The Mandate of Heaven (70 page)

Of all the moments to choose, Shensi selected that particular one to stick his head between them.

‘Teng!’ he cried, ignoring the Abbess completely. ‘You won’t believe what I learned in the city.’

The tomb-finder scowled as he realised neither Teng nor Yun Shu were listening. The lady had discovered something wrong with her hair, the straightness of her robes. Teng had an itchy eye.

‘The North Gates are still open!’ said Shensi, impatiently. ‘I could not believe it! An oversight by the authorities. Hundreds are still passing through into the countryside. If we go now we might escape before Prince Arslan closes the gates!’

At this Yun Shu stirred eagerly. ‘Shensi is right. Let us go, Teng!’

He was looking up at the tiny pavilion on the top of Holy Mount Chang.

‘Go!’ he said. ‘The rest of you must go! Father says it is his wish to die in the Pavilion. I cannot leave him here alone. Yun Shu, I shall give you my bags of treasure to help you on your journey.’

‘That is foolish!’ said Shensi. ‘Neither you nor Deng Nan-shi can stay here.’

‘It is his command,’ replied Teng. ‘And he is my Father.’

Now Yun Shu laid her hand on Teng’s arm. Despite surprise at her light touch, he did not pull away. If anything he leaned towards her.

‘I have spent my whole life disobeying an Honoured Father’s commands,’ she said, significantly.

‘He is too weak to walk,’ countered Teng.

‘Put him in a handcart,’ suggested Shensi. ‘I’ll help you push. Only waste no more time!’

Thus the Deng clan’s residence in Hou-ming City came to a hurried and inglorious end after six hundred years of power, wealth and renown. The procession of Nuns and servants were among the last to escape through the Gate of Ten Thousand Victories, hurrying into the overgrown ruins of the Northern Suburbs and along shadowy paths, before winding into hills obscured by bamboo groves.

Hou-ming City. Winter, 1323

Hsiung’s cell occupied the topmost storey of a brick and stone pagoda erected during the previous dynasty for contemplation and moon gazing. Since then its many windows had been bricked-up, its elegant apartments turned into dismal lock-ups. If he stood upon the slatted wooden bench that served as his bed he could peer through a single gap in the wall providing clean air and light.

The afternoon was advanced when he struggled onto the bench to examine the world outside. From here he could see across the gabled, tiled roofs of Prince Arslan’s palace compound, its many walls and buildings and shady corners. Beyond the compound lay the Prince’s deer park, a large area of cleared ground planted with grass where, as recently as Hsiung’s own boyhood, a dense lattice of streets had stood. Snow hid any remaining traces of the generations who formerly bloomed and withered there.

Hsiung watched a herd of deer led by an antlered stag trot across his line of vision. Craning his neck revealed the leather
yurts
of the Prince’s Mongol kinsfolk and guests. Somewhere a dog barked furiously and another replied.

However hard Hsiung strained, he could not glimpse Monkey Hat Hill: just the uneven wooden rooftops of the city flowing away like irregular waves – and, in the distance, the real waves of Six-hundred-
li
Lake, grey beneath a snow-laden sky.

Thick, feather-like flakes fluttered down and he held out his hand to catch a few. When he licked his palm the snow tasted metallic, earthy, pure.

Despite his natural strength, it was no easy feat to remain upright on the bench for long. The iron manacles and chains weighed a little more each day. Then there was the feebleness caused by hunger and running bowels, so that he shivered continuously. Yet the Salt Pans and years of war had accustomed Hsiung to physical privation. Desolate thoughts were harder to endure.

Hsiung stared at the dancing flurries of snow and recalled the trial – if so casual a hearing deserved such a title – that had confirmed his fate a few hours earlier. It was the culmination of a few interrogations organised by the Mongols since his capture on Eye Rock. All had followed the same pattern: jabbering accusations in their unpleasant tongue no one bothered to translate. All the while Prince Arslan, a barrel of a man with a golden wine cup constantly in his bejewelled hand, listened and occasionally roared out something incomprehensible. Only Jebe Khoja, who was not always present, remembered to arrange an interpreter. Then the ugly jabbering became a stream of denunciations detailing Hsiung’s many crimes against the Great Khan of Khans.

Earlier, as he stood defiantly in unwashed clothes, weighed down by chains, he had noticed Admiral Won-du among the watching courtiers. Hitherto, Hsiung had refused to answer any questions or utter the slightest word lest he stumble and give them satisfaction. Today he had turned to the treacherous Won-du.

‘Hey!’ he called, ignoring the Mongol prosecutor. ‘I have a question for you, Won-du.’

The court fell silent, amazed the bandit-chief had finally spoken.

‘Tell me,’ said Hsiung. ‘Was Ying-ge a traitor all along or was it just you?’

There was murmuring as those fluent in Chinese translated Hsiung’s words to neighbours. Won-du smiled slightly and bowed, glancing round to assess whether his new masters were listening.

‘Of course!’ he shouted. ‘Except
you
are the real traitor! Thanks to you,
Lady
Ying-ge shall return here a wealthy woman!’

Hsiung showed no trace of emotion. ‘So she has not returned yet?’ he asked. Won-du glanced away. ‘I see she has not. And that you are worried. Liu Shui will see to
her
.’

‘Silence!’ screamed the official who seemed in charge of the hearing. The prisoner was so obliging he could not be persuaded to speak again, even when informed he would be executed without delay.

Snowflakes swirling as the afternoon wore on. Hsiung heard booted feet ascending to his cell and climbed down reluctantly from the bench.

A wary procession entered, for Hsiung’s last stand on Eye Rock was already a source of awed legend. First came two burly Mongol warriors armed with maces, then the gaoler. Finally, dressed in furs against the cold, Jebe Khoja. He examined Hsiung gravely.

‘I must inform you,’ he said, in heavily-accented Chinese, ‘Prince Arslan has set your execution for tomorrow at noon.’ When the prisoner did not reply or even look his way, Jebe Khoja chuckled. ‘I must also inform you,’ he said, ‘Prince Arslan will hear pleas for mercy.’

Hsiung remained silent.

The Mongol prince nodded. ‘That is what I expected of you.’

He turned to go then paused, glancing into Hsiung’s expressionless face.

‘Twice you could have killed me,’ he said, ‘yet each time you showed mercy. If the Buddhists are right you’ll be rewarded for that.’

A tiny flicker in Hsiung’s eyes encouraged Jebe Khoja to say more.

‘I pleaded for Prince Arslan to spare your life.’ The older man smiled thinly. ‘But other voices have His Highness’s ear and I could not prevail. Yet I did manage to persuade His Highness to grant you an honourable method of execution.’

If he expected gratitude none was forthcoming. Hsiung turned to face the wall.

‘Quite so,’ muttered Prince Jebe Khoja, and with that he left.

As Jebe Khoja descended the winding staircase of the pagoda he was troubled by an unusual doubt. Should he have done more to save the brave bandit? But the precise reason his influence with Prince Arslan had declined was the series of victories won by the young rebel. Before those, he might have directed his drunken uncle. Not now.

Jebe Khoja’s fine boots echoed on the stone stairs. Lower down the pagoda cell doors became more numerous and the faces of anxious captives appeared at tiny barred windows. Once the prince had been recognised and his name called out by one of the wretches, others took up the cry, pleading for mercy or simply a trial of any kind; others begged to be told what they had been accused of. Jebe Khoja ignored their pleas until he neared the ground floor. There, as he passed a low door, he was startled from his thoughts by a roar like a bull’s.

‘Prince! Hear me! I am Salt Minister Gui’s spy! Listen! It is I who gave you the Noble Count of Lingling!’

The man’s desperate plea held such conviction Jebe Khoja paused. The mention of Gui interested him. The Salt Minister had supplied vital information concerning the Yueh Fei bandit’s plans. It seemed odd this prisoner should know of it.

‘Open this man’s door!’ he commanded, on a whim.

The gaoler was quick to obey and direct a lantern at the prisoner grovelling in his tiny cell. He was tall and well-built; broad at the shoulder and thick-armed.

‘Your Highness!’ blurted the man. ‘My name is Chao! I am Gui’s loyal spy and have been locked here by mistake …’

Prince Jebe Khoja yawned. Then he was struck by an odd coincidence.

‘Stand up!’ he ordered. ‘I want to see him stood up.’

The guards dragged the prisoner to his feet. The man winced from a deep wound across his shoulder. Yes! Jebe Khoja had not been mistaken. Though the slave’s face was quite different, his height and build were peculiarly like the doomed Noble Count of Lingling’s. A ridiculous possibility crossed Jebe Khoja’s mind. For a moment he stared at the prisoner, then turned to the gaoler.

‘Make sure this one is not released or executed unless I say,’ he commanded. ‘I might find a use for him.’

The gaoler slammed the prisoner’s door while Jebe Khoja swept out of the pagoda, braving gusts of snow and a buffeting wind. The odd possibility turned over and over in his mind like the snow, forming a solid drift of intention.

The blizzard and gnawing wind fell away with the coming of darkness. A fat, waxy moon rose above Six-hundred-
li
Lake, casting an ivory sheen over rooftops and streets thick with ice. With it came profound silence. Since the rebels’ campaign against Hou-ming the curfew was enforced rigorously. Only a few foxes, cats or wild dogs dared flit through the alleyways. Even the Entertainment District remained dark and heavily shuttered – though strains of clandestine music and laughter occasionally seeped into the night, confirming the old proverb
where bribes are paid, arrangements are made
.

In Prince Arslan’s palace the only curfews were self-imposed. While courtiers revelled, drunk on looted wine and the power afforded by fine clothes and a full belly when most of the world lacked either, Prince Arslan’s more restrained servants took to their beds. Among the latter was Salt Minister Gui, accompanied by his consort, Golden Lotus.

They lay side by side in a bed heavy with quilts and brocade coverlets. Antique bronze lamps burned on lacquered tables, flickering slightly when a draught found its way through the shuttered windows. Apart from the Salt Minister’s regular, whistling snores the room was silent. Yet not all its occupants slept.

A mouse sniffed and twitched its nose before following a trail of crumbs. Up in the rafters a lizard opened one eye. In the bed beneath, breathing shallowly so as not to wake Salt Minister Gui and the fit of rage that would inevitably follow, Golden Lotus stared up at the ceiling. The slender man’s brain was too busy for sleep. Perhaps it was his heart rather than brain, for Golden Lotus hoarded many unpleasant feelings.