The boy cringed.
‘Don’t you dare haggle with me! Just make sure they’re delivered. When you’re done I’ll be in that wine shop across the way. Bring …’ He glanced round slyly, raising bushy black eyebrows. ‘Bring everything .’
Sergeant P’ao was as good as his word, vanishing into the wine shop where a hearty bellow greeted him.
Hsiung’s first destination lay in the ancient Pleasure District round Bright River. Thirty years ago hundreds of restaurants, floating oriole houses, teashops and theatres had competed to empty purses of cash , minds of perplexity, hearts of pain. That number had reduced to a few dozen establishments.
Hsiung approached a small restaurant specialising in river serpents and examined the street. Few people were about, though enterprising members of the City Watch sometimes wore disguises. Satisfied, Hsiung went to the back door of the restaurant, poking his head into a steam-filled kitchen. When he left his sack was considerably lighter and girdle purse heavier.
A similar transaction took place at the rear of a theatre where music and clashing cymbals escaped into the street. Then he was walking alongside Bright River, bound for the Port District. Yet Hsiung sensed he was the victim of a poor exchange. Why was he rewarded with a few cash coins when he collected hundreds on P’ao’s behalf? At least with the Dengs everyone was poor together.
True, Sergeant P’ao allowed him to polish weapons and join drill practice. He also had a noble nickname for him, inspired by his feat of bravery in killing the wild dog. Once the soldiers had got him drunk on cheap rice wine. The drink unleashed a volubility Hsiung did not know he possessed. Also an unguarded tongue. For no sooner had the boy revealed that his master, Deng Nan-shi, called Salt Minister Gui a traitor than the room whirled and he had found himself outside with Sergeant P’ao shaking him up and down . Finally Hsiung sobered.
‘What are you doing?’ P’ao had hissed. ‘That hunchbacked beetle brought you up as an orphan! He feeds you when half the world starves. He’s your Father, damn you! Now you’ve put him in their power.’ He indicated the soldiers inside. ‘Show some loyalty!’
Hsiung ducked. ‘He’s not my father!’ he had squealed.
‘Neither am I, boy,’ said Sergeant P’ao. ‘Besides, sooner or later we’ll be leaving Hou-ming. I’ve heard Jebe Khoja plans to send my dear Master to supervise the Salt Pans. Not enough salt is coming up from the earth. A firmer hand is needed.’
The soldier had laughed coarsely. ‘And maybe Golden Lotus will have to stay behind in Jebe Khoja’s compound. I’ve heard … Ha! Best not talk of that! Eh, boy?’
Hsiung’s head and stomach had churned. Yet even in the midst of drunkenness he wanted to ask about Yun Shu.
These thoughts distracted him until he entered the Port District. There he grew alert. The shortest way to his final customer involved crossing the Slave Market.
Hsiung glanced up at the sky. Night was approaching and, with it, the Great Khan’s curfew. He would be lucky to deliver his wares, collect payment and return to Sergeant P’ao before the curfew bell tolled a thousand times. After that a dangerous journey home through the darkness awaited.
But Hsiung was not prone to fear. He hastened his step, turning from Bright River up a side lane leading to the Slave Market where blacksmiths had set up forges for the manufacture and repair of manacles. At the edge of the market his progress halted. For the wide square resembled a battlefield.
Mongol cavalry were herding scores of prisoners into the square with lance butts and whips. Near the entrance, mounted on a huge black stallion, sat a handsome young man in gentlemanly silks. A sword and bow hung from his saddle; black hair spread over his shoulders. To Hsiung, the Mongol prince resembled a hero from the thrilling tales Teng sometimes read out loud, his eyes bright and voice
‘Don’t you dare haggle with me! Just make sure they’re delivered. When you’re done I’ll be in that wine shop across the way. Bring …’ He glanced round slyly, raising bushy black eyebrows. ‘Bring everything .’
Sergeant P’ao was as good as his word, vanishing into the wine shop where a hearty bellow greeted him.
Hsiung’s first destination lay in the ancient Pleasure District round Bright River. Thirty years ago hundreds of restaurants, floating oriole houses, teashops and theatres had competed to empty purses of cash , minds of perplexity, hearts of pain. That number had reduced to a few dozen establishments.
Hsiung approached a small restaurant specialising in river serpents and examined the street. Few people were about, though enterprising members of the City Watch sometimes wore disguises. Satisfied, Hsiung went to the back door of the restaurant, poking his head into a steam-filled kitchen. When he left his sack was considerably lighter and girdle purse heavier.
A similar transaction took place at the rear of a theatre where music and clashing cymbals escaped into the street. Then he was walking alongside Bright River, bound for the Port District. Yet Hsiung sensed he was the victim of a poor exchange. Why was he rewarded with a few cash coins when he collected hundreds on P’ao’s behalf? At least with the Dengs everyone was poor together.
True, Sergeant P’ao allowed him to polish weapons and join drill practice. He also had a noble nickname for him, inspired by his feat of bravery in killing the wild dog. Once the soldiers had got him drunk on cheap rice wine. The drink unleashed a volubility Hsiung did not know he possessed. Also an unguarded tongue. For no sooner had the boy revealed that his master, Deng Nan-shi, called Salt Minister Gui a traitor than the room whirled and he had found himself outside with Sergeant P’ao shaking him up and down . Finally Hsiung sobered.
‘What are you doing?’ P’ao had hissed. ‘That hunchbacked beetle brought you up as an orphan! He feeds you when half the world starves. He’s your Father, damn you! Now you’ve put him in their power.’ He indicated the soldiers inside. ‘Show some loyalty!’
Hsiung ducked. ‘He’s not my father!’ he had squealed.
‘Neither am I, boy,’ said Sergeant P’ao. ‘Besides, sooner or later we’ll be leaving Hou-ming. I’ve heard Jebe Khoja plans to send my dear Master to supervise the Salt Pans. Not enough salt is coming up from the earth. A firmer hand is needed.’
The soldier had laughed coarsely. ‘And maybe Golden Lotus will have to stay behind in Jebe Khoja’s compound. I’ve heard … Ha! Best not talk of that! Eh, boy?’
Hsiung’s head and stomach had churned. Yet even in the midst of drunkenness he wanted to ask about Yun Shu.
These thoughts distracted him until he entered the Port District. There he grew alert. The shortest way to his final customer involved crossing the Slave Market.
Hsiung glanced up at the sky. Night was approaching and, with it, the Great Khan’s curfew. He would be lucky to deliver his wares, collect payment and return to Sergeant P’ao before the curfew bell tolled a thousand times. After that a dangerous journey home through the darkness awaited.
But Hsiung was not prone to fear. He hastened his step, turning from Bright River up a side lane leading to the Slave Market where blacksmiths had set up forges for the manufacture and repair of manacles. At the edge of the market his progress halted. For the wide square resembled a battlefield.
Mongol cavalry were herding scores of prisoners into the square with lance butts and whips. Near the entrance, mounted on a huge black stallion, sat a handsome young man in gentlemanly silks. A sword and bow hung from his saddle; black hair spread over his shoulders. To Hsiung, the Mongol prince resembled a hero from the thrilling tales Teng sometimes read out loud, his eyes bright and voice
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