Dragon Dance (11 page)

Bei W'ih turned to Simon. “Well?”

“I saw what happened. I don't know why it did.”

“For you there were no dragons, only kites. But there was nothing for you when my bright sticks danced for the villagers. There are things you do not see.”

“That was in a darkened room, with only twenty or thirty people.”

Bei W'ih smiled. “You seek to put limits to something you do not understand. There is also expectation.”

“Expectation?”

“The dragons have flown before. Not in every battle, but the tales are told, from generation to
generation, of how, when the Son of Heaven's need is great, his dragons fly over his warriors and scatter his foes. So in the minds of all, there is that hope, that dread.”

Simon began to see, vaguely, how it might work. The stress of battle could have strange effects on the human mind, as he knew from experience. The imperial army must have spies in the barbarian ranks. If they were ready to raise the panic cry of “Dragons!” at a critical moment—at the same time as the gongs and trumpets and crackers went off—it could induce mass hysteria, maybe a mass hallucination. He asked: “What if the imperial army were faced by an enemy that didn't know the legend of the dragons?”

“There is no such enemy.”

“Not now, perhaps. But maybe in the future.”

Bei W'ih smiled his disbelief.

“The army that conquered Rome might march east.”

“Their feet would be sore after such a march, if they were not worn away. And it would make no difference.”

“Why not?”

“Because the dragons would still be real for our
soldiers. Who can suffer defeat when the Emperor's dragons ride the skies above him?”

Simon saw the point: the roar of triumph had been louder than the cry of despair. Bei W'ih was right. It wasn't easy to set limits to the power of illusion.

T
HE VICTORY BANQUET BEGAN WITH
the sun still high above the valley's western escarpment and went on until the night was heavy with stars. Simon and Bei W'ih sat with the General and his senior officers beneath an awning lined with green velvet, open to the air and to the songs and laughter of the increasingly drunken soldiery. Many of the officers were drunk, too, though Simon noticed that the General limited his consumption of the freely flowing rice wine to small sips in response to toasts. There were plenty of those, and all were coupled with the long
life and health of the glorious Son of Heaven.

Sipping himself, Simon thought of the thin boy, weighed down by gold-embroidered robes. Remembering the Roman custom of triumphs, he wondered if there might be a possibility of the General taking his victorious army back to parade it through the imperial city. It would give him a chance of seeing Cho-tsing again. It might also provide the opportunity for getting a better line on Brad's possible whereabouts. Cho-tsing, he was sure, would be willing to help, and the government's spy network must be far more extensive than the army's.

This possibility, though, was knocked on the head when the General began talking to Bei W'ih of his plans for the future. He intended to move his army north of the Wall for a spell. It was known which villages had given aid and comfort to the barbarians. And it was proper that the Emperor's displeasure should be made plain and that they should be reminded of his might.

Bei W'ih agreed that such action was justified and might well be of value in persuading the villagers to resist evil suggestions in the future.

The General said: “And what of you, priest of Bei-Kun—will you return now to the Bonzery of Grace?”

“Yes. My dragons are no longer needed and will not be for many years, I hope.”

“And will you take this young Lomani with you?”

His tone was speculative. Both men looked at Simon.

In a neutral voice, Bei W'ih said: “He has taken no vows.”

“If you have no objection,” the General said, “and it is the young Lomani's wish, I could find him employment here with the army.”

“Would it be your wish, Si Mun, to accept a post in the service of the Lord General?” Bei W'ih asked.

They both looked at Simon with courteous attention. It sounded like the offer of a choice, but Simon knew better than to think the choice was free. What surprised him was that the General, who had shown no particular sign of interest, should want to keep him; but if he did, it was elementary common sense to go along with that.

And in fact from his own point of view, it wasn't a bad idea. Not as good as going to Li Nan would have been, but better on the whole than going back
to the bonzery, knowing Brad would not be there. There was also the unresolved problem of his relationship with Bei Pen. The authority he would be under here, however irksome, would not touch his mind.

He bowed to the general. “I shall be most humbly grateful for the opportunity to perform any service Your Highness may require of me.”

Bei W'ih, when they said good-bye next morning, said: “It is likely to be a long time before we meet again, if we ever do. I shall miss you, Si Mun, but this is a better thing for you. I do not think you would have been suited to life as a priest.”

“If any word of B'lad reaches the bonzery . . .”

“It will be sent on to you without delay.” He pressed Simon's shoulder. “The Great Spirit be with you.”

•  •  •

In the succeeding days, Simon acquired a better understanding of the General. Initially he had formed the view that he was intelligent, but also a vain man and a martinet. Closer acquaintance confirmed the opinion, but with interesting modifications. The intelligence, for instance, was wider
ranging and less fettered than he would have expected in a military mind; and the vanity was actually founded on a diffidence about his personal appearance, which was almost endearing.

For instance, he was very much aware of his lack of height and, on ceremonial occasions, wore boots with raised soles which gave him a curious clumping walk. But this led him to admire taller men rather than resenting them. In fact it was probably Simon's own tallness—he stood seven or eight inches higher than the General—which had attracted his interest. He had an extensive collection of different uniforms and an even wider selection of hats, some of which were very ornate. Before leaving his quarters, he invariably made a close examination of his image in a glass; yet the peering inspection was not self-congratulatory but anxious.

As to the martinet aspect, he was certainly a disciplinarian but, Simon realized, a reluctant one. When a soldier had to be flogged—for drunkenness which had led to the wounding of one of his companions—Simon was aware that the gaudy little man by his side, though outwardly grim-looking, was liking it as little as he did and was heartily glad
when the ceremony was over. And the punitive parties which were sent against the villages north of the Wall were given specific instructions to spare women and children.

The brightness of mind, and voracious appetite for information which went with it, had probably also formed part of his motivation in commandeering Simon's services. Now that campaigning was over and he had more time on his hands, he was able to pursue an interest in Simon's Lomani background. The questions he put were pertinent and searching, especially on military subjects.

They had some long discussions on the differences between Eastern and Western methods of waging war; and his attitude, unlike Bei W'ih's, was not contemptuous but curious. If there was anything at all to be gleaned which might improve the effectiveness of the forces of the Celestial One, he was determined to ferret it out.

Simon said: “But you don't need new weapons, do you, when you have the dragons?”

He no longer called him Highness when they were alone. The General shook his head, brandishing his beard.

“No superiority over the enemy is ever enough. For want of a dagger, an empire may be lost.”

“We have a similar saying, about a horseshoe nail. But even without the dragons, your weapons are so much better than those in the West. They have nothing like your cannons and fire darts.” A thought struck him. “You also have steam wagons, which they do not. Have you never thought of using them in battle?”

The general shook his head dismissively. “They might be of use if battles took place in cities or along roads. But they are fought on rough ground, where wagons cannot go.”

“They could be made to.”

“How?”

Simon began outlining the principle of caterpillar traction. He didn't find it easy, especially in Chinese, but the General was quick on the uptake. He said, when he had finally grasped the idea: “Have you seen such wagons, in the West?”

Simon shook his head, crossing his fingers.

“So, you are an inventor! I was right to keep you with me, young Lomani. It may be you will do good service to the Emperor.”

His tone was warmly admiring. Simon had a moment of embarrassment about accepting praise, but decided he had little choice. In fact, he might as well go the whole hog and invent the tank completely.

“You could also put plates of steel around the wagon, and on top of it . . .”

•  •  •

Following this conversation, Simon's status rose considerably. He was provided with a team of Chinese craftsmen, who were both attentive and diligent. Too attentive in some ways. They put intelligent and awkward questions, and he was soon made aware of the difference between a general idea, in his case vaguely remembered, and its specific applications.

He knew that the basis of caterpillar traction was that you had two continuous tracks, made up of individual plates joined together to form a pair of endless chains encircling wheels on either side of the vehicle. Given the relatively advanced stage of Chinese metallurgy, and the high level of local craftsmanship, this did not prove difficult to achieve. The prototype tank which was produced, however, was a total flop: it clanked and hissed but did not move an inch.

Fortunately the Chinese engineers were brighter than he was in analysing the problem. They were using the same kind of steam engine as powered the steam wagons. They worked it out that the inertia to be overcome to move a tracked vehicle was inevitably greater than in the case of a vehicle moving on wheels and on a reasonably level surface. A higher pressure of steam, they calculated, was the answer. Several exploded boilers later, they achieved that, and the tank rolled.

It did not roll far, coming to a halt on the first attempt to climb rising ground. Here again Simon's bafflement was compensated for by the resourcefulness of his artificers. They worked out the answer, which was to have the tracks so mounted that the front ends rose and fell independently of one another. The tank climbed a hill to the accompaniment of cheers and clapping. The applause was directed towards Simon, and he acknowledged it modestly. Honour, in the Chinese system, clearly went to the boss man, whoever put the real work in. On reflection, he decided that was not so very different from the system in the world he had grown up in. Wherever you were, if
you got lucky, you got lucky. No point in arguing about that.

Summer passed into autumn, the days shortening and occasional mornings sharp with frost. At intervals of approximately two weeks, a troop of horsemen brought a courier from the imperial court: he stayed overnight and the following day returned to Li Nan with the General's current report. Although the General was well supplied with scribes, he wrote the reports himself, filling a scroll with elegant characters. He was extremely proud of his calligraphy.

The General told Simon, when the tank was finally working properly, that he had reported this remarkable achievement to the Celestial One. He also hinted at the possibility of an imperial reward to the inventor, and that the Emperor's bounty could be generous. Having decided to accept anything that came his way, Simon awaited the next arrival of the courier with interest. It also occurred to him that if the reports actually got to the Emperor, instead of being picked up by the Lord Chancellor or the Dowager Empress, he might get some personal message from Cho-tsing. He was
bound to identify this Si Mun with the one who had for a time been his companion.

The moon had been new for the last visit from the courier, so his return was expected at the full. When that passed and the moon was five days into the wane, it was obvious something was wrong. The most likely explanation, in the General's view, was that the troop had been attacked by bandits. It was extremely rare for bandits to have the temerity to assail those who carried the Emperor's banner, but unfortunately not completely unknown. He recalled an instance from his own early days as a soldier; he had been part of the force which traced the miscreants to their mountain lair and slaughtered them to a man.

Simon asked: “Will you be sending a party out from here?”

The General looked slightly shocked. “To anticipate the wishes of the Son of Heaven would be almost as improper as disobeying them. A report will have gone back to Li Nan from one of the staging posts. Orders will be sent.”

He would never, Simon thought, be able to fathom the intricacies of Chinese etiquette, either
military or civil. Changing the subject, he reported that the tank was ready for further trials. They went on horseback to the spot, farther up the valley, where the workshop had been set up. It was a winter morning, with snow blurring the outlines of the surrounding hills and a few specks drifting down from a sullen sky.

The new trials were on the tank's offensive possibilities. It was manned by soldiers who tried out a variety of weapons—muskets and fire arrows and even a small cannon—as the tank rolled along. They were aiming at targets set on the hillside, and the result was a fiasco: not one was hit, and the results were completely erratic. What was needed, Simon realized, was to have the weapons mounted, with the mounting coupled to an aiming device which would take account of the tank's irregular motion. He wondered if his Chinese engineers would come up with something; he wasn't hopeful about his own prospects of doing so.