Path of the Eclipse (3 page)

Chih-Yü listened attentively, and when Yao fell silent, she had new respect for the scribe. “I must confess that your comments are new to me. I came here so determined to find troops that I have not given any other possibility my consideration. Now that I have talked with you, I will reassess my position. You have done me good service, Scribe Yao. I will remember it when I make my reports.” Her expression had lightened, and as she left the audience chamber, her step was lighter than it had been before.

The guards at the entrance to the building raised their thick brows at the sight of a woman in military gear, but did not detain her as she started down the wide street. A moment later, one of them heard her speak to him.

“I am not familiar with Lo-Yang,” Chih-Yü said to the guard on the southern side of the steps. “Will you be kind enough to inform me of the most direct route to the university?”

The two guards exchanged tolerant smiles of the sort always reserved for ignoramuses from the country.

“Looking for a student, are you, my girl?” the guard she had addressed asked her, winking at his companion.

“No,” Chih-Yü answered in a voice well-known to her militia. “I am on official business for the stronghold Mao-T’ou. I have inquiries to make of the scholars there. Now, tell me at once where the university is.”

Neither guard had ever been spoken to in such a manner by a woman. The farther one straightened and flushed, but the nearer one attempted to bluster. “Now see here, my girl, it’s all very well to go running about dressed up like a fighter, but—”

Chih-Yü cut him short, her anger for all the frustrations she had encountered in Lo-Yang welling up in her. “This person is of the family T’en,” she announced loudly enough for passersby to hear her. “My distinguished father was General T’en. Perhaps you have heard of him?” she asked sarcastically, knowing that her late father was one of the most revered tacticians of the kingdom. “This person, being his rightful heir, is properly addressed as Warlord T’en, not ‘my girl.’ Now, where is the university, fellow?”

The nearer soldier cleared his throat and came to attention. “The Warlord T’en, if she will give herself the trouble, will find the university near the old city walls, two li from here, two streets to the west of this one.” He had directed his eyes toward the roofs of the three official buildings across the square from the one he guarded. “The Warlord may avail herself of a guide, which this humble guardsman would be honored to summon for her.”

“That will not be necessary, soldier, unless your instructions are faulty.” She gave him a challenging look and waited for his denial, and tapped her booted foot on the raised paving stones.

“This humble guardsman assures the Warlord T’en that he has provided instructions to the best of his poor ability.” He was still looking at the rooftops, but his voice had hardened.

“Then there should be no difficulty, should there?” She stepped back and found that there was a large number of people gathered to listen to her upbraid the guard. Chih-Yü understood why the guardsman was so resentful, so she added, “The Warlord T’en appreciates the assistance given her, guardsman, and will so inform the official Lun.” She turned away smartly and shouldered through the crowd. She wished she had applied for the right to carry her sword inside the city walls instead of the scabbard alone. Somehow, that empty scabbard made a mockery of her rank. Walking more quickly, she made her way through the bustling crowds down the long avenue toward the crenellated outline of the old city walls.

Text of a dispatch from the scribe Wen S’ung to the Ministry of the Imperial Army in Lo-Yang. The messenger was ambushed by raiders and the message never delivered.

In the fortnight of Great Heat in the Year of the Rat, the Thirteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, to the Ministry of the Imperial Army, at the behest of the General Kuei I-Ta.

To the Ministers of War and the Protectors of the Imperial Presence, greetings:

The General Kuei I-Ta finds himself and his men in desperate straits. The perfidious Mongols have once again breached the defenses we established near the village of Nan-Pi on the northern side of the Sha-Ming Pass of the Tsin-ling Mountains. The casualty toll of men now stands at 347 dead, 861 wounded, with another 212 ill from various diseases. This latest offensive on the part of the men of Temujin has effectively cut our supply lines, and if the Mongols are allowed to keep their hold on this pass through the winter, this garrison will not survive to oppose them.

It has come to my attention that two companies of Imperial bowmen are stationed no more than eighty li from this place, in the Ma-Mei valley. Half of this force, speedily sent, would be of great assistance to us here, and would make it possible for us to rout the despicable Mongols.

It is my sad duty to inform the Ministers and the officers of the Secretariat that the stronghold of Pei-Yo has fallen and all the men, women, children and chattel of the place hacked to pieces. We of this company tried to penetrate the Mongol forces to save those valiant defenders, but without archers and sufficient cavalry, we were helpless against their superior numbers. Six sallies were attempted, but all failed. The Mongols, since the taking of Pei-King, believe themselves to be invulnerable and mandated by Heaven to conquer all of our country. We have learned a dreadful lesson from these terrible fighters, and we dare not ignore it.

Two days ago, Junior Officer S’a Gan led one hundred men toward Pei-Yo under cover of darkness with the hope of rescuing those few defenders who remained alive. This morning, the heads of this company adorned spikes around the Mongol camp and their horsemen have been throwing the flayed skins of our comrades over the barricades we have erected. Pei-Yo is less than twenty li away from us, and it will not be long before the Mongols turn their attention to us once more. Controlling Pei-Yo, as they do now, will make their work easier, for they will not have to fall back very far and will fight on fresh horses.

General Kuei I-Ta respectfully requests that the most prompt assistance be rendered him and his men. If relief is not authorized quickly, it will come too late. Those of us defending the Sha-Ming Pass will gladly remain until the last of us is slain, but we ask that our deaths purchase a victory for our country. It is honorable to fall in battle, and we do not shrink from our duty. It is for those who come after us to hold our sacrifice at high cost.

Our courier will leave two hours before dawn and it is hoped that he will be at the camp of the Imperial bowmen in the Ma-Mei valley by nightfall. If this report is sent promptly, marching orders should be delivered to the garrison by the fortnight of the White Dews, and may well be in time to avenge us without endangering the Ma-Mei valley by the action.

General Kuei I-Ta prays that his words be regarded as those of a dying man, and given that devotion and respect incumbent upon such messages.

By the hand of the scribe Wen S’ung in the second hour after sunset, near the village of Nan-Pi.

2

A brook had been diverted through the garden to splash over a course of smooth stones in plaintive, endless melody. Night-dappled, it gleamed where the nodding trees let the starlight through. There was a tang in the autumn wind as it fingered the leaves, loosening them one by one from the branches, dropping the first few in token of the winter to come. Low in the west a waning moon vied with the coming dawn, casting long, soft shadows across the compound and garden, touching the elaborately carved eaves and the open door, stretching along the silken carpet of Saint-Germain’s private chamber, reaching at last the brocaded coverlet of the wide bed where Ch’uan-T’ing lay alone.

Saint-Germain sat in a chair of carved rosewood on the far side of the room, where the night was the deepest. He held a volume of the works of Li Po in one hand, his finger marking the page he had abandoned earlier, while he looked contemplatively at the young woman sleeping. His black silken sheng lei rustled no more loudly than the wind as he rose, setting the book aside. He crossed the room in five swift steps, and stood for some little time at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes resting on Ch’uan-T’ing’s still face.

Softly he dropped to his knees on the bed, moving with utmost care so that she would not be disturbed. Unhurriedly he stretched out beside her, away from the moonlight so that he could see her face without shadow. He braced himself on his elbow and gave himself to the perusal of her face.

Her features were tranquil in sleep, her lashes on her cheeks like tiny dark crescents, her brow untroubled and unlined, her hair haloing her head. Ch’uan-T’ing sighed in her sleep, her lovely, arched lips opening slightly. At this subtle movement the coverlet slid back, revealing her small, high breasts and the gentle rise of her ribs. The moonlight bleached the color from her skin so that she appeared made of the finest rice paper painted by the brush of a master.

With fingers gentle as the wind, but more lingering and warmer, he traced the curve of the shadows on her face, her throat, her breast. Drifting petals or fresh snow was no softer than the passage of his hands over her. Had Ch’uan-T’ing been made of the rarest, most fragile porcelain, he could not have been more delicate. His caresses skimmed over her shoulder, along the curve of her arm where her scented flesh was most tender. He did nothing in haste, nothing abruptly, nothing forcefully, yet he kindled a desire in her that she would never have dared acknowledge when awake. Seeing the alteration in her features, he smiled enigmatically in the shadows.

Ch’uan-T’ing turned toward Saint-Germain, sleep lending this movement a strange grace, as if she were under water. Half her face was obscured now, though the line of her cheek shone like the petal of the most pale blossom. Her head was back at an angle, and she drew in her breath quickly as a tremor passed over her.

Though he was tempted, Saint-Germain did not press her response. He had made that mistake once, bringing her out of her sleep. He recalled that night, three years before, with chagrin. Ch’uan-T’ing, schooled to place her lord’s needs foremost, had been appalled at her own arousal, and was overcome with shame. Saint-Germain had tried in vain to assure her that it was only through her fulfillment that he could achieve his own: she was repelled by her passion. Now he approached her only when she slept, rousing her as a dream might.

She began to breathe more deeply, languor spreading through her with her emerging need. Saint-Germain kissed her, barely touching her skin with his mouth, yet evoking new pleasures in the sleeping woman. His hands moved under the coverlet, seeking the source of her ecstasy. She trembled, sighed, still sleeping. Surely, sadly, he found the source of her unacknowledged desire. How much he wished that she would waken and accept her joy with pride, reveling in the shared gratification. He could not bring himself to test her again, recalling what desolation he had felt at her reaction, and how carefully she had avoided him for some time afterward.

She moaned as her first spasm shook her, and lay back, rapturously vulnerable. His touch, still maddeningly light, continued to enhance her response, drawing out her release to add to his own contentment. She whispered a few incoherent words as Saint-Germain’s lips drew away from her and his hands at last were still.

The sky was edged with light in the east as Ch’uan-T’ing sank back in slumber and Saint-Germain at last rose swiftly and silently from her side. He slipped the coverlet up over her shoulder, then went to the open doorway to close it, for the morning was chill.

The chamber adjoining the one where Ch’uan-T’ing lay was startling in its simplicity, given the grandeur of the rest of the extensive house and grounds. There was only a narrow hard bed atop a large chest, a chair and writing table, and a small chest of antique Roman design. Paper screens blocked the light from two tall, narrow windows, giving the room a perpetual dusk. Saint-Germain went to the chest and stood before it, alone. The new day was bleak to him. He chided himself inwardly for his loneliness, but could not banish it.

He untied the sash of his sheng lei, dropped it, then shrugged himself out of the loose silken robe, letting it fall around his feet. For a few moments he stood naked; then he turned away from the chest, crossed the room and drew back a panel, revealing three drawers of carefully folded garments.

Imperial decree forbade all foreigners to dress in completely Chinese clothing. Ostensibly this was an aesthetic regulation, so that the full diversity of the Chinese world would be more easily appreciated; in fact, the regulation allowed the officers of the various tribunals to identify aliens on sight and simplified their occasional mass arrests of foreigners. Saint-Germain was not deceived by the Imperial decree, but had no desire to oppose it. Over the years he had been in Lo-Yang, he had evolved his own style, an amalgam of Occidental and Oriental fashions that was all his own.

When he emerged from his private quarters, not long after sunrise, he wore a black brocade Byzantine dalmatica over a kneelength red sheng go. His black trousers were of Persian cut, but tucked into high, ornate Chinese boots. A belt of chased-silver links was around his waist and the silver pectoral was ornamented with his device—a black disk with wide, raised wings, the symbol of the eclipse. He was comfortable in this hodgepodge of styles and cultures; he was also aware that it was complimentary to him in a way that a more homogeneous fashion would not be.

His servants were busy already, the day’s tasks beginning before dawn and continuing until well after sunset. He addressed them when he came upon them, giving a word of praise to one, inquiring after the health of the father of another, as he made his way to his extensive library on the north side of the compound.

His mind was not truly on his reading, and it was some time before he selected a volume in Greek and pulled it from the shelves. It was an effort to concentrate on Aristotle’s meticulously dry phrases, but eventually he let himself get caught up in the words.