Ahmi-Tsani frowned. “Three weeks, you say?”
“A few days less, but about that. I recall that after we crossed the river, there was a bad storm, and nothing improved after that.” He thought a long moment, then gave a single, small shake of his head. “Well, it is not a thing any of us can change, whatever it is, and whatever its cause.” Sitting forward in his seat, he put his mind to the immediate situation. “Let us consider how you are to win the good opinion of Official Lang.”
Text of a letter from Professor Min Cho-Zhi at Yang-Chau to Zangi-Ragozh at Chang’an; delivered sixteen months after given to a merchant for delivery and never received.
To the most highly regarded foreign merchant Zangi-Ragozh, Professor Min Cho-Zhi sends his greeting and this report on the state of his property in Yang-Chau, with the assurance that the household continues as the merchant Zangi-Ragozh stipulated it should, and in accordance with the instructions he provided.
Jho Chieh-Jen, the steward, has informed me that the household has used more wood for fires and cooking than was anticipated would be needed. This is due to the lateness of the spring, but it is not cause for alarm, as the supply left was ample and could be used as steadily as it has been for another ten fortnights without impinging on the wood for winter. He also tells me that because of the cold, the trees in the orchard are late coming into bloom. There has been more rain than usual, and it has been less wholesome than in some years, which has caused concern among the men maintaining the orchard and gardens, for they tell Jho that some of the plants are dying, and the trees may not bear much fruit this year.
Sheh Tai-Jia reports that the first foal of the season has been born, but is not doing well, showing little inclination to be active, and preferring to remain at her dam’s side; she does not thrive, and although she suckles, she shows little sign of flourishing. Now that two other mares are about to deliver their foals, Sheh is deeply troubled, because he is worried that the new foals may be as afflicted as this first one is. He wishes you to know that he will use all his skill to bring about better health in the foals, but that he fears this year may be a poor year in the stable.
Food in the markets is still quite expensive, for the farmers complain that their spring crops are slow in taking root, and that has meant dragging out the winter vegetables and the pickles for longer than Meng would like. He has drawn his own supply of rice and preserved fruits to improve the meals he serves, and the household remains properly fed, but without the variety of dishes usually available in the spring. Meng has taken to sending two of his assistants directly to the local farmers, to purchase food from them before they take it to market.
In other domestic concerns: I have taken the liberty of ordering repairs on the outer wall, for some of the stockade logs are rotting, their wood becoming porous and weak. If repairs are not undertaken quickly, the trouble will spread, and so I have ordered the work done, in the full conviction that it is what you would do if you were here. I am going to order regular inspections of the wall, just in case a beetle or other pest has got into the wood. If I have the wood inspected regularly, it may be possible to stop the damage before the stable or the house is damaged. If it seems necessary, I will expand the inspections to include the house and stable. Sheh and Jho both agree with this decision and have offered to help in the inspections.
I have received little news of your ships, although I am sent weekly reports by your senior clerk, Hu Bi-Da, providing a log of his activities and the developments at the warehouses and docks. He informs me that the Morning Star is still in port, and that Captain I Mo-Ching is unwilling to put to sea while there are so many reports of storms. Hu reports that nine ships have been confirmed lost in these frightful storms—fortunately none of them yours—and there are rumors of many more, but there is as yet no way to obtain certain news.
This completes the information I wish to convey. May the Gods of Good Fortune watch over you in your travels and bring you safely back to Yang-Chau, and may you prosper in Chang’an. Be certain that in your absence your affairs and property are being looked after honorably. I will report again in three or four fortnights, unless there is good reason to send you word before then.
Min Cho-Zhi, Professor
(his chop)
“We may still reach Lo-Yang by nightfall, don’t you think?” said Jong, huddled on the driver’s box of his wagon; although all his fever was gone, he still tired more quickly than the rest, and he was getting thinner. He glanced at the heavy clouds above, and the company of soldiers marching ahead of them on the road, and shook his head.
“We may,” said Zangi-Ragozh from the back of Flying Cloud. He felt the cold less keenly than the rest, but he was glad of his leather sen-gai and curly lamb hat that shielded him against the stinging wind and persistent rain.
“Isn’t this supposed to be spring?” Yao complained loudly from his place behind Jong’s wagon, expecting no answer and getting none. “Where’s the sun? Where are the blossoms?”
Zangi-Ragozh said nothing, making an effort to keep on the road without letting his horse get mired in the deep ruts. He glanced back to be sure Ro-shei was still in his position at the rear, behind Yao’s wagon. He was growing uneasy, and what had been worry was turning to anxiety as the days passed and the weather grew steadily worse. “Lo-Yang is only two more li, and we have a few more hours of light.”
“If the clouds part,” said Jong with a kind of gloomy satisfaction. “The wind is growing worse, and the rain is increasing.”
“So it is,” said Zangi-Ragozh, aware that Gien had his hands full looking after the spare horses they were leading, for the approaching storm made the animals restless.
“Do you think you will be able to reach Chang’an before summer?” Jong went on.
“If the weather does not improve, there is not going to be a summer,” said Zangi-Ragozh severely.
Jong shrugged fatalistically. “It might as well be the Fortnight of New Snows.”
“True enough,” said Zangi-Ragozh, not speaking the rest of his thoughts—that a year without a spring was also a year without a harvest, and that would mean famine.
“The army doesn’t help, tearing up the roads and pillaging the farms,” Jong continued as if taking satisfaction in this grim outlook.
“The army must eat, as must we all,” said Zangi-Ragozh, feeling a pang of hunger; it had been six days since he had visited a woman in her sleep, and that encounter, sweetly poignant as it had been, no longer nourished him.
“At the cost of the rest of us. The army has the might to claim whatever it wants.” Jong paused, then asked what had been on his mind. “Must we stay in Lo-Yang? With so many soldiers inside the walls, there could be troubles.” He grew more forceful as he went on. “You know what soldiers are like.”
“You’re worried that we could become targets of … shall we say, excessive spirits?” Zangi-Ragozh suggested.
“It could be,” said Jong. “Who in Lo-Yang would be willing to stop army men if they chose to rob us?”
This made some sense to Zangi-Ragozh. “It is a danger, but so is remaining in the countryside, for soldiers may well seek out small villages to seize food and livestock.” He did not add
and women
.
“Or commit other outrages,” said Jong primly.
“My point exactly,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “At least in the city there are officials who have a duty to protect the place.”
“If they will,” said Jong. “Most of them will cower in their houses and wait until the army is gone and the danger is past.” He swore by a god whose name Zangi-Ragozh did not recognize. “What a time! If only you could heal the earth as you healed me. Then spring would come and Merciful Kuan-Yin could rejoice in her festival.” He scowled at the troops ahead and nodded his conviction. “I doubt this year many of us will observe it.”
“It is in this fortnight, is it not?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.
“Yes. In four days’ time,” said Jong. “I usually offer her plum-blossoms, only this year there aren’t any.”
“She should understand,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “She is compassionate.”
Jong looked aghast. “Her goodness is nothing to laugh about, particularly not now, when her mercy is so much needed.”
“No, mercy is not a thing to laugh about,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed, and nodded toward a lane coming into the main road not far up ahead. “Do we take this road, or do we keep on?”
“Do you ask me?” Jong asked in surprise.
“You are tired—it is apparent in how you hold the reins. Since you need rest most immediately of all of us, which would you rather do? Stay on to Lo-Yang or hope for a village not too far away?”
A small detachment of soldiers broke from the line and started down the narrow track Zangi-Ragozh had spotted. Two mounted officers rode with them.
“Too late,” said Jong. “Probably just as well. Who is to say what would have happened had we gone that way.”
“Then Lo-Yang it is,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and pulled up the hood of his cloak.
“Lo-Yang,” Jong repeated dismally.
They went on in silence for some time, until the line of travelers began to slow at the approach to the city gates. By that time the sky was paved with clouds and the rain was slanting on the wind, and threatening to become ice once the last of the faint sunlight had faded. Torches were burning in huge iron sconces on either side of the gate, sending tatters of flame to do battle with the stormy evening. The soldiers had been marched off to another entrance to Lo-Yang, and so the crowd waiting to enter was composed of merchants, farmers, and other travelers; all of them were fretful, and most were worn-out from a day on the road in the rain.
By the time Zangi-Ragozh dismounted to address the Guard, it was full dark and the rain had grown heavier, running in the road and making Zangi-Ragozh shudder from its presence. He stepped into the lee of the gateway, holding out his travel orders for the Captain to read, and putting his right hand around his left in greeting. “I am Zangi-Ragozh, a foreign merchant from Yang-Chau traveling to Chang’an by invitation of the Emperor there. Will you be good enough to tell me—where do I go to get my customs assessment?”
“We will deal with such matters here. My scribe is a customs clerk and will see to it that all forms are properly recorded and filed,” said the Captain.
“Will that be enough?” Zangi-Ragozh asked. “Do you not need the chop of an official to make his judgment binding?”
“That will be taken care of, Foreigner Zangi-Ragozh,” the Captain declared. “Make a note of his name and those with him,” he added to the scribe.
Zangi-Ragozh pulled a string of silver cash from his inner sleeve, lifting his sen-gai to hold it out to the Captain. “I trust this will suffice to pay anything we may owe, and any other taxes that might be imposed because of the army being here.” He let the scribe take the money, continuing to the Captain, “My men and I need a place to spend the night. If you would be good enough to recommend one?”
“I see you have two wagons, four men, and spare horses,” said the Captain, motioning to the scribe with him to make note of this. “Three of your men are Chinese and one is a foreigner, like you.”
“Yes, a foreigner, and no, not like me,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Ro-shei comes from a city far to the west called Ga-Des. I come from ancient mountains; you would call them Carpa-Ti. But you are right: the other three men are Chinese.”
“Barbaric names you foreigners give your places,” said the Captain, but sounding so tired that there was no condemnation in his remark. He pointed to the bottom of the sheet of paper the scribe had filled out. “If you have a chop, fix it there.”
“I have a chop and a sigil,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Sigil! Another barbaric thing,” said the Captain with an exhausted sigh. “Well, fix them both, if it pleases you. Then have your men come up to be identified.”
Zangi-Ragozh did as he was told, watching carefully as the Guards looked in his wagons and inspected his horses. When all was done, he once again asked, “I asked you before for your advice, and I hope you will give it to me: is there an inn that caters to such travelers as we are?”
“That may be more costly than the usual places,” the Captain warned him. “Such accommodations are at a premium just now.”
“I am able to pay,” said Zangi-Ragozh, doing his best not to sound resigned.
“Of course,” said the Captain. “Go along to the North Market and turn east on the second street, the one with the lanterns strung over the entrance. You will find the Inn of the Graceful Birches. There is a stand of trees behind it that gives it its name. As far as I know, there is room still to be had there.”
“Very good,” said Zangi-Ragozh, swinging up into the saddle again. “May you bring honor to your ancestors.”
“And you, foreigner,” said the Captain, his polite response marred by the suggestion of a yawn.
Zangi-Ragozh waited on his restive horse while Ro-shei answered a few questions, and then Yao, Jong, and Gien endorsed the information on the scribe’s page. The men got back onto the driver’s boxes and at last they entered Lo-Yang.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Yao asked testily.
“The Captain recommended an inn,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “If you will keep to this main street, I suppose it will take us to the North Market.”
Yao rubbed his flat belly. “I’m hungry and I’m cold.”
“If it is any comfort to you, so am I,” said Zangi-Ragozh, making his way up the broad avenue toward a good-sized walled compound that marked the heart of the city.
Yao sighed noisily. “The North Market it is.” He clicked his tongue. “Probably on the other side of the Magisterial Palace.”
“It seems likely,” said Zangi-Ragozh drily.
Three blocks farther on they halted as a large group of soldiers came roistering by. Some of them were muzzily singing, but most of them were too busy drinking from wine-jugs to bother with melodies. As they reeled away toward a well-lit tavern, one of them raised a short sword menacingly at Yao’s wagon. then was dragged away by his unsteady, laughing comrades.
“There’ll be trouble by morning,” said Yao.
“Very likely,” Zangi-Ragozh said as he moved on. As they passed the walls of the Magisterial Palace, they saw banners that informed the city that Magistrate Wo Hai-Jian was in residence. “That should help keep order. No one wants to gain the disapproval of the Magistrate, not even soldiers.”
“Perhaps so,” said Yao, weighing his opinions before adding, “It depends on how drunk the soldiers get, and what kind of man Magistrate Wo is.”
The North Market was largely deserted, but on the far side a number of heavily laden wagons were drawn up in front of the customs house, most with a few men keeping jealous watch over them. Guards in their city uniforms patrolled the large square, holding impressive halberds for weapons.
“We should find our lodging shortly,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and turned right along the second street.
The Inn of the Graceful Birches was a short distance from the square, a large, well-made building with a busy forecourt where hostlers took charge of the horses and wagons, and two large stables off to the side; amid the general bustle of the place slaves brought cups of hot wine out to the new arrivals.
“Thank you,” Zangi-Ragozh said as a good-sized cup was proffered, “but I do not drink wine.”
“I do,” said Yao, seizing one of the cups and drinking down the clear, hot liquid. “Another! And quickly!” He got off his box and climbed out of the wagon, his face set even as he strove to smile. “We’re cold, wet, and hungry! Let us have heat and a dry place to eat!”
Jong descended more slowly from the wagon, and he frowned as he took the cup of hot wine offered. “It is miserable weather,” he remarked as he took the cup from the slave.
“I would like to sleep in the stable with my horses and wagons; we have had a hard day on the road, and I am concerned about two of my horses,” Zangi-Ragozh was saying to the landlord as Gien took the riding horses in hand. “I will pay for a room, but I want to be sure that everything is in order and my horses are all sound in the morning.”
“You might as well send one of your drivers to tend to your animals; you have a groom with you, have you not?” the landlord suggested.
“These creatures and the wagons, with their contents, are mine, and therefore my responsibility, not that of the men working for me, though they are diligent and loyal,” said Zangi-Ragozh in a tone that was at once firm and conciliating.
“Are you afraid that no one can guard your goods but you, yourself?” the landlord demanded.
“No, but I do say that with the army in town, many things become temptations that were not before, and your household staff cannot be everywhere; the demands of soldiers are not easily refused,” Zangi-Ragozh assured him. “In times like these, no innkeeper—no matter how honorable—is proof against trouble.”
The landlord relented at once. “You speak true, Worthy Foreigner.” He indicated the door to his establishment. “I have food waiting, and a table near the hearth that would warm your men.”
“And you have rooms for them? a suitable chamber with proper beds and a hearth or a stove to keep them warm?” Zangi-Ragozh asked as he gave a string of silver cash to the landlord; he had three more strings in his sleeve and two silver bars in his wallet.