by Harold Lamb
Khlit remembered the face he had seen behind the lattice of the sedan and guessed that the dark eyes might belong to the Lady Li. He said nothing, however, mounting his horse and joining the cavalcade which resumed its course away from the river. This he did at the bidding of Ch'en Ti-jun.
As he rode, he summed up what he had learned. Clearly, Wei Chung-hsien had sent for certain men from the border. Khlit had told the eunuch that he was one of this number. Ch'en Ti-jun would doubtless report as much to his master. Meanwhile, Khlit's position at the hunting pavilion would be safe.
What did Wei Chung desire of him? How would he explain his coming to the latter? Time would take care of that, thought Khlit, who was accustomed to rely on his wit. In this manner did Khlit come to match his skill against the men of the Dragon in the contest which only ended at the second gate of the Golden Tomb.
He found the pavilion of Wei Chung to be a yamen of considerable size, an array of ornate buildings enclosed by a wall, the pavilion itself being a palace surrounded by gardens in the center of the enclosure. He was led by one of the horsemen to a low building beside the stables where the hunters were quartered. Entering, after caring for his horse, he found a motley assembly dicing and drinking.
Khlit selected a wooden couch in one corner of the hall where he could see what went on in the building, placing his saddlebags and coat upon it. Among his companions he identified longhaired Manchus of the North, a few swarthy, fur-clad Tungusi hunters, and the remainder squat Solangs of the border provinces. Hillmen and plainsmen, he thought, with few Chinese. Drunk, for the most part, and quarrelsome. He was content, however, to be here and not in the edifices of the Chinese, where spies were to be found.
His entrance had not passed unnoticed. A six-foot Manchu swordsman swaggered over to his couch and surveyed him, arms akimbo.
“Ho, good sirs,” bellowed the giant, “a graybeard has fallen into our nest! Nay, look, he wears a full head of hair, unshaven on the forehead. By the sacred magpie, he is a cur among proper men. He will give us good sport! Shall we pluck out his hair or singe his beard?”
Several of the hunters strolled over at this, and gibes flew fast at the unconcerned Cossack. Among men such as these a gray-beard was a rare sight, and Khlit belonged to none of the factions present. The drunken idlers welcomed the prospect of entertaining torment at the hand of the Manchu, who, by his size and manner, seemed to be a leader of his faction.
Khlit understood the speech of his persecutor, as the Manchu tongue was similar to the Tatar, but he made no response except to look up. To the Manchu this was a sign of weakness.
“Come, lads,” he roared, “we'll singe the hair of his face and head. Ho, then he will be like a raven plucked of its feathers.”
“An owl!” put in another gleefully.
“Here is fire!” added a third, handing to the Manchu a smoldering stick pulled from a brazier.
Khlit looked from one to the other. Loud-mouthed scoundrels, he thought, and therefore less dangerous. The Manchu thrust back the sleeves of his embroidered tunic with elaborate pretense and flourished the brand. The onlookers roared with glee at this by-play.
“I have no quarrel with you,” growled Khlit, who had grown to dislike combat except where it served his own ends.
“Then I will pick one with you, grandfather of the owls.”
Laughter greeted this sally. Attracted by the noise, a short figure in armor-stained undercoat of leather thrust through the group, a Manchu with a quiver slung over his shoulder and a guitar, at which he was plucking, under one arm. The newcomer stared at Khlit with a frown, and the Cossack returned his gaze curiously.
“Poor sport for you here, Kurluk,” quoth the archer to the tall Manchu. He peered closer at Khlit. “May the devil mate with me! Nay, may I be born again as a woman, and queen of a pest-house, but here is an old friend!”
The man's voice stirred Khlit's memory. The short, tightmuscled form of the archer also was familiar. The latter, seeing his hesitation, plied the strings of the guitar.
When sober I feel,
You are both my good friends.
When drunken I reel,
Our good fellowship ends!
He sang, and recognition flashed into Khlit's eyes. He remembered a certain tower he had once held by good use of his curved saber, assisted by the shafts of the squat archer.
“Arslan!” he responded. “What do you here, minstrel?”
The singer kowtowed solemnly.
“Lord,” he laughed, “I follow upon the scent of golden taels. Or silver, for that matter. Whoever pays, I am his servant; if he pays well, I am his slave. Here be women of the court in yonder palace who throw a worthy minstrel coins for a melodious song; likewise certain clouds of heaven who are pregnant with gold. As for Wei Chung, being neither man nor woman but a eunuch with a fat purse, I plant my shafts in the gizzards of his enemies.” “When last we met, Arslan,” observed Khlit, recalling that the archer had been employing his arrows against the Chinese, “it was otherwise—”
“The dice of fate, lord,” broke in Arslan hastily, “fall not always in the same manner. Like a horned ram, a poor mercenary does well not to look behind him—”
“Or to name those whom he met before, Arslan,” growled Khlit meaningly, for fear the archer should reveal his identity. Arslan, however, he knew to be a man of wit and counsel, indebted to him for his life. “I, also, am a mercenary without title or honor other than my sword brings. Hey, that is a true word.” “You know this graybeard, Arslan?” put in Kurluk impatiently. “Nay, I shall make him croak like a sick raven. What name bears he?”
The slant eyes of the short archer narrowed shrewdly. Khlit's words had not been wasted.
“He has the surname of the Curved Saber, O light of skull,” he laughed. “From that long weapon at his thigh.”
“You called him 'lord,' ” persisted the other suspiciously. “Because he is a better fellow than you, Kurluk. Before this life you were an ape. You will be born again as a parrot, undoubtedly. But this old warrior has wisdom under his gray thatch.”
Kurluk scowled, resenting Arslan's nimble tongue. The latter, however, he did not choose to antagonize.
“We will burn his roof for him,” he muttered, flourishing the brand.
The onlookers guffawed.
Arslan's yellow teeth gleamed.
“Take care you scorch not your own thick fingers, Kurluk of the addle-pate,” he retorted.
He had seen Khlit use his curved sword.
When a heaven-born fool Uses fire, in his folly,
He will find it a tool Of dire melancholy.
He chanted, grinning. Kurluk scowled the more and advanced upon Khlit. The Cossack by a quick thrust of his scabbard knocked the burning stick to the floor. Kurluk swore and clapped hand to sword. The watchers drew back, sensing a quarrel. The noisy hunters fell silent, watching the two.
“I have done you no harm, Kurluk,” said Khlit mildly, for in his present situation he disliked to attract attention to himself. “Leave the brand in the fire, and we will drink good wine together, you and I.”
But the Manchu was not minded to forfeit his sport. His prestige was at stake, and Arslan's taunts had got under his thick skin. He jerked out his short sword savagely.
“Come, dog of the devil,” he growled, “I am weary of hearing you bark. Let me see your teeth, if old age has left you any.”
With that he spat in the direction of the Cossack, who rose from the couch at once, drawing his weapon. Arslan plucked rapidly at his guitar in high good humor.
As a rule, a Manchu was well-versed in use of the heavy, hatchet-shaped sword. There were no sturdier fighters among the men of the Dragon banners. But a Cossack is trained from infancy in handling his weapons and is a match for the skilled Osmanli and the best of the dangerous Tatars. His skill is that of one bred to no other purpose.
Khlit's shoulder and arm muscles were lean. He knew that his strength would last only a brief interval aga
inst the powerful swordplay of Kurluk. Wherefore he met the rush of his adversary in a manner that brought startled exclamations to the lips of the onlookers and a grin from Arslan.
Kurluk swung his weapon to beat down Khlit's guard. He found that the other's curved sword pressed against his own before his stroke gathered force. Lash and thrust as he would, the lighter sword formed a glittering guard before his face. When his strokes pierced the guard, the Cossack leaped to one side.
Not only that. Deftly Khlit was thrusting at Kurluk's head. His swift, short strokes cut the skin of the other's shaven head, drawing from one side to the other as a man uses a whetstone against a knife. Blood streamed from the Manchu's skull. Striving desperately to free his sword from the pressure of the other's blade, Kurluk was helpless to stop the deliberate slicing of his forehead.
A moment after the bout had begun, it ended. Kurluk stood cursing, his eyes and ears filled with blood that spattered from his face to the floor. Blinded by it, he was helpless.
“Come, Kurluk,” cried Khlit, lowering his sword, “a skilled warrior like you should use his weapon against his enemies. 'Tis a waste of good blood between friends. Let Arslan pour water over your sore head, and we will drink a cup of wine. Truly, it was not by might but by a trick of the sword that I blinded you. So I would have you for a friend.”
Kurluk growled irresolutely, rubbing at his smarting eyes. “Nay, brain of an ox,” mocked Arslan, “here is a true man. Sheathe your sword.”
The Manchu did so. Thus it was that the Cossack found a friend in a land where he had few friends and many foes. But uppermost in his mind was the regret that the sword-bout had drawn widespread attention to him. He could no longer hope to remain unnoticed among the hunters.
III
On the first day of the seventh moon the beast Chi Lin was sighted near the hunting pavilion of the Son of Heaven. Once before had the beast Chi Lin been seen, and the omen was auspicious for the hunt. Yet at the same time a dark star was ascendant in the sky at night. How was it to be known which was the true omen, the good or the bad?
Annals of the reign of Wan Li
In his silk-hung apartment Wan Li moved restlessly, glancing at the water-clock which showed it to be an early hour in the evening. A tall man in middle age with the full girth and broad, placid face of his race, he had discarded his robes of ceremony for a short dragon tunic.
Wan Li was impatient. For a week he had waited at the hunting yamen of Wei Chung-hsien, and as yet there had been no decision from the court of astrologers regarding the omens of the coming hunt. And it was already the seventh moon. A verdict had been promised for that night, and it was already late. He halted impatiently by the two attendants at the door.
“Has Li Yuan F'o asked for admittance yet?” he asked.
One of the men kowtowed.
“May your Majesty live forever! Your servants have not seen the honorable astrologer—”
“Then go,” commanded Wan Li, “and say it is my will that he come!”
He seated himself irritably on an ebony bench but looked up eagerly at the appearance of the astrologer. Li Yuan F'o, a venerable savant in ceremonial attire, made the nine obeisances and kneeled. His lined face was troubled.
“Your decision—the omens?” inquired Wan Li quickly.
“Lord of Ten Thousand Years!” began the man. “Your court of astrology has considered the omens with the greatest care, and our divination has been made. As the Son of Heaven in his wisdom knows, the augury of the stars is infallible. The lives of your ancestors of illustrious name have been safeguarded by the celestial omens.”
“No one knows better than I, Li Yuan,” assented Wan Li respectfully.
“We have used the utmost of our knowledge. The World Honored One must not undertake the hunt. The dark star of evil omens is in the ascendancy during this moon. It is written that your Majesty must start upon no venture while this star is high in the heavens. That is the verdict of the court of astrology.”
Wan Li frowned. Plainly he was not pleased.
“Yet I come here upon a sacred mission. To enter the tomb of my ancestor and burn incense before his coffin. Such an act is sufficient to abolish the evil influence of the star. Have you considered that, Li Yuan?”
The man kowtowed.
“We have considered, Lord of Ten Thousand Years. To open the grave door of the Golden Tomb, wherein no one but the Son of Heaven may come, is a holy act, but the omens are dark. Heed well the words of your faithful servants and close your ears to all others. There are some near you who think first of themselves, then of the Presence—”
Wan Li moved his head impatiently.
“I heed your words of wisdom as an astrologer, Li Yuan. But other advice I judge as I please. You are hostile to Wei Chung-hsien, who has my heart and ear. Is the decision of the astrologers final?”
Li Juan's stately head bowed.
“It is final, except for divine intervention—such as the appearance of the celestial beast Chi Lin, which is always auspicious to your dynasty. Your Majesty must not hunt. The Golden Tomb awaits you.”
Both the astrologer and the emperor started at this unfortunate reference to the tomb of the Ming Dynasty. Wan Li was impressed as well as disgruntled. He shook his sleeve, dismissing the savant.
“Very well,” he muttered. “I had it in my heart to hunt, but, if the omens—”
Li Yuan departed hastily, a triumphant light in his faded eyes. In the outer hall he did not see the eunuch Ch'en Ti-jun step from a hidden door and follow him. Still less did the astrologer guess that this door gave access to a compartment directly behind the silk hangings of Wan Li's chamber. The eunuch laid his hand roughly on the savant's shoulder.
“Treacherous imbecile!” hissed the eunuch. “Is that the way you obey the command of Wei Chung-hsien? After a week's humbug!” Li Yuan freed himself with dignity.
“The message of the stars,” he said gravely, “is not subject to the will of men. I have told his Majesty the truth. Let him be warned by it. I care not for Wei Chung.”
“You will think otherwise,” assured Ch'en Ti-jun savagely, “if your old fingers are crushed slowly and your brains squeezed until they run through your nose. Go back and tell Wan Li you have reconsidered, or Wei Chung shall deal with you.”
“Am I the servant of Wei Chung?” Defiance flashed in the eyes of the astrologer. “Is the Lord of Ten Thousand Years a slave to his own minion? Even if the court has become a hotbed of spies and false tales, forbidden to men of honor? Nay; I serve Wan Li and the stars.”
The eunuch smiled.
“Even the decision of the stars, Li Yuan, can be bought by gold. You were witless to refuse Wei Chung's generous offer of rank and gold ingots. Truly, the matter is not important. What harm can come to Wan Li if he hunts?”
“I know not,” the astrologer's voice trembled, and his glance fell. “But the stars do not lie. If the matter is so slight, why do you offer me so much to lie?”
Ch'en Ti-jun gnawed his lip; then he passed his long fingernails softly across the astrologer's thin throat.
“You know what happens to those who disobey Wei Chung? And how useless it is to oppose him? Are you entirely mad?”
Li Yuan's figure, which had fallen to trembling, stiffened.
“I shall be before long,” he muttered angrily, “if these rats and foxes who are eunuchs of the court seize what power is left to the emperor. Already they have the command of his armies and the decision as to who shall be admitted to the Presence. They build triumphal arches for themselves, while the Son of Heaven, blind to their sins, goes unhonored. They wear the imperial yellow and forge orders in his name. Now they would control the immutable verdict of the stars—”
Still muttering, the old man moved away from Ch'en Ti-jun, down the passage. The eunuch looked after him, scowling. Then he turned swiftly and halted by the door from which he had come. He paused as if listening, nodding once or twice, as at a command from behind the hangings.
<
br /> “But if they deny it?” he whispered.
Apparently the reply satisfied him, for he went to the attendants of the emperor's chamber. Wan Li acknowledged his subservient greeting with a gleam of anticipation. Experience had taught him that the eunuchs were quick to guess his pleasure and minister to it when he was displeased—more so than the hereditary members of his court, who persisted in troubling him with protests and state affairs.
“Lord of Ten Thousand Years,” began Ch'en Ti-jun respectfully, “it is the honor of your slave to be the bearer of good tidings. Some members of the court of astrology have disagreed with the ancient Li Yuan. They say he has not interpreted the stars correctly. Your slave brings you their word.”
“Is it favorable?”
“World Honored One, it is so. And this is the manner of it. While a certain star of ill omen is in the sky during the seventh moon, there is another star above it.”
Wan Li nodded eagerly. The eunuch glanced involuntarily toward one of the silk hangings which swayed as if with a breath of air, although the chamber was closed on all sides.
“It is due to the zealous Wei Chung, whose happiness it is to serve the Son of Heaven, that the good tidings were learned,” he continued smoothly. “He has questioned some of the astrologers and discovered this all-important fact. No less a star than that of good omen, your Majesty's birth-star, is now taking the ascendancy over the dark orb of ill omen. He does not believe that the venerable Li Yuan knew of this.”
“Li Yuan is old,” agreed Wan Li eagerly; “he may have made a mistake.”
“Doubtless unwittingly. But during the seventh moon, when the birth-star of the Son of Heaven is high, he may undertake a hunt in safety. His happiness is precious to those near the Presence. Excellent game has been sighted in the country between here and the Togra. Everything is prepared. Will your Majesty name the happy day of the opening of the hunt?”
Mingled feelings were reflected in the good-natured face of Wan Li.
“Is it not true,” he questioned, “that a birth-star and the one of evil omen together in the sky may mean death?”