Breaking Bamboo (38 page)

Wang Bai resumed his writing by the dancing light of the candle and Guang stepped out into the alleyway, reeling from the news he had just heard. Wang Ting-bo set beneath another!

He could barely conceive of such a reversal. What did it mean for his own future? Everyone knew of his loyalty to Wang Ting-bo. He considered hurrying to Chen Song for advice but felt oddly reluctant. Guang realised his palms were sticky with sweat.

*

Around the same time that Guang left his patron a small procession approached one of the military wharfs on the West Lake. Chen Song was supervising the loading of provisions onto the paddle-wheel destroyers. They had need of arrows and thunderclap bombs, naphtha and bandages for wounds. The return journey through the Mongol siege lines would be desperate.

Soldiers and sailors worked by the light of flaring torches soaked in oil. A light wind blew from the West Lake and the flames danced. There was a smell of stagnant water in the air.

When Chen Song turned to meet the procession he detected another bad smell – the dangerous odour of law. An old man in fine, dark-blue silks was being carried upon an open litter.

Two constables accompanied the magistrate, bearing cudgels and a heavy wooden yoke for restraining prisoners. Chen Song bowed low and waited for the official to reveal his business.

‘We seek a criminal,’ announced the magistrate, clearly vexed to be about his duties in the middle of the night. A bad sign. Inconveniencing a judge was a crime in itself.

‘We are soldiers busy with His Highness’s business,’ said Chen Song.

An unusually ugly man wearing a doctor’s robe and a hat with long black earflaps pushed forward.

‘What of Yun Shih! He was seen visiting these ships a few hours ago! Do not deny he is part of your crew! Now we are forced to disturb His Honour because you are preparing to depart!’

Chen Song wished he could do just that – and instantly.

‘Yun Shih?’ he asked, innocently.

‘Yes,’ repeated the irascible doctor.

Chen Song’s quandary deepened.

‘Ah,’ he said.

By now Guang had left the palace and stood in a shadowy street. Wang Bai’s letter, concealed in his girdle, felt heavy. He wondered if it contained more than words, a golden bribe perhaps or something likely to compromise the bearer. His willingness to serve the Wangs made him complicit in all their intentions. Perhaps he was destined to fall with them.

The lantern-carrying servant had abandoned him as soon as he was ejected from the palace. Now Guang needed another guide. All he possessed were crude directions and a man’s name. Linan seemed vast and dark, though far from lifeless.

As he walked – heading, he hoped, for the Imperial Way –

Guang noticed poor wretches slumped in miserable huddles against walls and under bridges. Prostitutes of the lowest sort congregated round market gateways. Raucous laughter from teashops and taverns broke the silence of night. He heard a hubbub in the distance but could not guess its significance. At last Guang accepted he was lost.

A great temptation to abandon his duty and find a way back to the paddle-wheel destroyers took hold. He could pretend to Wang Bai that he had delivered the message. But it was not in Guang’s nature to deceive those to whom he felt an obligation.

So he stopped a young man wearing a waiter’s uniform, evidently returning home after a long evening’s labour at a fashionable teahouse.

‘I am lost,’ said Guang. ‘Two hundred
cash
if you’ll act as my guide across the city. See, here are the strings of
cash
which shall be yours.’

The young man agreed with alacrity. The value of many a man’s wage had been reduced by the Empire’s debased currency – too much
cash
minted to pay for the court’s extravagance and endless threats on the frontier.

Now that he possessed a guide Guang made fast progress.

Haste was necessary. Already the sky showed hints of day – and Wang Bai had made it plain he would set sail without him. He was led through crumbling ancient walls to an outer suburb bordering the broad River Che. Here lay a district of shipyards used for the repair of merchant junks. Half-finished craft lay on chocks amidst timber stacks. There was a sweet, sulphorous scent of hot pitch.

‘I have never been here before,’ muttered his guide.

‘Foreigners live here. Merchants from strange places. It is said some of them trade with pirates. You asked me for the house of Jo-Set, sir. I have not heard of it. The name sounds foreign.’

‘Then we must proceed further.’

Guang led the way down a wide lane rutted by carts.

Workshops and isolated houses lay on either side. At last he found a pair of night watchmen crouched beside a lantern, playing dice. Both carried bamboo clubs, for only the Son of Heaven’s soldiers were allowed to bear edged weapons in the capital.

‘Where is the house of Jo-Set?’ asked Guang.

The watchmen looked at him suspiciously.

‘I seek one called Mah-Chu,’ added Guang. ‘May he be found here?’

One of the night-watchmen pointed at a low, rectangular building, resembling a small temple.

‘That is the house of Jo-Set.’

Guang strolled over, aware of the watchmen’s curious eyes and rapped on the wooden door. No one answered. He balled his fists and banged. At last he heard shuffling feet, then a cautious voice asked in a strange accent. ‘Who is there?’

For a moment Guang hesitated, glancing back at the watchmen. Why should he not speak openly?

‘I bear a message from His Excellency Wang. . .’

The door abruptly swung open and Guang was confronted by a thin, tall man, bearing the features of the Western steppelands. For a moment Guang wondered if he was a Mongol. The man urged him into the house, glancing fearfully at the street. Guang’s guide was left outside.

‘Psssht’ hissed the man. ‘Do not speak that name so loud!

You mad?’

Guang bristled. It would take one sweep of his arm to punish this Mah-Chu for his impudence. The fellow reeked of foreign fox smells. Besides, he had blue eyes, and though Guang had seen such oddities before, they always made him think of devils. He recollected his duty and looked round the wooden house.

It was indeed a temple of some kind. He did not recognise the deity. At the far end stood a crude altar, lit by red candles.

A wooden image of a man carved in black wood and apparently nailed to a cross caught his attention. Red wounds had been painted on the criminal’s wrists and ankles. Yet the idol’s face was serene.

‘What Wang Bai message?’ asked the man, nervously. ‘Did he send letter?’

Guang passed over the scroll and waited while Mah-Chu took it to the flickering candles on the altar and read by their thin light. Guang could not take his eyes from the shameful criminal on the cross. Despite himself, he was reminded of poor Shih.

Finally Mah-Chu folded the letter and returned to where Guang waited by the door, restless to be gone.

‘Tell your master,’ said the holy man. ‘I send at once.’

Guang looked at the foreigner closely. He had not expected any of this.

‘Whom do you serve?’ he asked.

The monk blinked.

‘Why, same as you,’ he whispered. ‘Do not fear! Serve same as you.’

Guang left and was relieved to find his guide still waiting outside. Dawn was sowing the horizon with seeds of light.

‘We must hurry,’ said Guang, eager to leave this strange place with its tortured god and furtive holy man. He glanced back just once and saw Mah-Chu watching him from the doorway through alien, blue eyes.

Chen Song was having a most trying time. Lying to the magistrate risked a death sentence, unless one lied to protect one’s parents or could afford to bribe a more senior judge.

Meanwhile he would be punished severely if the flotilla was not ready to sail when Wang Bai arrived.

‘I have no Yun Shih among my men,’ he said, for the tenth time. ‘I suggest an error.’

Each time the magistrate seemed about to agree and return to his comfortable bed, the remorseless Doctor Ou-yang intervened. He was clearly a person of influence and wealth in his guild; even the magistrate treated him with respect. Chen Song was reminded of Dr Du Mau and the influence he had once possessed with Pacification Commissioner Wang Ting-bo.

‘How could this Yun Shih have been seen here, if he was not here?’ demanded the magistrate, spurred on by Dr Ou-yang.

Chen Song raised hopeless hands and struggled for a suitable quotation from the Five Classics or at least a proverb: ‘One does not seek to catch fish up a tree,’ he suggested, feebly.

Guang was stumbling with tiredness through the city. His boots clattered on stone pavement slabs. Yet daylight was gathering in courtyards and thoroughfares. Only the most desperate prostitutes maintained their stations. Otherwise the streets were filling with labourers starting work in the hour before dawn. Finally the West Lake, grey beneath the dull sky, became visible through a canyon of tall, wooden buildings.

When Guang reached the port area and saw the banners of Wang Bai’s flotilla, he hesitated. His sharp eyes at once recognised the figure of Chen Song and someone else – a fat official and constables – as well as his sister-in-law’s relative, Dr Ou-yang. The official looked suspiciously like a magistrate.

Though he could not understand this turn of events, he was sure it was quite separate from Mah-Chu’s letter. Otherwise, why would Dr Ou-yang be present? Guang knew it was Shih they sought and that approaching the ships would invite instant arrest. Just then Wang Bai’s palanquin, carried by eight porters, descended on the paddle-wheel destroyers at a double-trot.

After paying off his guide, Guang spent agonising minutes watching from the shadow of a low warehouse. He could hear rats scurrying in the eaves above his head. Somehow he must join the ships. Already Wang Bai had climbed aboard with his boxes of possessions and they were preparing to cast off.

His Excellency stood at the rail, admonishing the magistrate, who had decided it was prudent to offer a humble bow. None of this helped Guang. Then he had a desperate notion.

As the paddle-wheel destroyers began to churn water, drums beating to hasten the sailors’ pedalling feet, Guang darted forward until he hid behind a pile of empty fish crates on the quayside. Meanwhile the ships began to advance north, towards the Grand Canal and beyond that, the Yangtze. It was vital Dr Ou-yang and the other watchers on the shore did not glimpse him. Luckily they were busy arguing amongst themselves.

The first paddle-wheel destroyer drew parallel to Guang’s hiding place and his heart lifted – for Chen Song stood by the helmsman.

‘Chen Song! Throw me a rope!’

It took a moment for his friend to notice him on the wharf.

Then he was all action. As Guang trotted to keep pace with the ship, Chen Song ordered the helmsman to veer closer to the shore. A long rope curled outwards, landing at Guang’s feet. He hastily wrapped it round his chest, tying a tight knot.

At once he felt himself being pulled forward. One step, two, he teetered over the short drop to the lake and leapt into the water.

Instantly he went under, weighed down by his clothes and sword. A fierce jerk hauled him to the surface. He was dragged like a harpooned dolphin to the destroyer’s stern and pulled aboard, gasping for breath.

Wang Bai, who was already seated on his high chair in the stern of the second paddle-wheel destroyer, raised a hand of haughty recognition. No thanks for the dangers Guang had undertaken to deliver the message! Perhaps the Prefect believed he should feel grateful to be noticed at all! Then Guang recollected that Wang Ting-bo’s days as Pacification Commissioner were numbered and wondered how much longer Wang Bai’s own position would stay secure.

*

Guang slept in the raised prow of the paddle-destroyer, muttering his brother’s name over and over. Sweat on his forehead caught the starlight. Chen Song, who sat nearby, removed his cloak and placed it gently over his friend, for Guang had caught a river-fever after his immersion in the West Lake. Then he left Captain Xiao to his fitful dreams and wandered towards the stern to share a word with the helmsman.

At first Guang was drowning, trapped underwater by long, tangled willow roots. Everything moved slowly in this aquatic world – his fingers clawing at the surface as though for a handful of air – bubbles floating upwards – flickers of silver he took to be fish. Then the fish became a white, peering face. A ghost’s wide-eyed, unblinking face. Shih! It was Shih come to release him! Unless it was his own future ghost, for the face possessed Guang’s features. Though his lungs ached for air, he called out:

‘Eldest Brother! Eldest Brother!’ In a flash of comprehension he knew that he was offering to renounce that title in exchange for Lu Ying, to forego his empty lordship of Wei in exchange for life. Shih’s hand reached out, the dream abruptly shifted. . .

She was beside him on the rough-hewn, pine bench in Apricot Corner Court. Night scents mingled with her fragrance. They could not meet each other’s eyes. Why could they not?

The answer thrilled and appalled. He dared not acknowledge it. Guang moved his hand along the bench, closer to hers, almost touching her slender fingers. She wore a thin, hemp shift like a peasant girl, her jade mountains prominent. The obviousness of his arousal made him murmur a throaty excuse. For he was afraid Shih would see them together, that he would never be forgiven for stealing his brother’s lovely concubine as he had stolen the title of Eldest Brother. . .

Quite suddenly, Guang realised he was awake. Lu Ying had vanished. He stared up at a dark sky streaked with constellations.
Where am I?
he thought. The answer came from the steady creak and splash of paddlewheels, the rough planks beneath his head smelling of tar and resin. Tomorrow they would reach the assembly point on the lower reaches of the Yangtze where His Imperial Majesty’s officials had decreed a great fleet should gather.

Yet Guang could only think of the trade he had offered Shih in his dream. To swap a noble title for. . . what? A dream of happiness? A discarded concubine? In any case, Shih was not the real danger. He knew Wang Ting-bo well enough to fear his jealousy.