Dragonwall (14 page)

Frowning at the boy’s jovial manner with jealous contempt, Batu responded, “Of course not.”

Sensing his commander’s testiness, Pe withdrew his arm and assumed a more formal stance. “I didn’t mean to offend—”

“You didn’t,” the general said, waving off the adjutant’s apology. “I’m still ill, and that makes me petulant.”

As Batu watched the rowboats approach, he wondered how the first meeting with his subcommanders would go. Today would be the first time he had seen them since loading the fleet, and he still had not informed them of his plan.

A few minutes later, the first boat arrived. The occupant was Kei Bot Li, the only one of his generals Batu knew. Despite his stocky body, Kei Bot climbed out of the boat and scrambled up the rope ladder with the agility of a monkey. As he stepped aboard, Kei Bot greeted Batu by bowing deeply.

“A great pleasure, Commanding General,” he said.

Batu returned the bow, his queasy smile a weak imitation of his subordinate’s. “The pleasure is mine, General.”

Noting Batu’s squeamish expression, Kei Bot asked, “The sea does not agree with you, my commander?”

Embarrassed by his inadequacy, the second-degree general reluctantly nodded his head. “I would never have thought lying upon a comfortable bed could be so difficult.”

Kei Bot laughed heartily, but before he could respond, the other generals arrived. The four men bustled aboard with an air of impatience. After trading a few perfunctory pleasantries, Batu led the men down to the junk’s galley. It was the only compartment on the ship large enough to hold even this small conference. While Pe served tea, the commanding general spread his campaign map on the table, then prepared several writing brushes and bottles of variously colored ink.

The map showed the northern half of Shou Lung. A black line running across the northwest corner marked the location of the Dragonwall. A red arrow showed where the barbarians had breached the wall and were now advancing toward Yenching. Just south of Yenching, a blue line wormed its way horizontally across the paper, dividing the upper third of the map from the lower two-thirds. This was the Shengti River, which crossed the entire breadth of northern Shou Lung, and which was the cornerstone of Batu’s plan.

In the center of the map sat Shou Kuan, a black star with a circle around it to show that it was a fortified city. Toward the map’s right side, at about the same latitude as Shou Kuan, was Tai Tung. The Hungtze River ran through Tai Tung to a blue area at the eastern edge of the map: the Celestial Sea.

An instant after the commanding general laid out his map, Kei Bot and the other provincial generals leaned over and examined it at length. Batu almost chuckled as he noticed each man, in turn, glance at him in surreptitious puzzlement.

Finally, he said, “It’s time I explain what we’re doing in the Celestial Sea while the barbarians press the attack a thousand miles away.”

Placing a finger on the red arrow marking the path of the Tuigan advance, Batu said, “Despite our efforts to starve them, the barbarians continue to drive southeast at a slow pace.”

The young general picked up a brush and dipped it in red ink, then traced a path to Yenching. “Because of the Shengti’s usual spring runoff, we know the barbarians cannot ford the river at this time of year. Therefore, they have no choice except to use the Three Camel Bridge in Yenching. Unfortunately, none of our armies can reach Yenching in time to stop them. After crossing the river, they will advance toward the next target of any consequence: Shou Kuan.”

Batu extended the red line to within an inch of Shou Kuan, then changed to a green brush. Tracing a line from Tai Tung to just west of the walled city, he said, “This is the route that Tzu Hsuang will march with the noble armies.”

The green line advanced and met the red less than a day’s march away from Shou Kuan. After drawing an “X”, Batu looped the green line back to the walled city. “Following the initial engagement,” he said, “the nobles will retreat—”

“Do you have so little confidence in Tzu Hsuang’s leadership?” Kei Bot interrupted, pointing at the line of retreat.

Batu lifted the brush, but did not remove his hand from the map. “I have every confidence in Tzu Hsuang and the nobles,” he said. “But, as best as I can determine, the barbarians have nearly two hundred thousand mounted men. Their armies maneuver as well as any in Shou Lung, and their officers are bloodthirsty savages.

“At his disposal,” Batu continued, “Tzu Hsuang will have fifty thousand exhausted pengs commanded by inexperienced and contentious officers.”

The first-degree generals all voiced their agreement with Batu’s assessment of the noble armies.

Batu looked back to the map. “I think it is safe to assume the nobles will lose the engagement. Hsuang will lead a controlled retreat to Shou Kuan and take refuge in the fortified city.”

The commanding general picked up another brush and dipped it in red ink, then traced a line representing the barbarian pursuit. “The barbarians will follow along this path—”

“How can you be sure?” asked the general from Mai Yuan. “With their horses, the enemy could just as easily outflank Hsuang and wipe out the nobles.”

“They might as well outflank the wind,” Batu said. “The noble armies will abandon their artillery and flee under cover of darkness. They will be inside Shou Kuan’s walls by dawn, long before the Tuigan can pursue safely.”

Batu continued the barbarians’ red line to Shou Kuan. “The enemy will siege the city.”

“They will have no choice,” agreed Mai Yuan. “No commander would be fool enough to leave a large enemy force to his rear.”

“Precisely,” Batu responded, changing brushes again.

“What are we doing out here?” Kei Bot asked, placing a finger on the Celestial Sea.

The commanding general dipped his brush in a fresh pot of ink. He drew a yellow line that ran up the Shengti River clear to Yenching. “We will outflank the enemy and disembark at Yenching,” Batu said, drawing an “X” at the city.

“That’s more than fifteen hundred miles!” Mai Yuan objected. “It will take weeks to sail up the river.”

“Five weeks, more or less,” Batu responded. “We should arrive in Yenching at about the same time the barbarians engage Hsuang outside of Shou Kuan.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” Kei Bot interjected, his cunning eyes betraying no lack of intelligence. “But if the battle is to take place at Shou Kuan, why are we going to Yenching?”

Batu dipped his brush again, then began following the southward paths of both the Tuigan and noble armies. “We will follow the enemy south, cutting its communication routes and destroying its garrisons as we go.”

The yellow line reached Shou Kuan. “When we reach Shou Kuan, there will be a second battle,” Batu said. “As we approach, Tzu Hsuang’s forces will sally from inside the city, holding the enemy’s attention. When the barbarians respond, we’ll take them from the rear. No matter how the Tuigan react, they’ll be caught in a crossfire. Not even their horses will save them.”

The five generals remained silent for a very long time. Finally, Kei Bot tapped Shou Kuan with one of his squat fingers. “How will Hsuang know when to feign his attack?”

Detailed comments and questions such as these meant the generals approved of his plan, Batu realized. He smiled, then answered the question. “We have the High Minister of Magic to thank for that,” he said. “Tzu Hsuang and I will keep in touch through the Mirror of Shao.”

Later that afternoon, just as Batu’s ragged fleet skirted the Horn of Wak’an, the general’s wife and children stood outside the walls of the Celestial Garden of the Virtuous Consort. The trio was surrounded by eighteen guards, and two more were currently inside, verifying that it was safe to enter.

“Can’t we go in?” asked Ji, tugging impatiently at his mother’s hand. At five years of age, he looked more like his grandfather than his father. Tzu Hsuang’s noble blood showed in the boy’s silky hair, refined features, and statuesque proportions.

“We waited long enough!” commented Yo, frowning at the delay. With wide-set eyes, flat high cheekbones, and flaring nostrils, Yo was the child who most resembled her father. Fortunately, Wu thought, she was only four and there was still a good chance the girl would grow out of this particular legacy. On a man, Batu’s rugged features were engaging and appealing, but Wu had no doubt they would seem misplaced in the face of a young lady.

Both children were anxious, Wu knew, because it was already approaching dusk. They would have only twenty or thirty minutes to play before darkness settled in and the guards declared it unsafe to remain outdoors.

Nevertheless, the children had to learn to be patient. Wu tugged sternly on each of their hands. “You are the grandchildren of a lord and the children of the General of the Northern Marches. Is this how you should behave?”

Reminded of their duty, both Ji and Yo sighed, then fell silent.

The Celestial Garden was the only area in the summer palace where Wu felt secure, for it was the one place where she could go to forget what she viewed as her imprisonment. It had been just eighteen days since Batu had left, but already the sycophants of the imperial court were maneuvering to discredit him—in large part, she reflected, because his plan had succeeded too well.

Though reports of her father’s progress circulated through the court daily, no one had seen or heard anything of Batu’s armies since the emperor’s blessing. From what the bureaucrats could tell, the newly appointed General of the Northern Marches had simply taken one hundred thousand men and vanished. At first, the bureaucrats had been amazed at such a feat. Their gossip had concerned how he had managed such a thing. As the week had worn on and there was no sign of Batu, however, it had become fashionable to attribute the disappearance to sinister occurrences.

The desertion theory had begun to circulate two days ago. According to this hypothesis, Batu had rendezvoused with an advanced enemy army and defected with all his soldiers. The advocates of this notion took great delight in suggesting that he would return to Tai Tung at the head of a mixed barbarian and Shou army.

Having helped her husband develop his plan, Wu knew nothing could be farther from the truth. Unfortunately, she was the only person in the summer palace who could say so with absolute certainty. Still, she did not dare speak in her husband’s defense for fear that Tuigan spies would uncover Batu’s plan.

So, amid the splendor and pageantry of the imperial court, Wu remained shunned and isolated. For her, it was not a great sacrifice. The ladies of the court, with their plucked and painted eyebrows, seemed universally shallow and dull. Wu had no desire to share in their company.

The children, however, were accustomed to the freedom of immense gardens and a plethora of playmates. In the summer palace, though, room was at a premium and young companions were a rarity. The few children who did live in the court had been forbidden from socializing with “the deserter’s progeny.” For Ji and Yo, the summer palace had become even more of a jail than it was for Wu.

The one island in this sea of isolation had been the Minister of State, Ju-Hai Chou. Wu suspected that the minister had guessed something of her husband’s plan. Several times, he had called to reassure her that Batu had the emperor’s complete confidence, no matter what the sycophants whispered. Ju-Hai had also gone out of his way to see that Wu lacked no luxury. He had even convinced the bureaucracy to let Wu and the children use the Celestial Garden.

Of all the things Ju-Hai had done, Wu appreciated this last favor the most. Located in the northwest corner of the palace, the garden was a small retreat no more than two hundred feet on a side. It was a feral place filled with trees of many varieties: plum, small magnolias, white mulberries. There were even two grand willows that, with their puff-ball shapes and weeping leaves, made the garden seem almost as wild and as marvelous as the parks of Chukei.

From Wu’s perspective, however, the best thing about the Celestial Garden was its walls. The ones on the north and east were actually part of the palace fortifications and stood more than thirty feet tall. On the south and west, the walls were twenty feet tall. The garden had only one entrance, the circular “moon gate” on the south wall, before which Wu now stood. Normally, Wu was not such a student of architecture, but the high garden walls meant that she and her children could be alone—providing, of course, the guards did not find any spies or assassins lurking inside.

Wu and her children waited several minutes more before the two guards returned and stepped through the round gate. One wore green lamellar plate and the other an identical set of armor, save that it was blue. The one in green bowed, saying, “The Celestial Garden is vacant, Lady Batu. It is safe to enter.”

Wu returned the guard’s bow. “The minister shall hear of your vigilance.”

As Wu and the children stepped through the gate, her guards snapped to attention and two brief, distinct clatters sounded behind her. There were two clatters because she had two sets of guards under separate commanders and they never did anything together. The ten soldiers in blue came from the Ministry of War. Her husband’s enemy, Kwan Chan Sen, had assigned them to watch her at all times. The ten guards in green came from the Ministry of State Security. As a favor to Ju-Hai, Ting Mei Wan had assigned these guards to Wu. The duty of Ting’s guards, as far as Wu could tell, was to protect her and the children from Kwan’s men.

Neither group made Wu feel secure. She would rather have had a company of her husband’s or father’s personal guard, but the Grand Master of Protocol had made it clear that he would not permit such troops inside the palace. Wu was left feeling that she could trust only her own skills for the safety of her children and herself.

As she passed through the gate, Wu released the hands of her children. Both bolted for the northwest side of the garden, pausing on their way to roll down a manmade hill and splash through an artificial brook. Wu started to caution them about soiling their clothes, but decided to allow them their fun. With all that Shou Lung was asking of her family, the emperor could give her children new samfus if necessary.