“Thank you,” he responded, making no attempt to conceal his admiration for her.
“And if you indeed have such a powder as you described, make certain that the surgeon has it. I can’t afford to have one man sicken.” She nodded to Saint-Germain as she turned and strode across the courtyard. Two women stood at the door waiting to assist her and holding a cloak for her.
Saint-Germain made his way through the confusion in the courtyard to the two new buildings that squatted next to the wall on the cliff side of the stronghold. They were incongruous here, looking very much the afterthought they were. The door of the larger building opened as Saint-Germain approached and Rogerio stood aside to let his master enter the alchemical laboratory housed there.
“The troops are back,” Saint-Germain said in Latin as he closed the door. “They did not do badly, all things considered.” He crossed the room to a locked chest, which he opened as he spoke. “Here. This is the burn dressing, and these”—he gave Rogerio two glass vials of greenish-white powder—“are for the surgeon to treat open wounds. For the love of all the forgotten gods, don’t tell him it is made from moldy bread or he won’t touch it.”
Rogerio held the containers in his hands. “How long will it be, do you think, before they strike here?” He had the appearance of middle age and his sandy hair was streaked with gray. When attending to the laboratory, he wore a Roman tunica of heavy linen, but when among the Chinese, he put a blue quilted cotton coat over his Western garments.
“It’s hard to say,” Saint-Germain said, only one faint line between his fine brows showing his concern. “Perhaps longer than we know. I would guess that they’re trying to get to Lan-Chow, and won’t bother too much with little strongholds like this one. If they can cut off these isolated outposts, they will fall more easily at the end of the harvest.” He pulled open another drawer in the chest. “Take these, too,” he added, handing Rogerio two rolls of linen bandages. “I doubt they have enough in reserve.”
“And have we?” Rogerio asked with more concern than condemnation.
“For the moment. A few more skirmishes and most of my medicaments will be low, but that’s to be expected.” He paused as he reached for one more roll. “Do you remember that battle in Thessaly? Niklos Aulurios almost lost the day. We were pulling our garments to pieces to help the wounded, but it was senseless.” There was a haunted look in his face. “Niklos was a fool to battle those Huns. He’s a brave man.”
“You disapprove of his bravery?” Rogerio asked, startled. “You, of all people?”
Saint-Germain laughed sadly. “No. Not of bravery. But the suffering. You’d think the demons of the air would be glutted by now.” He closed the case sharply. “Forgive me, old friend. I wish that…” A despairing gesture finished his thoughts. “Warlord T’en is coming here when she has bathed. Her hand is hurt and I’ve offered to dress it for her.”
Rogerio stared at Saint-Germain a moment. “Warlord T’en is also a very brave woman,” he said at last.
There was real pain in Saint-Germain’s face as he said quietly, “I know. I know. And I fear for her.”
Wisely, Rogerio said no more, but took the medicaments and bandages Saint-Germain had given him and went in search of the surgeon.
By the time Chih-Yü arrived, Saint-Germain had mastered himself. There was no trace of the bleakness that possessed his soul as he opened the door for her, going on his knee to her in the Frankish manner as she entered his quarters.
Though she was tired, she was able to smile at this courtesy. “I thank you for whatever honor it is you do me,” she said as Saint-Germain rose once more. “You look quite … splendid.”
He had dressed for her in full Byzantine finery, in damasked silk robes with silver embroidery and a wide jeweled collar. His short, loose curls were perfumed with a distillate of roses and jasmine. He took her unhurt hand, bent and kissed it. He was amused to see how his finery puzzled her. “Come,” he said as he led her into the reception chamber.
The room was not very big and so it had been carefully furnished. There were two low couches of Persian design, covered in black velvet embroidered with silver, and it was to one of these that Saint-Germain brought T’en Chih-Yü. Between the couches there was a matching table of inlaid rosewood, and against the wall stood a red-painted Roman chest of antique design. It was the chest that Saint-Germain approached, and opened to reveal a number of pigeonholes, some filled with scrolls, some with sealed vials. He took one of the latter and came back toward Chih-Yü.
“I did not know your tastes were so fine,” Chih-Yü said, at once nervous and critical.
“When you have traveled as far as I have, Warlord, you learn to love beautiful things wherever you find them.” He dropped to his knee again, but this time his purpose was more pragmatic. “Let me see your hand,” he said.
She hesitated, then held it out. “It’s getting sore,” she told him, as if confessing a moral weakness.
“Small wonder.” He examined the torn knuckles and realized that though the tendons were bruised and the skn lacerated, none of the bones were damaged, and the tendons would recover. “How did it happen?”
Chih-Yü raised her chin defiantly and met his dark, compelling eyes. “It was a stupid mistake. If my father were alive and had seen it, he would have boxed my ears for such an error. I tried to block a blow with the hilt of my sword.”
“You’re lucky, then,” he said sincerely, knowing full well what a chance she had taken. “If the blow had been harder, you might have lost your fingers.”
“I said it was a stupid mistake.” She was defensive now, and her hand stiffened in his.
He had drawn a cloth and a roll of linen bandage from one of the capacious pockets in his robe, and he released her hand to open a little jar that stood on the table. He moistened the cloth with the liquid in the jar. “This will probably sting, but it will clean the scrape. After that, I will apply the powder I mentioned, and then wrap your hand in clean linen.” As he said this, he drew the cloth over her hand.
“It does sting,” she admitted, her eyes watering. “What is it?”
“A distillate,” he answered truthfully and uninformatively. “It’s been known to alchemists for several centuries.” When he was through, he set the cloth aside and opened the vial he had taken from the chest. “This is the powder.”
“My surgeon said that you sent a supply of it to him. I am grateful.” The muscle in her jaw stood out and her face had lost color.
“It was your request, Warlord,” he murmured, his attention on her hand. He worked swiftly, sprinkling the powder thickly, then wrapping the linen strips skillfully before the powder could be shaken off. When he was through, he was reluctant to relinquish her hand.
Chih-Yü was staring at her hand. “You did that well,” she said after a moment.
“I have done it before,” he replied with quiet sorrow. He released her hand and rose to his feet.
“Ghieh-Man,” Chih-Yü said swiftly, her other hand going out to detain him. “Wait. I would like to talk with you.”
He looked down at her, at her strong, exhausted face. “Very well.” He took his place on the couch opposite her.
Now that he had consented, she found it difficult to begin. “I wished you to know … that it wasn’t my choice … that you be excluded today. It’s my men … They won’t ride with foreigners. They believe that outlanders bring bad luck. I couldn’t overrule them. Not with what we had to do today.” She was not precisely pleading with him, but there was a note in her voice that touched him.
“Chih-Yü,” he said gently, stopping her, “I’m aware of how your men feel about me. I don’t blame you for deciding to respect their … superstitions. They are the ones who can defend this stronghold. I must also let you know that I am not anxious to ride into battle again. Too many years of my life have been spent among the slain.” It was difficult for him to say the last, but he knew that he owed her his honesty, if nothing else.
�
�Then you have been in battle before?”
“Many times,” he said, his thoughts turning unbidden to his youth, to the last, doomed defense of his homeland, to the Chaldean slave market and the brand that was now little more than a pucker of skin on his arm, to the long, intolerable hours facing the chariots of Sesostris, of the Assyrians, the Mesopotamians, the Medes … He blinked, appalled.
“Ghieh-Man, what troubles you?” Chih-Yü’s voice was almost shrill as she stared at him.
“Memories,” he said sardonically. “They’re behind me. Don’t concern yourself.” He wanted to banish the images that had risen in his mind, so he leaned toward Chih-Yü and touched her undamaged hand across the rosewood table.
“It can be terrible to remember,” she said with genuine sympathy. “I do not wish to remember today, but I think it will be long before I am free of it.”
His dark eyes filled with compassion as he listened to her; his hand tightened on hers.
“I do not know how it is among foreigners, but it is not appropriate for you to…” She looked at her hand in his, though she made no effort to withdraw it, and her protestation had little conviction.
“I am more foreign than you know,” he responded, opening his hand so that her fingers lay on his palm. “My ways are not your ways.” He had said that so many times before, and every time he felt the full impact of his isolation once again. He got hastily to his feet. “I will not apologize to you, Chih-Yü, for I feel no shame in my desires. But perhaps it would be best if you leave me now.” His dark eyes lingered on her face, seeking some clue to her emotions.
“I also feel no shame,” she said calmly as she rose. “I feel only gratitude—”
“Gratitude!” he repeated, exasperated.
“—and curiosity. There are many things I must consider before I speak to you privately again.” She stood and met his look with frank appraisal. “Hsing reports to me, and I have much to ponder. Surely you will allow this person some little time to examine her heart.”
He nodded, and did not wish to remind her that little time was all they had. When he bowed to her this time it was in the Chinese manner, and he spoke with the same formality that Chih-Yü had employed. “This person will welcome anything that the distinguished Warlord T’en grants him, though it be no more than the dust of the road.”
Chih-Yü laughed as she left the room.
A letter from Mei Sa-Fong to the Nai Yung-Ya in Lan-Chow.
In the fortnight of Evening Heat in the Year of the Ox, the Fourteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, the one thousand two hundred seventeenth year of Our Lord, to the Pope Nai Yung-Ya and congregation in Lan-Chow.
Greetings from Mei Sa-Fong:
Our party has reached K’ai-Feng and have been received with poor grace by the congregation here, though we have presented our introductions. The Pope here has explained that with the constant worry about the invading Mongols, there is no time to deal with other Christians. All three of us were disappointed, and my sister took one of the elders of this church aside and told him that she felt he had betrayed the trust put in us by the master. I attempted to rebuke her for this, but I must admit that my feelings were much the same as hers, and I could not be too harsh with her, which may be to my discredit, but for which I cannot apologize.
It is true enough that the Mongols present an increasing danger to the northeastern regions, though some raids have been reported in the west. Some have said that the Mongol triumphs may be laid at the foot of the Dragon Throne, for the Emperor has shown himself reluctant to act at a time when such indecision would be the greatest folly. But it is not for me to judge him, and I must not allow the poor opinion of others to cloud my perceptions.
Tomorrow morning my sister, Chung-La, and I will leave for Hang-Chow in the south, and from there will board a ship bound for Tien-Du. We have been assured that the trading continues at the usual level and that it will not be difficult for us to secure passage. Our funds have been guarded well, and we do not require any additional aid, though it was a disappointment that the Christian community here could not give us more assistance. We will leave a copy of our plans with the congregation here, but I must caution you to guard this letter well, for I doubt that the Christians of K’ai-Feng will go to much trouble to preserve my message.
We will send another message from the coast before we embark for Tien-Du, to provide you with the name of the ship and its captain, as well as the various ports of call expected. That way, should there be any important news to send you, you will already know from where to expect my letters. I feel I should warn you that the time between writing and delivery will grow longer and longer. This should not distress you, but rather be taken as a sign of our success. Think of the delay as a good indication that God favors our venture.
In the name of the Master we ask that you remember us in your hearts and your prayers, that we may have a swift and calm journey, and an uneventful passage home.
By my own hand at midday in the Church of Evangelists.
Mei Sa-Fong
7
Shu-Rh’s District Tribunal had been moved to the city of Bei-Wah after Mongols had burned Shu-Rh to the ground two years before. The new location was more remote and Bei-Wah less than half the size of Shu-Rh, and the buildings that housed the tribunal were little more than huts, yet the District Magistrate Wu Sing-I was dressed with the same formality he wore at the Imperial Court. He sat at his official desk with writing tools laid out before him, and gazed at the five men and one woman before him.
“Magistrate,” the oldest man said, “it was you who summoned us. Perhaps you will tell us why.” He was in his early forties, but his seamed and weathered face looked older and his voice was gruff from the shouting of orders.
Wu Sing-I stared down at his folded hands, and his expression was so somber that the six were silent. “I have had word from Lo-Yang and K’ai-Feng. It has been decided by the Secretariat that outlying districts, such as this one, will receive only minimal support from the army so that the bulk of the strength can be sent to recapture Pei-King.” When he finished, he closed his eyes a moment from the shame he felt.
“Recapture Pei-King?” Tan Mung-Fa of the Shui-Lo fortress stared at the others. He was not yet thirty and his highly placed relatives at Court had seen to it that he learned better manners than might be expected of a provincial Warlord.
“That’s insane,” Shao Ching-Po said, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Pei-King is already lost. We must defend our own lands if they’re not to fall to the Mongols. Hasn’t the Ministry of War made any assessments of the situation?”
“They say they have,” Wu Sing-I murmured, looking at Shao Ching-Po with unnatural calm.
“When? Where? Who decided?” Tan Mung-Fa demanded, his excellent manners forgotten. “I don’t believe that could happen. I’ve already got fifty men on loan from the Imperial army…”
“And you are requested to send them back,” Wu Sing-I said heavily. “Word came yesterday that the men are expected to join the assault on Temujin’s northeastern base this autumn.”
Tan Mung-Fa was speechless. He turned to Shao Ching-Po and made a gesture of helplessness.
“They’ve decided that we’re expendable,” Shao Ching-Po said quietly and looked toward the oldest of them. “You, Kung. How does it seem to you?”
The old Warlord nodded. “It seems that we are being abandoned for no sensible reason. But it would not appear sensible to us, would it? Considering our position.” He put his hands on his hips. “Wu, did you know nothing of this?”
Wu Sing-I put his hands to his eyes. “After Shu-Rh fell, I was certain that we would get help, and so I didn’t do everything I might have. I let two army captains make decisions and waited for them to tell the Ministry what was required. I sent a report, of course, but I didn’t make the additional effort. It was wrong of me. I should have traveled to Lo-Yang myself and seen to it that all was properly done. I realize that. I have rebuked myself every hour s
ince the message arrived.” He fell silent and could not meet the eyes of the warlords.
Hua Djo-Tung, who had been standing somewhat apart, now strode up to the Magistrate’s desk. “You are telling us that your stupidity has brought us to this?”
“I? No,” Wu began, then stopped. “I must be telling you that. This wholly inferior person begs the Warlords to recognize that he was not in the best position to pursue their interests when it would have been helpful.” This lapse into formal speech brought a mutter of protest from the others, though Hua seemed pleased with it.
“Is there no one to whom we can appeal?” the fifth man, Suh Son-Tai, asked, though it was obvious from his stance that he had little hope for a positive answer.
“Not in time,” Wu Sing-I said flatly. His eyes were lifeless as stones and his face was almost the color of millet. “When I understood what had happened, I tried to contact other officials, but the decisions had already been made, and there was no one who would appeal to the Emperor on our behalf.”
Hua Djo-Tung folded his heavy arms and looked at the others. “Do any of the rest of you have access to the Dragon Throne? Tan, do you?”
Tan Mung-Fa looked embarrassed. “I can reach my relatives, but I don’t know if they would be able to speak to the Emperor. It isn’t easy to do these things, you know,” he added petulantly, glaring at Hua. “My Shui-Lo is the easternmost fortress of this district, and for that reason it might be argued that if there are to be soldiers given us, that they come to me, because the Mongols are more likely to strike on the east. If this cannot prevail with the Ministers of War, then I don’t know what it would take to convince the Emperor.”
Shao Ching-Po snorted. “The Mongols did not burn your valley last month, they burned one of mine. And I am not the easternmost fortress of the district, I am only Warlord of the stronghold on the Tsi-Gai pass, like T’en here.” He gave a tentative smile to Chih-Yü. He was the first to speak to her since Wu Sing-I had brought them into the Tribunal. “Your militiamen were a great help,” he added.
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