secret of the Elixir of Life.”
“So I have heard.” A sizable portion of the alchemical studies done by Taoist scholars was devoted to that very question.
“You would know nothing of that, of course.” Hao’s restless eyes grew fervid.
“Taoist alchemy is transmitted from master to student by word of mouth, Worthy Magistrate. What master would accept a student of my age, and a foreigner to boot?” He hoped that Hao Sai-Chu would be sufficiently gratified by this response to overlook the fact that Saint-Germain had not answered his question.
Magistrate Hao nodded ponderously. Then he turned to the door as a small man in scribe’s garb bustled into the room. “What is it?”
The scribe hesitated. “The inventory…”
“Let me have it at once.” He held out his hand in a peremptory way and waited until the small scroll had been placed in it. “You may leave us,” he informed the scribe as soon as his fingers had closed around the paper. The scribe bowed and departed, though neither Magistrate Hao nor Saint-Germain paid him any attention. “Three wagons,” Hao said to the foreigner after a moment.
“That is correct.” His senses were sharpened again, and he made himself seem disinterested.
“One of the wagons is filled with containers of earths and liquids,” Hao said, reading from the scroll.
“It is part of my work, Worthy Magistrate. They will be required by Warlord T’en when I arrive at Mao-T’ou stronghold.” The rain was heavier, though the wind had slackened. He could feel the drafts decrease.
“One of the wagons has personal items of clothing, beddings, saddles, and other such materials.” He sounded vaguely disappointed. Then his face brightened. “I see here that there are also two large wooden panels with pictures in colored stones in that wagon.”
Now that it was too late, Saint-Germain regretted bringing the Byzantine mosaics with him. “I have had them for some time,” he remarked, waiting for the Magistrate to comment further.
“I have seen such pictures. There are very few of them in this kingdom. A man who possesses one might be counted extraordinarily fortunate.”
Saint-Germain closed his eyes once, swiftly, and then said what he knew he must say. “If the Worthy Magistrate Hao finds my poor mosaics so much to his taste, I would be deeply gratified—far above the paltry value of the pictures themselves—if he would be willing to accept them as gifts.” He loved those mosaics. They had been made when Justinian ruled, and Saint-Germain had been able to keep them with him on most of his travels in the intervening centuries. To have to part with them now felt like a betrayal of friends. He did not want them to go into the hands of this jealous man.
“You flatter me, Shih Ghieh-Man. The gift is a handsome one, and I will do my poor best to be sure they are correctly appreciated. There is nothing that would delight me more than to have these stone pictures hang in my private quarters where I may take the time to contemplate their foreignness.” Hao made no attempt to apologize for the gloating success he felt. He gave Saint-Germain an ingenuous smile.
“I hope they will bring you joy.” It was a legitimate wish, he knew. For otherwise the Byzantine mosaics would be shut away in some neglected storeroom, and would eventually fall to ruin.
“Very gracious of you,” the Magistrate said, getting to his feet at last. “Well. You will want to put on some clothes, I think. It is really quite cold in here.”
“And my men?” Saint-Germain asked, not quite able to disguise his contempt.
“Ah, yes. Your men. I fear that we are very shorthanded here, and the militia can use every man it can get. For that reason, I think I must insist that three of your outriders remain here in the service of our Marshal of Defense. Being honorable men, they could have no objection to aiding us. We have much need of skilled fighters, as the Mongols have been raiding just two
“So I have heard.” A sizable portion of the alchemical studies done by Taoist scholars was devoted to that very question.
“You would know nothing of that, of course.” Hao’s restless eyes grew fervid.
“Taoist alchemy is transmitted from master to student by word of mouth, Worthy Magistrate. What master would accept a student of my age, and a foreigner to boot?” He hoped that Hao Sai-Chu would be sufficiently gratified by this response to overlook the fact that Saint-Germain had not answered his question.
Magistrate Hao nodded ponderously. Then he turned to the door as a small man in scribe’s garb bustled into the room. “What is it?”
The scribe hesitated. “The inventory…”
“Let me have it at once.” He held out his hand in a peremptory way and waited until the small scroll had been placed in it. “You may leave us,” he informed the scribe as soon as his fingers had closed around the paper. The scribe bowed and departed, though neither Magistrate Hao nor Saint-Germain paid him any attention. “Three wagons,” Hao said to the foreigner after a moment.
“That is correct.” His senses were sharpened again, and he made himself seem disinterested.
“One of the wagons is filled with containers of earths and liquids,” Hao said, reading from the scroll.
“It is part of my work, Worthy Magistrate. They will be required by Warlord T’en when I arrive at Mao-T’ou stronghold.” The rain was heavier, though the wind had slackened. He could feel the drafts decrease.
“One of the wagons has personal items of clothing, beddings, saddles, and other such materials.” He sounded vaguely disappointed. Then his face brightened. “I see here that there are also two large wooden panels with pictures in colored stones in that wagon.”
Now that it was too late, Saint-Germain regretted bringing the Byzantine mosaics with him. “I have had them for some time,” he remarked, waiting for the Magistrate to comment further.
“I have seen such pictures. There are very few of them in this kingdom. A man who possesses one might be counted extraordinarily fortunate.”
Saint-Germain closed his eyes once, swiftly, and then said what he knew he must say. “If the Worthy Magistrate Hao finds my poor mosaics so much to his taste, I would be deeply gratified—far above the paltry value of the pictures themselves—if he would be willing to accept them as gifts.” He loved those mosaics. They had been made when Justinian ruled, and Saint-Germain had been able to keep them with him on most of his travels in the intervening centuries. To have to part with them now felt like a betrayal of friends. He did not want them to go into the hands of this jealous man.
“You flatter me, Shih Ghieh-Man. The gift is a handsome one, and I will do my poor best to be sure they are correctly appreciated. There is nothing that would delight me more than to have these stone pictures hang in my private quarters where I may take the time to contemplate their foreignness.” Hao made no attempt to apologize for the gloating success he felt. He gave Saint-Germain an ingenuous smile.
“I hope they will bring you joy.” It was a legitimate wish, he knew. For otherwise the Byzantine mosaics would be shut away in some neglected storeroom, and would eventually fall to ruin.
“Very gracious of you,” the Magistrate said, getting to his feet at last. “Well. You will want to put on some clothes, I think. It is really quite cold in here.”
“And my men?” Saint-Germain asked, not quite able to disguise his contempt.
“Ah, yes. Your men. I fear that we are very shorthanded here, and the militia can use every man it can get. For that reason, I think I must insist that three of your outriders remain here in the service of our Marshal of Defense. Being honorable men, they could have no objection to aiding us. We have much need of skilled fighters, as the Mongols have been raiding just two
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