to speak with Hsiung he found himself alone. The image of proud, brave Yun Shu huddled among low females lingered. It was hard to forget who had betrayed her hiding place and so brought about her disgrace. All too easy to forget why.
Six
A cold, hungry autumn followed Salt Minister Gui’s departure from Monkey Hat Hill. Deng Nan-shi succumbed to stubborn inflammations of the spleen, manifested in exhaustion and a listless pulse. His earnings from tutoring dwindled as he kept to his bed. Worse still, he was forced to sell what few ornaments and paintings the Deng clan still possessed. The household was constantly on edge. Of them all, only Hsiung remained sleek. He was broader, long-limbed, a buck with budding horns.
Hsiung came to view his bedridden master with the secret disdain of the healthy for the feeble. Had he but known, Deng Nan-shi’s withdrawal from the streets of Hou-ming was timely.
It suited him not to travel round the city from pupil to pupil like a spy. A faction of the Red Turban rebels named after the Dengs’ great ancestor, Yueh Fei, had raised a serious rebellion in the hill districts surrounding Six-hundred- li Lake. When their attempts to drive the Great Khan’s servants from Hou-ming Province threatened the valuable Salt Pans, Jebe Khoja led a large force to disperse them, chasing famished bands of rebels across several counties and executing thousands of blameless peasants as a warning to others.
One morning, Hsiung slipped through a side gate of Deng Mansions and hurried down the lanes, out through the ancient Ward Gate into the streets of the city. He did not turn south to the Port District with its busy wharfs and warehouses. Hsiung’s route lay among places almost as deserted as Monkey Hat Hill, for the population hereabouts had scarcely recovered since the city’s fall. Wards built to house tens of thousands in cramped tenements and slums resembled larders stripped bare. Yet apparent emptiness concealed danger, as Hsiung was well aware.
Most of the houses he passed were overgrown: trees poking through roofs and gardens like thickets. Roads were vanishing beneath grass except where fresh wheel ruts scored the soil. A few birds perched on eaves, gazing beyond the crumbling city ramparts to the fish-filled waters of the lake. Occasionally he passed courtyards where clans or individual families had set up islands of humanity amidst the deserted, rotting houses.
After half an hour’s walk he reached his destination: a large, high-walled palace compound occupying the north east corner of the city’s rectangle. Here was the site of the old Prefect’s Residence. During the previous dynasty it had been busy with bureaux and quarters for officials posted here from all parts of the Empire. Now it was Prince Arslan’s palace, as well as home to his highest officials and tax gatherers, including Salt Minister Gui.
The gatehouse was heavily guarded and Hsiung did not care to chance it. Besides, he had an arrangement with someone who dwelt within, someone who came and went at will. Yet it turned out to be a long wait beside the bridge over Jinshui Canal, watching customers visit the astrologers’ booths to determine auspicious days. A dry, icy wind set dust devils dancing. Even an excited peal of bells from the nearby Buddhist Temple sounded forlorn beneath a sky so laden with low clouds.
When Sergeant P’ao finally arrived he smelt of spirits. Hsiung looked up at the older man resentfully.
‘I see Little Fox Tamer is angry!’ said Sergeant P’ao, lowering a heavy sack to the floor with a grunt. Hsiung’s frown deepened.
‘It will be the curfew soon,’ he muttered.
‘Brighten up, boy!’ Sergeant P’ao clapped him on the shoulder so hard he reeled. ‘I’ve more for you to deliver! Just to the usual places.’
A calculating look crossed Hsiung’s face.
‘For the usual amount?’ he asked.
Instantly, Sergeant P’ao’s affable expression vanished and his arm rose to strike.
Six
A cold, hungry autumn followed Salt Minister Gui’s departure from Monkey Hat Hill. Deng Nan-shi succumbed to stubborn inflammations of the spleen, manifested in exhaustion and a listless pulse. His earnings from tutoring dwindled as he kept to his bed. Worse still, he was forced to sell what few ornaments and paintings the Deng clan still possessed. The household was constantly on edge. Of them all, only Hsiung remained sleek. He was broader, long-limbed, a buck with budding horns.
Hsiung came to view his bedridden master with the secret disdain of the healthy for the feeble. Had he but known, Deng Nan-shi’s withdrawal from the streets of Hou-ming was timely.
It suited him not to travel round the city from pupil to pupil like a spy. A faction of the Red Turban rebels named after the Dengs’ great ancestor, Yueh Fei, had raised a serious rebellion in the hill districts surrounding Six-hundred- li Lake. When their attempts to drive the Great Khan’s servants from Hou-ming Province threatened the valuable Salt Pans, Jebe Khoja led a large force to disperse them, chasing famished bands of rebels across several counties and executing thousands of blameless peasants as a warning to others.
One morning, Hsiung slipped through a side gate of Deng Mansions and hurried down the lanes, out through the ancient Ward Gate into the streets of the city. He did not turn south to the Port District with its busy wharfs and warehouses. Hsiung’s route lay among places almost as deserted as Monkey Hat Hill, for the population hereabouts had scarcely recovered since the city’s fall. Wards built to house tens of thousands in cramped tenements and slums resembled larders stripped bare. Yet apparent emptiness concealed danger, as Hsiung was well aware.
Most of the houses he passed were overgrown: trees poking through roofs and gardens like thickets. Roads were vanishing beneath grass except where fresh wheel ruts scored the soil. A few birds perched on eaves, gazing beyond the crumbling city ramparts to the fish-filled waters of the lake. Occasionally he passed courtyards where clans or individual families had set up islands of humanity amidst the deserted, rotting houses.
After half an hour’s walk he reached his destination: a large, high-walled palace compound occupying the north east corner of the city’s rectangle. Here was the site of the old Prefect’s Residence. During the previous dynasty it had been busy with bureaux and quarters for officials posted here from all parts of the Empire. Now it was Prince Arslan’s palace, as well as home to his highest officials and tax gatherers, including Salt Minister Gui.
The gatehouse was heavily guarded and Hsiung did not care to chance it. Besides, he had an arrangement with someone who dwelt within, someone who came and went at will. Yet it turned out to be a long wait beside the bridge over Jinshui Canal, watching customers visit the astrologers’ booths to determine auspicious days. A dry, icy wind set dust devils dancing. Even an excited peal of bells from the nearby Buddhist Temple sounded forlorn beneath a sky so laden with low clouds.
When Sergeant P’ao finally arrived he smelt of spirits. Hsiung looked up at the older man resentfully.
‘I see Little Fox Tamer is angry!’ said Sergeant P’ao, lowering a heavy sack to the floor with a grunt. Hsiung’s frown deepened.
‘It will be the curfew soon,’ he muttered.
‘Brighten up, boy!’ Sergeant P’ao clapped him on the shoulder so hard he reeled. ‘I’ve more for you to deliver! Just to the usual places.’
A calculating look crossed Hsiung’s face.
‘For the usual amount?’ he asked.
Instantly, Sergeant P’ao’s affable expression vanished and his arm rose to strike.
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