Zangi-Ragozh emerged from the hold of the barge pale and shaken. He shivered in the predawn mist, his sen-gai hardly enough to keep out the gnawing cold that hunger had engendered in him during his long stupor aboard the barge. There was stubble on his chin from his lengthy isolation, and his hair had grown, not as much as that of living men, but enough to be untidy, the dark waves hanging in short curls around his head. Beside him, Ro-shei waited patiently while the bargemen, lanterns in hand, guided their four horses and small wagon along the broad, heavy plank to the shore.
“There was snow last night,” said Ro-shei to Zangi-Ragozh as if this were nothing remarkable. “Not much, but still …”
“We’ve been a month on this river,” Zangi-Ragozh said, shuddering in spite of himself. “With only three layovers, none of them more than two days.” His Chinese sounded more foreign than usual. Zangi-Ragozh nodded slowly. “It must be mid-May in Europe at least, and here it looks like February.”
“The Fortnight of Those Born in the South is ending. The Festival of Yo-Wang is over,” said Ro-shei.
“The God of Medicine,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I hope Jong celebrated it.” He looked out over the fog-wrapped river. “I hope he is alive to celebrate it.”
“May all of them live—the men and the horses.” Ro-shei adjusted the hat he wore. “Come. They’re signaling from the dock.”
“I seem a bit flimsy,” Zangi-Ragozh said, taking an uncertain step.
“A month on running water almost constantly, small wonder,” said Ro-shei, offering an arm for Zangi-Ragozh to lean upon. “You’ll be better for a bath and a shave and a trimming.”
“I must get off the barge and into the town, or an inn at least, before I can avail myself of any of those,” he said a bit sardonically.
“For that I can assist you,” Ro-shei pointed out.
“Thank you, old friend, but I had better walk on my own. I’ll recover sooner if I do.” He steadied himself and stepped onto the broad plank that gave access to the dock. Behind the barge on which they had been traveling, the river junk that had been shoving the barge upriver lay still, oars banked and battened sails reefed, looking as insubstantial as a dream in the tarnished, misty light; four men on deck watched while Zangi-Ragozh and Ro-shei went ashore.
“We leave at this hour tomorrow,” said the barge-master. “If you change your mind about going on, be here by sunset and we’ll take you aboard again. The river turns westward in a day’s journey, and that will lead you to Wu-Wei.”
“In another month or so, if all goes well,” said Zangi-Ragozh, moving a bit more securely.
“Holin-Gol is only two li ahead,” said Ro-shei, handing the barge-master a silver bar as thanks for his service. “My master and I would prefer to spend a little time on dry land before arriving there.”
The barge-master snorted a laugh. “Not much of a riverman, is he, your employer? Strange, for a merchant not to like travel by water.”
“But so it is,” said Ro-shei.
“Then be careful. There’s a small canal up ahead, and the towpath is a drop from the road.” The barge-master chuckled. “If your master can stand to go over the canal.”
“I believe he can endure it,” said Ro-shei.
“Sleeping in your wagon as if dead, and for days on end,” said the barge-master. “Foreigners!”
“We’re most perplexing,” said Ro-shei agreeably as Zangi-Ragozh checked the harness that secured the cinder-brown gelding and the white-legged sorrel mare to the wagon; Flying Cloud and Ro-shei’s spotted mare were saddled and ready to ride.
“I’ll drive the wagon,” Zangi-Ragozh decided aloud. “Tie Flying Cloud’s reins to the rear of the wagon. I’d rather lead him than the wagon.”
“As you wish, my master,” said Ro-shei, and moved to do it.
The barge-master went back aboard his craft and drew up the loading plank, then signaled to the men on the junk. “We’re secure. If you want to go ashore, you may do so now. Just remember to be here by sundown, for I want to be under way at first light and we must secure the barge.”
“We will remember, but we will not be here,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he climbed up onto the driving-box of the wagon; his gloved hands shook as he picked up the reins.
The barge-master chuckled and waved, showing his disbelief in the casualness of his gesture.
Zangi-Ragozh swung his pair away from the river, the wheels of the wagon rumbling like thunder along the dock. He lifted his head and sniffed the morning. “Something is not right.”
“That smell from the snow,” said Ro-shei, speaking Imperial Latin as Zangi-Ragozh had done. “The yellow makes it stink.”
Zangi-Ragozh looked about as they approached the riverfront road that ran just above the path used by the dray-oxen of short-haul barges. “Not much travel, judging by the state of the road. At this time of year, there should be signs of active trade, but there are only these old ruts.”
“True enough,” said Ro-shei, bringing his spotted mare up just ahead of the wagon.
“Now travel is inconvenient. Later it may be much worse.” Zangi-Ragozh adjusted the reins as he steered the pair onto the road, going northward beside the river; the fog brightened, creating a dim glare as sunrise grew near. “The canal is not far ahead, I must assume.”
“And the towpath is a drop. I have no idea how much of one,” said Ro-shei.
“The river is running very high; I must suppose the canal is, as well,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Do you think there will be flooding?” Ro-shei wondered.
“In such a year as this, who can tell?” Zangi-Ragozh said. “It is as if the whole world is afflicted.” He said nothing more, as if such an admission was more than he had wanted to concede.
“There have been more dead birds in the river,” Ro-shei reported after they had covered a short distance. “The most recent was yesterday afternoon. A wind came up, and hundreds of small, white-breasted brown birds dropped from the sky.” He took a deep breath. “There was also a hawk among them.”
“Was this the only time birds fell?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.
“No; there were four others that I know of; the boatmen said there have been more flocks of dead birds floating on the river.”
“In large quantities, or fairly small?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, a frown settling between his fine brows.
“Quite large ones. Most of the ones I have seen looked to have died on the wing.” Ro-shei considered this a long moment, then added, “Some had feathers with yellow dust on them.”
“Poor creatures,” said Zangi-Ragozh with feeling. “And you say these deaths are increasing.” He looked down as the wheels crunched on ice standing in the slicks on the road. “The canal is just ahead.”
“Is there a bridge, do you think, or must we ferry across?” Ro-shei sounded exasperated.
“There is a bridge,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he peered into the mists, his dark-seeing eyes making out the shape of it. “Two wagons wide, and raised in the middle.”
“And the drop to the towpath?” Ro-shei’s mare was sidling, reluctant to step onto the towpath.
“Not too much, I think,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he did his best to judge the angle of the dip in the road ahead. “Our wheels should be safe.”
“And the axle?” Ro-shei asked. “Do you want me to get down and guide us over?”
“I doubt that will be necessary,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he pulled his team to a slow walk and carefully took them over the bridge. As he crossed the canal, he noticed the bodies of five dead cranes caught against the bridge supports. “You say the birds are continuing to die?”
“They seem to be” was Ro-shei’s careful answer, his attention on completing their crossing.
“Ah,” Zangi-Ragozh responded, to show he had heard.
A short distance along the road they came upon a track leading in from the narrow fields; there was a make-shift gibbet erected there, and a four-day-old corpse dangled from a butcher’s iron hook. A crudely lettered sign around the dead man’s neck identified him as a stealer of food; only the chill kept the body from reeking. The horses minced past the grisly thing, sweating in spite of the cold.
“There will be more of this,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “And for less.”
Ro-shei looked at the corpse. “Should we cut him down, do you think?”
“No. It would not benefit him, and it could cause trouble.” Zangi-Ragozh shook his head. “Poor man. You can see how thin he was before this happened.”
“So you think he must have been starving.”
“He certainly looks it,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Being within a short distance of the town, and with so many loading docks along the bank here, someone must have reported this.” Zangi-Ragozh squinted at where the eastern horizon should be. “The fog is thickening. We do not want to be surprised by anyone.”
“No, we do not,” Ro-shei agreed, and stopped talking as they continued on toward the walls of the town, hidden in the deepening mists ahead.
There were a few birdcalls and splashes, and the sound of a heavy cart in the distance, and then a faint jingle of tack, which brought the two up short. “How many?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, reaching into the well of the driver’s box for the sword that lay there.
“It could be three,” said Ro-shei cautiously in Latin.
“Three is acceptable,” said Zangi-Ragozh in the same language, and rose, still holding the reins of the team, but ready to take on any attackers; by now the mists were shiny with new sunlight, almost blinding in their limmerence, and Zangi-Ragozh squinted into them, his whole attention on the faint squeak of leather and
ching
of brass.
Ro-shei pulled his sword from its sheath, getting ready to fend off the approaching horsemen. “Do I assume they’ve heard us by now?”
“It would be folly to think otherwise, since we have heard them,” said Zangi-Ragozh, bracing himself on the wagon-frame, ready to fend off any attempt to take the wagon.
Ro-shei was about to speak when there was a loud cry to their immediate right and two men on horseback loomed out of the fog, both brandishing swords and apparently determined to frighten the foreigners into immediate submission. Ro-shei tugged his mare around to face the assault and swung his sword over his head, showing his readiness to fight, while Zangi-Ragozh held the wagon horses as steady as he could, for they were plunging with nervousness and took a short while to bring under control. “What do you dog’s heads want?” Ro-shei roared in Chinese, showing no sign of fright.
A third horseman came in from behind, planning to steal Flying Cloud from the back of the wagon. He was brought up short as the wagon was pulled around to angle across the road and the driver swung out from the box and snicked his upper arm. With a fierce oath, the man stabbed futilely in the direction of the wagon, howling with determination and pain. He spurred his horse closer to the wagon and made a second attempt: this time the flat of the driver’s sword struck him on the side of the head and he tumbled out of the saddle.
Ro-shei held his mare skillfully, making sure she did not begin to back up, for that might put them both in the river. He kept her nose close to her chest, then let her mince forward a few steps before signaling her to rear. As she did, he struck out with his sword and felt it strike bamboo armor.
“Give us your things and your horses and we won’t kill you!” shouted one of the attackers in a local dialect that was almost incomprehensible.
“Why should we believe you?” Ro-shei demanded, his mare back on all four feet and ready to stand her ground. He swung up his sword and made ready to fend off a second assault. The mare faltered and dropped onto her knees as her front legs buckled. Ro-shei kicked himself out of the saddle and looked to see what had happened: there were two thin lances buried in her side.
The nearer of the two lawbreakers suddenly reeled and collapsed back onto his horse’s rump, sending the animal into an uneven, panicky canter. Zangi-Ragozh lowered his small crossbow so he could fit it with another quarrel.
Cursing loudly, the third highwayman bolted, his horse pounding away from the river in pursuit of his comrade. The sound of their retreat faded quickly.
Ro-shei began to unbuckle the saddle, saying in Latin as he did, “I hate this kind of slaughter. The mare meant him no harm.” He paused to move aside. “This should be a clear shot.”
“Yes,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and sent a merciful quarrel into the center of her forehead.
Tugging the bridle headstall over the mare’s ears as she gave a last kick, Ro-shei said to the horse, “Thank you for all you did for me.” He patted her neck as he lifted the saddle and got to his feet.
“Would you like to saddle Flying Cloud?” Zangi-Ragozh offered.
“No. For now, I think it best to ride on the box with you.” He used the heavy spoke of the front wheel as a step up into the wagon; he lay the saddle on its front end and draped the girth and the bridle over the cantle, then settled beside Zangi-Ragozh on the box. “Not a very auspicious beginning.”
“No,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed as he signaled the horses to jog.