The Mandate of Heaven (8 page)

A cold, hungry autumn followed Salt Minister Gui’s departure from Monkey Hat Hill. Deng Nan-shi succumbed to stubborn inflammations of the spleen, manifested in exhaustion and a listless pulse. His earnings from tutoring dwindled as he kept to his bed. Worse still, he was forced to sell what few ornaments and paintings the Deng clan still possessed. The household was constantly on edge. Of them all, only Hsiung remained sleek. He was broader, long-limbed, a buck with budding horns.

Hsiung came to view his bedridden master with the secret disdain of the healthy for the feeble. Had he but known, Deng Nan-shi’s withdrawal from the streets of Hou-ming was timely.

It suited him not to travel round the city from pupil to pupil like a spy. A faction of the Red Turban rebels named after the Dengs’ great ancestor, Yueh Fei, had raised a serious rebellion in the hill districts surrounding Six-hundred-
li
Lake. When their attempts to drive the Great Khan’s servants from Hou-ming Province threatened the valuable Salt Pans, Jebe Khoja led a large force to disperse them, chasing famished bands of rebels across several counties and executing thousands of blameless peasants as a warning to others.

One morning, Hsiung slipped through a side gate of Deng Mansions and hurried down the lanes, out through the ancient Ward Gate into the streets of the city. He did not turn south to the Port District with its busy wharfs and warehouses. Hsiung’s route lay among places almost as deserted as Monkey Hat Hill, for the population hereabouts had scarcely recovered since the city’s fall. Wards built to house tens of thousands in cramped tenements and slums resembled larders stripped bare. Yet apparent emptiness concealed danger, as Hsiung was well aware.

Most of the houses he passed were overgrown: trees poking through roofs and gardens like thickets. Roads were vanishing beneath grass except where fresh wheel ruts scored the soil. A few birds perched on eaves, gazing beyond the crumbling city ramparts to the fish-filled waters of the lake. Occasionally he passed courtyards where clans or individual families had set up islands of humanity amidst the deserted, rotting houses.

After half an hour’s walk he reached his destination: a large, high-walled palace compound occupying the north east corner of the city’s rectangle. Here was the site of the old Prefect’s Residence. During the previous dynasty it had been busy with bureaux and quarters for officials posted here from all parts of the Empire. Now it was Prince Arslan’s palace, as well as home to his highest officials and tax gatherers, including Salt Minister Gui.

The gatehouse was heavily guarded and Hsiung did not care to chance it. Besides, he had an arrangement with someone who dwelt within, someone who came and went at will. Yet it turned out to be a long wait beside the bridge over Jinshui Canal, watching customers visit the astrologers’ booths to determine auspicious days. A dry, icy wind set dust devils dancing. Even an excited peal of bells from the nearby Buddhist Temple sounded forlorn beneath a sky so laden with low clouds.

When Sergeant P’ao finally arrived he smelt of spirits. Hsiung looked up at the older man resentfully.

‘I see Little Fox Tamer is angry!’ said Sergeant P’ao, lowering a heavy sack to the floor with a grunt. Hsiung’s frown deepened.

‘It will be the curfew soon,’ he muttered.

‘Brighten up, boy!’ Sergeant P’ao clapped him on the shoulder so hard he reeled. ‘I’ve more for you to deliver! Just to the usual places.’

A calculating look crossed Hsiung’s face.

‘For the usual amount?’ he asked.

Instantly, Sergeant P’ao’s affable expression vanished and his arm rose to strike. The boy cringed.

‘Don’t you dare haggle with me! Just make sure they’re delivered. When you’re done I’ll be in that wine shop across the way. Bring …’ He glanced round slyly, raising bushy black eyebrows. ‘Bring
everything
.’

Sergeant P’ao was as good as his word, vanishing into the wine shop where a hearty bellow greeted him.

Hsiung’s first destination lay in the ancient Pleasure District round Bright River. Thirty years ago hundreds of restaurants, floating oriole houses, teashops and theatres had competed to empty purses of
cash
, minds of perplexity, hearts of pain. That number had reduced to a few dozen establishments.

Hsiung approached a small restaurant specialising in river serpents and examined the street. Few people were about, though enterprising members of the City Watch sometimes wore disguises. Satisfied, Hsiung went to the back door of the restaurant, poking his head into a steam-filled kitchen. When he left his sack was considerably lighter and girdle purse heavier.

A similar transaction took place at the rear of a theatre where music and clashing cymbals escaped into the street. Then he was walking alongside Bright River, bound for the Port District. Yet Hsiung sensed he was the victim of a poor exchange. Why was he rewarded with a few
cash
coins when he collected hundreds on P’ao’s behalf? At least with the Dengs everyone was poor together.

True, Sergeant P’ao allowed him to polish weapons and join drill practice. He also had a noble nickname for him, inspired by his feat of bravery in killing the wild dog. Once the soldiers had got him drunk on cheap rice wine. The drink unleashed a volubility Hsiung did not know he possessed. Also an unguarded tongue. For no sooner had the boy revealed that his master, Deng Nan-shi, called Salt Minister Gui a traitor than the room whirled and he had found himself outside with Sergeant P’ao shaking him up and down
.
Finally Hsiung sobered.

‘What are you doing?’ P’ao had hissed. ‘That hunchbacked beetle brought you up as an orphan! He feeds you when half the world starves. He’s your Father, damn you! Now you’ve put him in
their
power.’ He indicated the soldiers inside. ‘Show some loyalty!’

Hsiung ducked. ‘He’s not my father!’ he had squealed.

‘Neither am I, boy,’ said Sergeant P’ao. ‘Besides, sooner or later we’ll be leaving Hou-ming. I’ve heard Jebe Khoja plans to send my dear Master to supervise the Salt Pans. Not enough salt is coming up from the earth. A firmer hand is needed.’

The soldier had laughed coarsely. ‘And maybe Golden Lotus will have to stay behind in Jebe Khoja’s compound. I’ve heard … Ha! Best not talk of that! Eh, boy?’

Hsiung’s head and stomach had churned. Yet even in the midst of drunkenness he wanted to ask about Yun Shu.

These thoughts distracted him until he entered the Port District. There he grew alert. The shortest way to his final customer involved crossing the Slave Market.

Hsiung glanced up at the sky. Night was approaching and, with it, the Great Khan’s curfew. He would be lucky to deliver his wares, collect payment and return to Sergeant P’ao before the curfew bell tolled a thousand times. After that a dangerous journey home through the darkness awaited.

But Hsiung was not prone to fear. He hastened his step, turning from Bright River up a side lane leading to the Slave Market where blacksmiths had set up forges for the manufacture and repair of manacles. At the edge of the market his progress halted. For the wide square resembled a battlefield.

Mongol cavalry were herding scores of prisoners into the square with lance butts and whips. Near the entrance, mounted on a huge black stallion, sat a handsome young man in gentlemanly silks. A sword and bow hung from his saddle; black hair spread over his shoulders. To Hsiung, the Mongol prince resembled a hero from the thrilling tales Teng sometimes read out loud, his eyes bright and voice animated.

Salt Minister Gui and a number of other officials were fawning before the splendid horseman – none other than Jebe Khoja himself.

Dozens of bystanders watched. A blacksmith’s apprentice in a leather apron turned to Hsiung. ‘Red Turbans,’ muttered the lad, pointing at the prisoners. ‘They must have been spared for a reason. Maybe they’re short of hands in the Salt Pans. I heard hundreds escaped …’ The blacksmith’s boy went dumb for a grizzled man had drawn close to overhear their conversation.

‘Interesting, my lads! Who told you that, I wonder?’

Hsiung realised the man was one of the Great Khan’s hired accusers. He sidled away.

‘You!’ called the man. ‘What is in that sack?’

Hsiung dodged into the square. It was filling with manacled, shuffling rebel prisoners. Orders were shouted on every side, drowned out by whinnying horses and clip-clopping hooves. No one in the thick press of cavalry and captives noticed his presence. Beaten, downcast faces surrounded him, advancing in columns towards the slave pens, herded by trotting riders like cattle to a shambles. Many were wounded or spirit-broken, a few defiant; all wore heavy wooden neck yokes and chains linking their ankles.

Hsiung looked around for a way out. But he was trapped in a maze, unable to do anything except flow with the prisoners deeper into the square. Abruptly he came to a circle of braziers and glowing branding irons. Here slaves were being marked on their cheeks with the character
salt
. Beyond them, like an unreachable shore, he spied a clear route to the alleyways of the Port District. A large soldier appeared before him, barring the way.

‘You boy! What’re you doing here?’

Shrieks and groans, the acrid smell of scorched hair, skin and flesh as branding began in earnest. The soldier stepped closer.

‘What’s in that bag?’ he demanded. He turned to another man. ‘Sir, there’s a …’ When he looked round the boy had vanished, leaving his sack on the ground. Out of it spilled solid, grey bricks of pure salt.

Hsiung only stopped running when he was through the broken gates of Monkey Hat Ward. Deep twilight; indigo beneath a layer of low, basalt clouds. Across the city people hurried indoors lest the Watch find them and demand bribes not to report them to a magistrate.

His heart still beat painfully. Sheer luck had saved him. A group of rebels had kicked over some braziers, chanting
Yueh Fei! Yueh Fei!
Sparks and glowing coals poured across the cobbles until the rebels were swiftly cut down. In the confusion he had raced between lines of prisoners, so escaping into a shadowy alley.

Yet Sergeant P’ao’s blocks of salt remained behind, each worth a night’s carousing. Hsiung did not anticipate understanding or sympathy for the loss. He had no means of recompensing the sergeant and expected, at the very least, a beating.

Night had fallen as he entered Deng Mansions. In the gatehouse he was surprised to find Deng Nan-shi holding a feeble oil lamp.

‘There you are!’ said the scholar. ‘I’ve been looking for you. We have a visitor, a most intriguing gentleman. Come, Hsiung!’

The boy almost fled back into the night. When he realised Sergeant P’ao could not have reached here so fast, he followed his master inside.

Their visitor possessed characteristics rarely observed in Hou-ming: a belly bulging like a happy Buddha’s and jowls heavy with meat. Good-feeding had swollen his legs and arms. As for his clothes, they rustled slightly when he moved, as only the best, stiffest silks do. Gold and silver thread decorated the hems of his coat.

Such a gentleman seemed too fine for Deng Nan-shi’s shabby library, yet his hunched shoulders suggested profound deference towards the scholar.