Dark of the Sun (11 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
“Thank you, but no. I have companions of my own who are waiting for me. One of them is convalescing from a bad fever, and he may need attention.” Zangi-Ragozh paused, then said, “I appreciate your invitation, and I will come with you long enough to arrange for the parlor Lang wants. Then I must return to my comrades.”
“Just so,” said Ahmi-Tsani, and lengthened his stride.
Once the arrangements had been made and paid for with the landlord of the Inn of the Two Camels, Zangi-Ragozh went back to the Caravan Bell, where he found Ro-shei doing his best to calm Jong and Yao, who were uneasy about the attention Zangi-Ragozh had received from the customs officials. Gien was in the stables, tending to the horses, tack, and harness.
“What did that tiresome official want?” Yao asked as soon as Zangi-Ragozh entered the main room of the two he had paid for; it was small but it had a little stove for heat and to prepare tea, and there were two benches along with a pair of beds, as well as a long, low table. In the adjoining room were four beds; Jong, Yao, and Gien occupied three of them, and the fourth held three large chests. Oiled paper covered the windows, and there were shutters that could be closed and locked at night. The room was warm enough that Yao had taken off his cloak, but Jong still wore his.
“He needed the help of someone who speaks Persian as well as Chinese,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Do you think that notice will benefit you?” Yao scoffed. “You don’t want the officials looking into your business; no one does, especially on the road, for it always means more delays. Besides, they’re sure to find a new tax or duty to impose upon you if you catch their notice.”
“Ah, but if I do them a service, their attention may be more favorable,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and went on more briskly, “Have you asked for supper yet?”
“I will carry down the order as soon as Jong and Yao have chosen,” said Ro-shei.
Jong thought about his answer; since he had begun to recover from his heat-congested lungs, he had regarded Zangi-Ragozh as something of a magician and constantly tried to show his utmost respect. “If you would tell us what you would prefer we eat, then we—”
“Oh, God of Longevity, give me patience!” Yao exclaimed. “Jong, what is this? Our employer has used his foreign tricks on you, and nothing more.”
“On that, Yao, you and I are agreed,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“It wasn’t trickery,” said Jong. “You did not have the Lord of the Dead singing your name, Yao. I did. And what Zangi-Ragozh did brought me back to health.”
“Not magically,” said Zangi-Ragozh, aware how suspicious Chinese officials could be about foreigners who practiced unknown arts. “I am an alchemist, and that gives me some knowledge of medicaments, that is all.”
“Don’t alchemists make weapons?” Yao was suddenly curious.
“Some do,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“No wonder the Wen Emperor wishes to see you,” Yao exclaimed. “This explains everything. And here I thought you were just pottering among your potions and powders!”
“You’re disrespectful,” Jong reprimanded him.
Zangi-Ragozh wanted to change the subject. “If you want to serve me a good turn, Jong, say nothing of your treatment or any of my private skills to the customs officials, or any other authority in the town.”
“Why should I not?” Jong looked shocked at this suggestion.
“Because the less the officials know of me beyond what goods I carry, the better it will be for all of us,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Is there anything wrong with what you do?” asked Jong.
“No; but the officials might not see it that way. Why do you ask?” Zangi-Ragozh looked over at Jong. “To whom have you talked?”
Jong shrugged and pressed his hands together. “I told the landlord that you had given me a remedy that ended my illness.”
“Praise may be misunderstood,” said Zangi-Ragozh, who had seen more than his share of such misunderstandings over the centuries. He dismissed this with a wave of his hand that he hoped showed none of the dismay he felt. “I should bathe, and then I must go to the Inn of the Two Camels to assist Official Lang in questioning Ahmi-Tsani. Ro-shei, when you order the meal for the men, will you reserve the bath-house for me? Take silver to pay for it all.”
“That I will,” said Ro-shei, holding out his hand for the short string of silver cash Zangi-Ragozh handed to him. He glanced at the two men, his concern routine but unfeigned. “Would braised lamb and onions do for a start? Rice bowls? And a variety of dumplings?”
Yao nodded. “You know what would suit us. Pork of some kind, and the lamb would be nice, and a good, sustaining soup. Nothing fancy, but more than bean-paste in water. Something with a little fire in it, to keep out the cold. The dumplings can be spicy, as well. They make peppery ones in this part of the Middle Kingdom, and they whet the appetite.” He laughed at Jong, who regarded him in disgust. “We must eat, Brother Jong. You know that as well as anyone.” He nodded to Zangi-Ragozh. “So long as we don’t starve, you may keep your customs and dine in private.”
“Rice wine and mountain tea,” added Jong, as close to an apology as he could manage. “If you have no objection, Worthy Foreigner?”
“Why should I have one now, when I have not had any before?” Zangi-Ragozh asked wryly. “By all means, order what pleases you.”
“Then, if there is any minced beef, I’d like that as well,” Jong dared to suggest, and saw Zangi-Ragozh signal his consent.
“I’ll have it sent up, and the bath-house reserved. I’ll let Gien know that supper is coming.” Ro-shei nodded once and let himself out of the room.
“These are very good rooms,” said Yao as soon as Ro-shei was gone.
“Gracious of you to say so,” said Zangi-Ragozh as he went to take out a clean sen-hsien, this one embellished with silver embroidery on the black silk, showing his eclipse as a decorative border at hem and cuffs. “I will wear this after I bathe,” he announced.
“It should impress the customs official,” said Yao as he hunched over and crossed his arms so that he could rub his shoulders. “Weather like this! It wears on me.”
“On all of us,” said Jong. He rose and stretched. “I hope to sleep well tonight.”
“I hope we all do,” said Zangi-Ragozh with an irony that was lost on Jong and Yao. Then he gathered up a small case and left the men alone while he went down to the bath-house.
When he returned, he was carefully groomed, his hair damp and combed into neat waves, his face newly shaved. As Ro-shei helped him dress and shielded him from the curious eyes of Yao, Jong, and Gien, who sat over their rice-bowls eating their supper, he said, “I will probably not be back until late. If you will see to everything in my absence.”
“Of course,” said Ro-shei.
“I need not have asked.” Zangi-Ragozh hesitated, then removed a seal-ring from his wallet and slipped it onto his hand. “As bona fides,” he added in Imperial Latin.
“You are uneasy,” Ro-shei observed, smoothing the hang of the silk, and speaking the same language.
“Yes. This weather troubles me, and now the report of yellow snow—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Do you believe the account?” Ro-shei asked, his own skepticism revealed in the tone of his voice.
“Yes,” he answered slowly. “I do. It is so unlikely that I cannot think how the Persian would come to invent such a tale.”
“Have you ever seen such a thing before?” Ro-shei asked.
“Not yellow snow, but something like it, and so have you,” he added. “Do you recall when we were at Lago Comus, when Vesuvius erupted?”
“I recall,” said Ro-shei, his mouth set in a severe line.
“There was ash falling from heavy clouds,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“Not yellow snow,” said Ro-shei.
“No, not yellow snow,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed. “But that was high summer—August—and still, the ash blighted some of the crops.”
“And there were unseasonable storms,” said Ro-shei. “I take your meaning. But what would be the source? And what would turn the snow yellow? There is no volcano in this region, nor have there been any accounts of one, and no peasants fleeing ruined land. There are no rumors of such an event.”
“What are you talking about?” Yao inquired, downing most of a cup of wine.
“Hazards of travel,” said Zangi-Ragozh in Chinese. “I hope the Persian can tell me more this evening.” He looked over Ro-shei’s shoulder. “They’re restless,” he added, once again in Latin.
“It could be a problem.”
“It could,” Zangi-Ragozh agreed, and held up his hand. “If I did not feel the lack of sustenance, I would wait, but such opportunities may not come again for several days, and I would prefer not to rely completely upon the horses.”
“Then you will try to—”
“—to acquire nourishment,” said Zangi-Ragozh quickly. “When I have finished with Official Lang, I will take a turn about the town. Official Lang may have one of his assistants watching me, and I would rather he find out as little as possible about me, so I will avoid women’s establishments. I have already drawn too much attention to myself, and Jong’s obliging boasts on my behalf will only make things worse if there is an inquiry.”
“Do you think there will be?” Ro-shei asked, speaking Chinese again as a knock sounded at the door.
“I trust not, but I would be foolish not to be prepared,” Zangi-Ragozh said, also in Chinese, then raised his voice. “Who is it?”
“I bring two more jars of wine,” called a voice from outside.
Yao spoke up. “I asked the waiter for them when he brought our food.”
Ro-shei went to let the man in. “Put them down and tell me what to pay.”
“The price paid for the meal more than covers it,” said the waiter. “Your master must be a very prosperous merchant, to be as openhanded as he is.”
“He is more than openhanded,” Jong said, preparing to launch into a recitation; had he not caught the warning glance from Zangi-Ragozh, he would have said more, but stopped himself in time and pointed to the empty platters and bowls. “Just look how well he feeds us!”
“Shall I remove those?” the waiter asked, cocking his head toward the aftermath of supper.
“As they like,” said Zangi-Ragozh, going past the waiter and out of the room. He made his way down two flights of stairs to the main hallway, and along it out into the street, where the business of the day was coming to an end under a cloudy sunset. The Inn of the Two Camels was at the corner, and he walked quickly through the gathering dusk and into the hostelry, going directly to the parlor he had requested earlier that afternoon, noticing the strong odor of sandalwood in the main corridor as he went.
Ahmi-Tsani was there before him, in a sen-gai of curly shearling wool over a clean cotton robe of pale blue with a number of little brass buttons; clearly he intended to make a favorable impression on Official Lang. He rose from his low stool and offered Zangi-Ragozh a greeting in the Persian style, which Zangi-Ragozh returned. “You are good to come, and I thank you most heartily.”
“I am glad to be able to assist you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, “but it would be wiser to speak Chinese until Lang comes. You do not want it to be reported that those listening could not understand you.”
“Oh? You think someone is listening?” Ahmi-Tsani asked.
“I think it very likely,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“But I don’t speak Chinese well,” Ahmi-Tsani reminded him.
“You speak it well enough for mild pleasantries, and that is all that are needed at present.”
“If you think it best,” said Ahmi-Tsani, shaking his head slowly. He motioned to one of two chairs drawn up near the fire. “Sit down.”
“That I will,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and settled back against the cushions. “This is very comfortable.”
“Good,” said Ahmi-Tsani, and went back to his stool. “When did you arrive here?”
“Shortly before midday.”
“Today, then.” For a short time, the Persian said nothing more, then asked, “Have you found travel hard?”
“Not precisely hard, but more trying than usual, what with the situation around Chang’an. Not all the fighting is over,” said Zangi-Ragozh, considering his answer conscientiously. “And, as you know from your own experience, the weather has been a problem.”
Ahmi-Tsani laughed aloud. “One may say that!”
“When did it turn, do you remember?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.
“Oh, over a fortnight ago, certainly. Perhaps three weeks.” He folded his hands and looked steadily at Zangi-Ragozh. “You know something.”
“I suspect something,” Zangi-Ragozh corrected him with a self-deprecating turn of his hands, “and it is strange enough that I doubt my own assumptions, which I have no means to prove, in any case.” He thought back to his journey from Yang-Chau and felt a quick, odd tweak of alarm.
“Do you say there was a change in the weather during your travels?” Ahmi-Tsani persisted. “Just as we experienced?”
“About three weeks ago? Yes. It seems that was about the time the clouds came. Shortly after we crossed the Crane River, spring faded.”
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