors. When the crews of the outward-bound junks rested from their labors, they entered the fish-house of Chang to throw dice and to barter for dried fruit and salt fish. Thus it was that Chang prospered and heard much of what came to pass in Liao province. And, as with men of higher caste, his good fortune was his undoing.
It was late one afternoon of the sixth moon that Chang, his skinny hands folded in his sleeves and his straw-shod feet crossed under him, saw a small river
junk draw in to the bank and a tall plainsman with some difficulty land himself and his horse.
The stranger mounted at once, not clumsily, but with a leap that brought a glint to Chang's lined eyes. A horseman, thought the fish dealer, and one from the plains. Undoubtedly possessed of a full purse of taels. Wherefore his kowtow was respectful.
“Health and an honorable life, uncle,” he chattered; “is it your will to grace my insignificant shop with your presence? Food of the finest—”
Khlit scowled. He knew but a few words of Chinese, and the patois of Chang missed its mark. But the nature of the house was self-evident. He pointed to an armful of cherry branches not yet stripped of their fruit or leaves.
“Bring me these, Swine Face,” he growled in the Tatar tongue. Chang, however, knew the dialects of the frontier.
“It shall be as the lofty one desires,” he said, picking up the branches. “Lo, here is luxuriant fruit, grown in the gardens of Wei Chung-hsien himself. Nay, will the honorable one—”
Khlit had caught the burden from him and placed it before his horse. Not until he saw that the animal was feeding well did the Cossack seat himself on a bench without the shop, calling for dried fish. When Chang had satisfied his wants, the shopkeeper lingered near, curious as to the man who fed his horse better than himself.
“You are from the plains, uncle. You come in good time, for the Son of Heaven himself, with many of his court, comes in the
Dragon Chariot to Liao province to the hunting pavilion of Wei Chung-hsien.”
Khlit tossed the man a coin and kept on eating. Chang stared curiously at his tanned face and gray mustache. His visitor, he was sure, was no Tatar; nor was he a Manchu. Then, what?
“You have come to take part in the hunt, uncle? Perhaps you are one of the plainsmen sent for by his Excellency, Wei Chung himself, to tell of the whereabouts of game.”
Khlit knew that it would be well to adopt some story as to his coming. The suggestion of Chang, he reflected, would serve very well. He had little fear of recognition by the Chinese, in his new attire. Few of the latter had seen him, and they were either dead or scattered with the armies of the empire. Still, his face and tongue would excite inquiry from the spies of the emperor. The fish merchant, doubtless, would repeat what he knew. And recognition would mean death to Khlit, who had fought against the Chinese more than once.
“Aye,” he responded indifferently, “a plainsman.”
“Then you will have honor at the hunting pavilion, good sir,” gossiped Chang, “for the hunt must not fail of success, especially as it comes in the seventh moon, which some astrologers say is unpropitious for the emperor. It took all the arts of the beautiful Lady Li, the favorite, to bring him to Liao, it is said.”
“Is the master of an empire obedient to the whim of a woman?” Chang looked around him cautiously and lowered his voice. “I have heard many rumors, honorable hunter. A junkman from the Forbidden City swore, when he had several beakers of wine, that the Lady Li, of the tiny feet, holds the heartstrings of Wan Li. In all but name she is empress. She is as fair as a pink sunrise—although that is a topic not for my profane tongue— even if she was once a harlot.”
Khlit grunted with distaste of the man's whispering. Yet here was tidings Khlit needed. He tossed another coin to Chang. This time it was gold. The fish dealer thrust it eagerly into his belt with a quick glance at his visitor.
“It is music in my ears,” observed Khlit, “to hear such news of the Dragon Court. There is little heard of such things on the steppe. Say on.”
Momentary suspicion gleamed in Chang's faded eyes. It was dangerous to talk of those in power in Liao. But he loved gossip. And the stranger undoubtedly was a man from the steppe, and not a spy.
“Harken, uncle. Beyond the hunting pavilion of Liao is the Fourteenth Tomb of the Ming Dynasty, called the Golden Tomb because of the treasures buried with the forefather of Wan Li. The Son of Heaven, in his august pleasure, is a lover of the chase. He was displeased when the astrologers declared that the seventh moon was one of bad omen. The emperor plans, it is rumored, to visit the pavilion in order to burn incense before the grave of his great ancestor, as is the custom. Then at the same time he will hunt. Thus, by his mission of prayer, the ill luck will be averted, and he may still enjoy a hunt.”
Khlit did not smile at the manner in which the Dragon Emperor had saved his face. The ways of the Chinese were new to him, and he pondered.
“And Wei Chung—whatever the devil calls himself?” he asked. “Truly, you know many things, Chang.”
The dirty fish dealer was plainly flattered.
“Wei Chung-hsien,” he explained, “is an honored eunuch and advisor of the munificent Wan Li. All unworthy, I speak the names of such great men. The home of Wei Chung-hsien is in the province here, and it is said he is head of the spies of the Dragon Throne, besides being one of the clouds of Heaven. He has the trust of Wan Li—a mighty eunuch.”
Khlit's probing brain pieced together the fragments of the fish dealer's gossip—with a grim curiosity as to the land where such as Chang bandied rumors about the court.
The Lady Li, it appeared, owed much of her influence over Wan Li to the fact that she was the mother of a child—who was not the heir to the throne. Thus, without the title of empress, she was still the favored woman of the court—a court unequaled in the Ming Dynasty for magnificence. Rumor stated that she was as ambitious as she was beautiful.
Wei Chung-hsien had been the emperor's friend from birth—a confidential advisor and intimate of the astrologers. His position as master of the spies naturally gave him access to all information that came to the court, wherefore he was much sought after by nobles who wished to better their fortunes.
“What kind of a man,” broke in Khlit impatiently, “is this emperor who has women and near women for councilors?”
Horror showed in Chang's face at this remark. The fish dealer might gossip concerning the Lady Li, but the person of the Son of Heaven was of celestial purity. A generous monarch, he cried, dutiful to the spirits of his ancestors and peace-loving, leaving the management of his armies in the hands of Wei Chung-hsien. Khlit tugged at his mustache moodily. The picture was not to his liking.
A sudden silence on the part of Chang caused him to look up. Along the bank of the river a small cavalcade was coming toward the inn. Several horsemen preceded a black sedan with yellow trimmings. Beside it walked two stout mandarins in gorgeous dress.
“A sedan of the court,” whispered the fish dealer hurriedly. “Bow!”
Khlit remained seated as he was, but the other advanced a pace and bent his head nearly to his knees. Not content with this, Chang kneeled in the dirt and pressed his head to the ground. Abreast of the shop the sedan halted, and one of the silk-robed personages approached them.
Khlit had not seen such an individual before. The man's sleeves hung below his knees; the blue-green of his robe was faced with yellow, and a tiny dragon was embroidered near the throat. A stout man, with smooth flesh hiding his eyes.
The newcomer halted and surveyed the prostrate fish dealer, who bobbed his head without looking up. Then he said something
Khlit did not understand. Chang rose on his haunches with a muttered reply. Khlit saw the figure of the fish-merchant stiffen.
Without further speech Chang got up and went into the house. He came out with a wooden spade. The man of the dragon robe pointed to the earth near the building, and Chang set to work to dig. Khlit saw that several sailors, who were looking on, had fallen to their knees. The face of Chang was dripping sweat, and in it Khlit read something akin to deadly fear. At times the dragon-robed individual kicked him.
Something was in the air. Khlit noted that the horsemen had come closer and were watching idly. From the latticed window of the sedan-chair he thought he saw a face peering, a small face, half-veiled by a fan held before it. A pair of dark eyes were visible over the fan. They belonged, thought Khlit, to a woman. He was not sure.
&nbs
p; By now Chang had dug some two feet below the surface, for the ground was soft—a hole some six feet by two. He worked feverishly, aided by the kicks of the other. His legs were trembling. Then Khlit saw the dragon robe turn toward the sedan. Apparently some message passed between the occupant of the chair and the other, for the man stepped to Chang's side. The fish dealer dropped his spade with a hoarse cry.
Quickly and without waste of effort the man of the dragon robe placed one hand over Chang's forehead, catching two fingers in the nostrils. A knife flashed in the other hand. The man then drew the knife deftly across the throat of the fish dealer.
Khlit saw the legs of Chang crumple under him, and Chang himself fall into the newly dug hole. The man in the dragon robe motioned to the onlookers, who took up the spade and began throwing the dirt back on the body. The slayer of the fish dealer tossed the bloody knife down and turned to Khlit.
The Cossack, surprised at what had happened, understood that the other was asking his name. He thought quickly.
“I am a huntsman,” he said in the dialect of the plainsmen of Dokadur Khan, “come to the pavilion.”
The Chinaman's brow cleared.
“You are one of those—summoned?” he asked in the same dialect.
“To the hunt.”
“By order of—”
“Wei Chung, of Liao,” hazarded Khlit shrewdly.
The gossip of the slain Chang had served him well.
“Where do you come from?”
“The border. Is it not well? I have been told—”
The man held up his hand for silence.
“It is well, hunter. I am Ch'en Ti-jun, a eunuch of Wei Chung's. You can speak freely to me. What is your name and caste?” Khlit glanced around at the watching sailors.
“That is for the ears of him who sent for me,” he said slowly; “not for others.”
The eunuch nodded approvingly.
“A fool is light of tongue,” he commented. “Yonder carrion that was Chang, the fish dealer, gossiped concerning the name of a woman high in favor in the eyes of the Son of Heaven. Now he is sped to his ancestors unhonored.”