Foreign Devils (30 page)

I went to the ‘Gallish’ doors and slid open the panel and looked out upon the private garden, bathed in moonlight. There were only high and wispy clouds in the ocean-deep blue of sky, and I could see no evidence of a little lóng from the Jiang quayside frolicking in the trees or menacing any of the garden’s night-birds, nor did I see evidence of the fecund little things on the pavestones leading away from where I stood. By craning my neck, I was able to see the outside bar on the door and considered reaching through the portal to see if I could lift it and venture outside, but just as I lifted my hand, something caught my eye. On the far side of the garden, past the blossoming trees, where the stones of the outer wall stood in relief against the grey rising hills beyond and the night sky, a figure stood. A lone shape, draped in what appeared to be silks that ruffled in the night air and one of the odd, short caps that the people of Kithai favoured, which look somewhat like a silken version of an upturned pot.

It was a large man, long of limb and lean as a willow, and he stooped some, as if withered by age. He had big knobby wrists, elbows – his joints were oversized – and when he turned in the light so that his profile was visible, I saw he had a fine brow and a sharp, long nose that Hellene sculptors would love to render in undying stone.

Yet something was wrong with him, as well. His head turned this way and that, as if searching for something, and he often raised his head as if scenting the wind. And there was the puzzlement of the manner in which such a stooped man might gain the top of the wall.

I was about to call out to him when he crouched, loped across the top of the wall like some preternatural jungle creature, and launched himself into the air and disappeared beyond my sight.

A wholly curious incident and one that gave me some thought.

And so we remain here, waiting. The nightly
zhuìlì
have resumed and Carnelia and the boys’ training continue apace. Word has come that Tsing Huáng, the August One Who Speaks for the Autumn Lords, has finished his inspection of the outer provinces and has begun his journey back to Jiang though it could take him weeks to reach the city.

I continue to miss you and curse Tamberlaine for separating us. In some ways, my body grows into this wonderful thing, a glowing ember containing two souls, and I often feel a sublime contentment suffusing me and then … I become hungry. Or catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice something has happened to my nose – it has become enlarged, slightly, widening, and Lupina says that is a sure sign of a healthy boy though Carnelia disagrees, saying that since time immemorial the Truscans in old Latinum state that a widening nose is a sure sign of a girl. And so they merrily argue about it because, probably due to the strangeness of our surroundings, an old argument is as comfortable to them as worn pair of slippers. And I do not mind.

And yet.

I miss you.

At night I hold up my hand and trace the scar that marks us. Through that scar we are joined. Sometimes, I feel like there is a tether between us, flowing between scars. Wherever I may roam, it connects us two – I am you and you are me.

I love you.

Ever your wife and partner,
Livia

Kalends of Geminus, Sixth Hour, 2638 Annum Ex Rume Immortalis, Jiang City in Far Tchinee, In the Manse of Sun Huáng

Dearest Love,

Do not be worried, I am well. As is our child, still growing within me.

Very little has occurred since the Ides of Sextilius and my last letter. However, Sun Huáng brings word that Tsing Huáng has finally returned to Jiang and we shall be presented before him and the Autumn Lords very soon. This news has sent Carnelia and the boys into a fit of depression, since their training with Huáng and life in this lovely manse has been idyllic and almost dreamlike. Everything here is luxurious and comfortable – the food, the appointments, the servants, the grounds. Even the quality of air. The day is filled with refulgent light, a million motes hanging upon shafts of sun, and insects swim through the air like undersea creatures. The trees blossom in the garden, mirrored by shade-loving flowers below. Streams gurgle and swirl among the footpaths, tracing their course and filling the air with a lulling sound.

Delia and the other servants dote upon us, and me especially, bringing little gifts of sweets and dainty bits of meat steaming from the kitchen. They make much of Carnelia’s long hair and delight my sister with intricate and ornate methods of braiding it.

Secundus and Tenebrae are obviously in the grips of a great love affair – and I am happy for my brother, though I still cannot entirely trust the man who is so very deep in the pockets of our Emperor. Yet, for the moment, they are happy. Kithai custom, however, frowns upon the love between two men (or women) and so in hopes of remaining circumspect and inoffensive to either our host or the August Ones (through vicious rumour), Tenebrae and Secundus do not overly show any physical love for one another except in the most comradely manner, a fierce hug or embrace after a trying sparring session or bout of
armatura
. Yet all of the signals are there – they are in love, or as close as one can come in such a fallen state in which we live.

On twelve Kalends, Sun Huáng took us on a small jaunt out of the city of Jiang to witness an event that is still hard to describe. We rose early, at the insistence of Delia, and found ourselves bundled into palanquins and hustled out into the morning air, through the city. As we entered the great thoroughfare, Monkey-boys watched us yet did nothing, though I noted one running off as if our appearance was exciting to him. We passed down to the Jiang Bund where a pleasure barge awaited us on the quayside. It had a canvas awning streaked with white marks of lóng dung, as all flat surfaces in the Bund are, but other than that, it was quite opulent and
daemon
-driven. Before the sun could rise too high we were steaming upriver, watching the Bund fall away and passing out of Jiang itself and breakfasting on soft-boiled eggs and sweet rice wine and green tea for me.

We entered a flat landscape where the river widened so much that the farthest shore was hard to discern. We hugged the north-western bank, close to the many fields and thick, congested clumps of brush and tangled vegetation. By mid-day, we came to a village that looked quite prosperous with stone buildings, a large scalloped pagoda of some sort, and a heavy stone wall with a kind of ballista set at intervals along the top, manned by Kithai men in armour. Its wharf teemed with commercial boats and river-vessels – barges, fishermen, water-taxis and what appeared to be a paddle-driven ferry carrying a clutch of the small, woolly Tchinee ponies I’d seen in the market and the by the wharf at our arrival (though I have witnessed some draught horses in Jiang itself). We disembarked – this Bund was suspiciously lacking in any little dragons, so umbrellas to protect us from raining excrement were not necessary – and followed a stone road toward the centre of the village. Sun Huáng informed us the village was called Uxi, which felt strange on my tongue when spoken, as do most of the names in Kithai. On foot we entered the market square, led by Sun Huáng and some of his advisors and two other August Ones who remained unnamed and watched us though they pretended not to.

In the square, a group of women were alarmed, and there was a clangour of high-pitched voices and shrieks. It was quite a ruckus, so loud and frantic that Sun Huáng placed himself between us, the August Ones in our company, and the bevy of outraged women. And outraged they were. Some ripped their hair, some beat on their chests, eyes streaming.

‘What is the matter here, sifu?’ Tenebrae asked, using Huáng’s honorific.

‘A child is ill unto death, I believe,’ he shook his head and barked out an order to one of his attendants. The man scurried forward and began yelling.

‘What’s he doing now?’ I asked to Carnelia. She had worn her
jian
this morning and looked rather fierce, I should say.

She shrugged. ‘I imagine he’s announcing the presence of Sun Huáng, the Sword of Jiang.’

‘You can understand their language well enough to translate?’ I asked, a little awed.

‘Ia help me, no. But I heard his name and the rest of it … it is what I would do.’

I looked to Huáng. The old gentleman held his
jian
– looking very much like a plain bamboo stick – in his hand like a badge of office, a fascis held by lictors. The crowd quieted and parted.

We passed through the women and village folk. Some of the braver ones called out plaintively to Sun Huáng as he passed and his face clouded but he took no further action.

‘What was that all about, sifu?’ Secundus asked.

Huáng shook his head. ‘There’s some trouble with the children and the mothers are upset.’

On the steps of the great pavilion, a clutch of magistrates, prosperous farmers, and local businessmen greeted us. They stared openly at us Rumans, some of the men tittering behind their hands, some of the women examining the boys brazenly, with appraising stares. In a long and formal ceremony we all exchanged small gifts (Huáng had provided us with them – paper toys, pinwheels, kites, candles) and everyone had a short glass of rice wine save me. As our party drank, one of the farmers brought forth a kid goat, bleating constantly. Huáng and the local people of import rose, and we rose with them and walked out of the village into the terraced rice fields that bordered the white-stone road.

We came to a pillar of stone on the side of the road, embossed with a curling and sinuous scaled design that brought to mind some of the representations I’d seen of lóng at Huáng’s manse. I looked upon our destination. The rice field in this paddy was different than the others we had passed on our walk here. It had a wilder look, and tufts of red grains grew in wild patches and weeds were thick on the edges where the other fields had a manicured aspect to them.

‘We have come to witness and give offering to
shé,
the great
N
ā
ga,’
Huáng said, smiling. ‘Carnelia, Secundus, Mister Shadow,’ Huáng said, a quirk to his mouth. It was the first time I heard him refer to Tenebrae as such, but the nickname did fit him. ‘Observe the movements. Take them inside yourself.’

‘What is
shé
, sifu?’ Carnelia asked.

Huáng nodded toward the unkempt and flooded rice field. ‘You will see.’

The man leading the goat rolled his loose pants legs up to his knees and waded out into the water. The ripening grains, turning from green to golden, parted as he made his ungainly way out into the muck. It soon became apparent that the sodden earth of the paddy sucked at his bare feet, his movements became a great labour. The goat bleated furiously, tugged along behind.

Some of the villagers – the more prosperous-looking ones – said some words in unison as the man who had led the goat into the field began his hustle back to where we stood by the white stone marker. One of the well-fed women clad in silks dashed a ceramic container of rice wine onto the stones of the road, shattering the container.

One of the larger tussocks of red grain – some sort of milo or blademeal – shivered and thrashed. An expectant hush fell upon the gathered, and something black came into the rice field. It moved with a muscular, sinuous grace. A serpent of tremendous size, easily thirty or forty feet long and as big around as a barrel. Black as midnight, its scales gleamed in the sunlight as it cut through the field toward the goat. Behind its massive triangular head, it had a ruffle of scales around its neck that bristled like feathers.

The goat thrashed and cried out in human-like screams, seeing the black serpent approach. Thank Ia, the
shé
was direct and precise. It came within ten feet of the goat, coiling around itself like a spring, then lashed out striking, its maw open. The movement ripped the goat from its tether. The bleating ceased. The
shé
lifted its head to the sky, working its mouth open to get the goat down its gullet, then made some undulating movements in its throat to allow the carcass to pass.

When the goat had disappeared, the
shé
raised its gleaming head, turned toward where we stood on the stone road, and stared at us balefully, a long red forked tongue probing the air.

The village folk bowed in a genuflection to the creature. Huáng watched it steadily, his sheathed sword in hand.

Then the
shé
lowered its head and moved away, back toward the tussock it came from.

A palpable sigh moved through the gathered Tchinee, and they drank more rice wine and chattered in their language.

‘Why do they feed the creature, Sun Huáng?’ I asked. ‘It seems as though it would be a great danger, this near the village.’

‘Possibly you have answered your own question,’ Huáng said slowly. He thought for a moment. ‘The
shé
terrorized this region, all the way to Jiang, until the Autumn Lords came many thousands of years ago. The
shé
is a pure creature of Qi and so the Autumn Lords hunted them for this.
N
ā
ga
is the last. She has no mates, she has no …’ He cast about. I was forcibly reminded that Min was no longer with us and wondered where she was and what she was doing. ‘Paramour? Is that the Ruman word?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘She has no paramour. And so, we bring her food until the Autumn Lords decide to take her, too.’

‘That’s very sad,’ I said, looking toward the tussock. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be to be absolutely alone in the world.’

Huáng grew still. ‘It is death, Madame Livia. Death before its time.’

‘Why did you ask us to watch how it moved, sifu?’ Carnelia said.

‘Because when you release Qi … when you strike … it is good to think like the
shé.
To move like her. This is why I brought you here.’

Understanding crossed Carnelia’s face and Tenebrae – Mister Shadow – gave a little ‘ahhh’ of realization.

‘We study creatures of the earth,’ Huáng said. ‘Training is repetition and following these …’ He turned to look out at the tussock that hid the great serpent
N
ā
ga
one last time. ‘… outpourings of animal Qi allows us to see, like opening a door. A way of being. Always new. Does this make sense?’