Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  They crossed the side-court to the stable where Zangi-Ragozh signaled to Gien to point out their horses. “I suppose they’re tie-stalled.”

  “Yes. Over here,” said Gien nervously as he picked up one of the stable lanterns and made his way down the broad aisle, the light uplifted to provide the most illumination. “There. Those are the horses. All sixteen of them are in a line, by that long manger. We lost two along the way.” He pointed with his free hand. “From the two fine grays to the horse with the large brown spots.”

  Officer Wo made his way along the horses. “Very good stock, and well-kept. They look to be in good condition, properly fed and their hooves trimmed.”

  “They are,” said Zangi-Ragozh, knowing that the army would not be able to care for them as he and Gien had, which saddened him.

  “And you have two wagons?” Officer Wo went on.

  “Yes. A larger one and a smaller one,” said Zangi-Ragozh, anticipating what was coming. “One is drawn by two horses, the other by four.”

  “We’ll need the larger one. You may take off your cargo, for we’ll need the space for supplies. You may take the smaller one and … shall we say four horses? That way you have a team and a spare, or you can ride one, lead one, and harness two.”

  Zangi-Ragozh held back his protestations, knowing any complaint would likely lose him more. “May I choose which horses I keep?”

  Officer Wo shrugged. “That seems a reasonable request, given the circumstances. I’ll have my scribe draw up a writ of transfer and an authorization of compensation. You may present it to the Emperor’s treasurers when you arrive in Chang’an.”

  Zangi-Ragozh’s smile was ironic. “How kind of you, Officer Wo,” he said.

  “It is not the intention of the army to deprive you of property without recompense,” Officer Wo said stiffly before abruptly shifting the subject. “I like that light bay. He has a fine neck.”

  “That he does,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “He’s a strengthy horse.”

  Officer Wo tried not to see how shocked Gien was. “And the one with the black spots? What about her?”

  “Eight years old, steady and sensible,” said Zangi-Ragozh, knowing that Ro-shei was fond of the spotted mare and sorry she had caught the officer’s attention.

  “Eight. So there are some good years left in her yet,” said Officer Wo. “Army life is hard on everyone—men, dogs, horses—the lot. More so when the weather is so unseasonably bad.” He coughed and lowered his voice as if to impart a secret. “The mud and the continuing cold have claimed almost as many soldiers, horses, and wagons as the enemy has.”

  “Which is why you have the task of acquiring more of everything needed,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  Hearing the note of despair in the foreigner’s voice, Officer Wo softened. “We will not waste anything we confiscate from you.”

  “You console me,” said Zangi-Ragozh sardonically.

  “You’re a merchant. All merchants hate war,” said Officer Wo, “unless they’re selling to the army.”

  Zangi-Ragozh quelled his unease. “As you say—war is bad for trade.”

  “And this weather is worse, from what I’ve heard,” said Officer Wo. “Well, I tell you what: you can keep that spotted mare. We’ll leave you one of your choice, the sorrel with the white socks—my Captain says four white legs is unlucky—and the cinder-brown. Which one would you like to have?”

  “One of the grays,” said Zangi-Ragozh promptly, but unable to choose between Flying Cloud and Shooting Star.

  “Keep the gelding. We’ll take the mare,” said Officer Wo. “Now, since we’re taking the larger wagon, you had better start unloading it. If you need my men to help you?”

  “No, thank you. I will manage,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Everything will be ready in the morning.”

  Officer Wo gestured approval. “I’ll send men for them at first light.” He gave a predatory smile. “Do not try to deprive us of what we need—it will only go hard for you if you do.”

  “I understand,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “What about my three men?” He already knew he and Ro-shei would turn north in the morning, away from Chang’an; they had no reason to continue on, not with the men and horses gone.

  “They’ll come with us now,” said Officer Wo. “I can’t give them time to slip away to wait for you at some remote place in order to avoid their duty to us.” Officer Wo clapped Zangi-Ragozh on the shoulder. “You have a good grasp of how things must be.”

  “For a foreigner,” Zangi-Ragozh finished for him even as he prepared to return to the inn to explain how matters had changed for them all.

  Text of one of three identical letters from Zangi-Ragozh to Senior Clerk Hu Bi-Da, Professor Min Cho-Zhi, and Councillor Ko She-Hsieh, all at Yang-Chau; entrusted to a Chinese merchant and delivered eleven months later.

  To the most reliable clerk, Hu Bi-Da/ the most faithful deputy, Professor Min Cho-Zhi/ the illustrious Councillor Ko She-Hsieh, the greetings of the foreign merchant Zangi-Ragozh, who is profoundly grateful to you for your honorable service.

  This is to inform you that I will be unable to reach Chang’an this year, for as much as I have attempted to avoid the fighting and make as much haste as the roads will permit, I find I am met with many obstacles. The army not only blocks the roads leading there, but it has taken twelve of my horses, my larger wagon, and demanded the services of Yao, Jong, and Gien in their current campaign, leaving me no correct way in which to complete the Wen Emperor Yuan Buo-Ju’s commission to me. I ask that you will inform the families of the men, and my employees, of these events, so that they will not be distressed by our prolonged absence. I authorize continuing salaries to be paid as they have been from the revenues of Eclipse Trading Company and from my stored resources, the location of which are known to my steward, Jho Chieh-Jen, and may be used as need arises.

  Since I am unable to continue on to Chang’an, I have decided to go to Holin-Gol, north on the Huang Ho, where Mongolian merchants have easy access at the gate in the Great Wall. Should the roads prove unpassable as many have done, Ro-shei and I will travel to Holin-Gol by barge, for although the river is high, shipping continues to move along it. If trade is thriving anywhere, it is thriving there at Holin-Gol, where I will strive to recoup some of the losses the military expropriation of my men and animals and property has brought about, and to do it in a place where such imposition is less likely than it is on the road to Chang’an. I cannot estimate how long this journey will take, or if it will lead me beyond the Great Wall, but I pledge now that I will endeavor to inform you of my travels as they progress.

  I hope that the Gods of Prosperity will guide you, and that Kuan-Yin will be merciful to you all, and, until I can speak my greeting in person, this must suffice to assure you of my good-will and high regard.

  Zangi-Ragozh

  (his chop)

  (his sigil, the eclipse)

  7

  Zangi-Ragozh emerged from the hold of the barge pale and shaken. He shivered in the predawn mist, his sen-gai hardly enough to keep out the gnawing cold that hunger had engendered in him during his long stupor aboard the barge. There was stubble on his chin from his lengthy isolation, and his hair had grown, not as much as that of living men, but enough to be untidy, the dark waves hanging in short curls around his head. Beside him, Ro-shei waited patiently while the bargemen, lanterns in hand, guided their four horses and small wagon along the broad, heavy plank to the shore.

  “There was snow last night,” said Ro-shei to Zangi-Ragozh as if this were nothing remarkable. “Not much, but still …”

  “We’ve been a month on this river,” Zangi-Ragozh said, shuddering in spite of himself. “With only three layovers, none of them more than two days.” His Chinese sounded more foreign than usual. Zangi-Ragozh nodded slowly. “It must be mid-May in Europe at least, and here it looks like February.”

  “The Fortnight of Those Born in the South is ending. The Festival of Yo-Wang is over,” said Ro-shei.

  “The
God of Medicine,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I hope Jong celebrated it.” He looked out over the fog-wrapped river. “I hope he is alive to celebrate it.”

  “May all of them live—the men and the horses.” Ro-shei adjusted the hat he wore. “Come. They’re signaling from the dock.”

  “I seem a bit flimsy,” Zangi-Ragozh said, taking an uncertain step.

  “A month on running water almost constantly, small wonder,” said Ro-shei, offering an arm for Zangi-Ragozh to lean upon. “You’ll be better for a bath and a shave and a trimming.”

  “I must get off the barge and into the town, or an inn at least, before I can avail myself of any of those,” he said a bit sardonically.

  “For that I can assist you,” Ro-shei pointed out.

  “Thank you, old friend, but I had better walk on my own. I’ll recover sooner if I do.” He steadied himself and stepped onto the broad plank that gave access to the dock. Behind the barge on which they had been traveling, the river junk that had been shoving the barge upriver lay still, oars banked and battened sails reefed, looking as insubstantial as a dream in the tarnished, misty light; four men on deck watched while Zangi-Ragozh and Ro-shei went ashore.

  “We leave at this hour tomorrow,” said the barge-master. “If you change your mind about going on, be here by sunset and we’ll take you aboard again. The river turns westward in a day’s journey, and that will lead you to Wu-Wei.”

  “In another month or so, if all goes well,” said Zangi-Ragozh, moving a bit more securely.

  “Holin-Gol is only two li ahead,” said Ro-shei, handing the barge-master a silver bar as thanks for his service. “My master and I would prefer to spend a little time on dry land before arriving there.”

  The barge-master snorted a laugh. “Not much of a riverman, is he, your employer? Strange, for a merchant not to like travel by water.”

  “But so it is,” said Ro-shei.

  “Then be careful. There’s a small canal up ahead, and the towpath is a drop from the road.” The barge-master chuckled. “If your master can stand to go over the canal.”

  “I believe he can endure it,” said Ro-shei.

  “Sleeping in your wagon as if dead, and for days on end,” said the barge-master. “Foreigners!”

  “We’re most perplexing,” said Ro-shei agreeably as Zangi-Ragozh checked the harness that secured the cinder-brown gelding and the white-legged sorrel mare to the wagon; Flying Cloud and Ro-shei’s spotted mare were saddled and ready to ride.

  “I’ll drive the wagon,” Zangi-Ragozh decided aloud. “Tie Flying Cloud’s reins to the rear of the wagon. I’d rather lead him than the wagon.”

  “As you wish, my master,” said Ro-shei, and moved to do it.

  The barge-master went back aboard his craft and drew up the loading plank, then signaled to the men on the junk. “We’re secure. If you want to go ashore, you may do so now. Just remember to be here by sundown, for I want to be under way at first light and we must secure the barge.”

  “We will remember, but we will not be here,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he climbed up onto the driving-box of the wagon; his gloved hands shook as he picked up the reins.

  The barge-master chuckled and waved, showing his disbelief in the casualness of his gesture.

  Zangi-Ragozh swung his pair away from the river, the wheels of the wagon rumbling like thunder along the dock. He lifted his head and sniffed the morning. “Something is not right.”

  “That smell from the snow,” said Ro-shei, speaking Imperial Latin as Zangi-Ragozh had done. “The yellow makes it stink.”

  Zangi-Ragozh looked about as they approached the riverfront road that ran just above the path used by the dray-oxen of short-haul barges. “Not much travel, judging by the state of the road. At this time of year, there should be signs of active trade, but there are only these old ruts.”

  “True enough,” said Ro-shei, bringing his spotted mare up just ahead of the wagon.

  “Now travel is inconvenient. Later it may be much worse.” Zangi-Ragozh adjusted the reins as he steered the pair onto the road, going northward beside the river; the fog brightened, creating a dim glare as sunrise grew near. “The canal is not far ahead, I must assume.”

  “And the towpath is a drop. I have no idea how much of one,” said Ro-shei.

  “The river is running very high; I must suppose the canal is, as well,” said Zangi-Ragozh.

  “Do you think there will be flooding?” Ro-shei wondered.

  “In such a year as this, who can tell?” Zangi-Ragozh said. “It is as if the whole world is afflicted.” He said nothing more, as if such an admission was more than he had wanted to concede.

  “There have been more dead birds in the river,” Ro-shei reported after they had covered a short distance. “The most recent was yesterday afternoon. A wind came up, and hundreds of small, white-breasted brown birds dropped from the sky.” He took a deep breath. “There was also a hawk among them.”

  “Was this the only time birds fell?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.

  “No; there were four others that I know of; the boatmen said there have been more flocks of dead birds floating on the river.”

  “In large quantities, or fairly small?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, a frown settling between his fine brows.

  “Quite large ones. Most of the ones I have seen looked to have died on the wing.” Ro-shei considered this a long moment, then added, “Some had feathers with yellow dust on them.”

  “Poor creatures,” said Zangi-Ragozh with feeling. “And you say these deaths are increasing.” He looked down as the wheels crunched on ice standing in the slicks on the road. “The canal is just ahead.”

  “Is there a bridge, do you think, or must we ferry across?” Ro-shei sounded exasperated.

  “There is a bridge,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he peered into the mists, his dark-seeing eyes making out the shape of it. “Two wagons wide, and raised in the middle.”

  “And the drop to the towpath?” Ro-shei’s mare was sidling, reluctant to step onto the towpath.

  “Not too much, I think,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he did his best to judge the angle of the dip in the road ahead. “Our wheels should be safe.”

  “And the axle?” Ro-shei asked. “Do you want me to get down and guide us over?”

  “I doubt that will be necessary,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he pulled his team to a slow walk and carefully took them over the bridge. As he crossed the canal, he noticed the bodies of five dead cranes caught against the bridge supports. “You say the birds are continuing to die?”

  “They seem to be” was Ro-shei’s careful answer, his attention on completing their crossing.

  “Ah,” Zangi-Ragozh responded, to show he had heard.

  A short distance along the road they came upon a track leading in from the narrow fields; there was a make-shift gibbet erected there, and a four-day-old corpse dangled from a butcher’s iron hook. A crudely lettered sign around the dead man’s neck identified him as a stealer of food; only the chill kept the body from reeking. The horses minced past the grisly thing, sweating in spite of the cold.

  “There will be more of this,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “And for less.”

  Ro-shei looked at the corpse. “Should we cut him down, do you think?”

  “No. It would not benefit him, and it could cause trouble.” Zangi-Ragozh shook his head. “Poor man. You can see how thin he was before this happened.”

  “So you think he must have been starving.”

  “He certainly looks it,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Being within a short distance of the town, and with so many loading docks along the bank here, someone must have reported this.” Zangi-Ragozh squinted at where the eastern horizon should be. “The fog is thickening. We do not want to be surprised by anyone.”

  “No, we do not,” Ro-shei agreed, and stopped talking as they continued on toward the walls of the town, hidden in the deepening mists ahead.

  There were a few birdcalls and splashes, and the sound of a heavy cart in the distance,
and then a faint jingle of tack, which brought the two up short. “How many?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, reaching into the well of the driver’s box for the sword that lay there.

  “It could be three,” said Ro-shei cautiously in Latin.

  “Three is acceptable,” said Zangi-Ragozh in the same language, and rose, still holding the reins of the team, but ready to take on any attackers; by now the mists were shiny with new sunlight, almost blinding in their limmerence, and Zangi-Ragozh squinted into them, his whole attention on the faint squeak of leather and ching of brass.

  Ro-shei pulled his sword from its sheath, getting ready to fend off the approaching horsemen. “Do I assume they’ve heard us by now?”

  “It would be folly to think otherwise, since we have heard them,” said Zangi-Ragozh, bracing himself on the wagon-frame, ready to fend off any attempt to take the wagon.

  Ro-shei was about to speak when there was a loud cry to their immediate right and two men on horseback loomed out of the fog, both brandishing swords and apparently determined to frighten the foreigners into immediate submission. Ro-shei tugged his mare around to face the assault and swung his sword over his head, showing his readiness to fight, while Zangi-Ragozh held the wagon horses as steady as he could, for they were plunging with nervousness and took a short while to bring under control. “What do you dog’s heads want?” Ro-shei roared in Chinese, showing no sign of fright.

  A third horseman came in from behind, planning to steal Flying Cloud from the back of the wagon. He was brought up short as the wagon was pulled around to angle across the road and the driver swung out from the box and snicked his upper arm. With a fierce oath, the man stabbed futilely in the direction of the wagon, howling with determination and pain. He spurred his horse closer to the wagon and made a second attempt: this time the flat of the driver’s sword struck him on the side of the head and he tumbled out of the saddle.