Path of the Eclipse Read online

  “Doubtless that is necessary. The Northern Capital is of great strategic importance. The Elevated One must forgive this insignificant person for reminding him that her stronghold, such as it is, is in the west.” Her voice had risen and her slender hands were clenched on her knees. “Is there an army on the march for Hsing-ch’ing? That would be of some use to us.”

  The clerk’s face had grown colder. He had not wanted to receive this unfeminine woman, he remembered. He had remarked to his scribe that she would be unreasonable and demanding, and would bring him nothing but ingratitude. He tapped one of his long nails on the lacquered wood of his tall desk. “Your request shall be examined for merit, and, if it is appropriate, an investigation will be made.”

  “Investigation? Examination?” she repeated, starting to rise. Her empty scabbard scraped on the painted tiles of the floor. “Did you hear nothing of what I said? Fully a third of the villages around my district have been razed and their people slaughtered. I have only two hundred militiamen at my command, and that is not enough. I have ordered patrols, but half the time the riders are caught and killed before we can be warned. I need soldiers, and weapons and supplies and horses and spies. By the time you send some doddering old philosopher to assess our danger, there will be nothing left but skeletons and burned buildings!” Her linked-segment tunic jingled as she strode forward. “We must have help immediately!” She knew she was only making it worse, but the disappointment of her ten days in Lo-Yang made her reckless now.

  “That is quite enough, Warlord T’en. Your unseemly conduct will be reported.” He stepped back and removed the official cap from his head, indicating that the interview was over and that T’en Chih-Yü was dismissed. He refused to look at her, but said to his scribe, “Yao, I will walk in my garden to restore my peace of mind. And should that terrible young woman who fancies herself as one of authority—though it is everywhere acknowledged that it is the duty of the father, not the mother, to carry the onerous burdens of authority—present another petition to this officer, you are to deny her access to me and all of those officials within this ministry.” As the scribe bowed, the official left the room.

  During her days in Lo-Yang, T’en Chih-Yü had been rebuffed, but never so comprehensively rejected. Though she was aware she had overstepped the bounds of propriety, she was not prepared for the treatment this official had given her. She slapped her hand down on the tall desk and swore by the excrement of turtles.

  Yao, the scribe, looked offended at this obscenity, but hesitated as he turned to gather up his writing equipment. He put the ink cake and brushes aside and turned to the young woman. “This humble person, though unqualified to make recommendations to the Warlord T’en, nevertheless takes it upon himself to offer a suggestion, if the Warlord will hear him out.”

  “Warlord T’en,” she responded in surprise, “is grateful for any aid the scribe is willing to give her. It is the first help she has received since coming to this city.”

  “It is often so,” Yao agreed with a somber nod. “What this official said was extreme, but it is true that we rarely see women, particularly unmarried women, presenting petitions to officials. It is not remarkable that he should receive you so … severely. Surely you have relatives here, with more immediate recognition in the world, than you have who, for the sake of the honor of the family, would be willing to present your requests at a higher level of government.” Yao spoke with great delicacy, but there was no flattering aversion of his eyes, and no false sympathy to his comments.

  “If you mean a well-placed male relative, it is unfortunate, but my only living kin in this city is my father’s aunt, who, though the widow of a distinguished man, the great scholar Fei S’un-tsin, lives retired and has not been to Court for more than ten years. My nearest male relatives are in Hang-Chow and do not have the leisure to travel here. Not that they would be heard.” She folded her arms and the scale tunic rang softly. “Scribe Yao, I did not exaggerate when I described the conditions in the west. They must be worse in the north. I have seen severed heads piled into pyramids for carrion birds to feast upon. There was a raid not more than fifty li from my stronghold. We could see the farms burning and there was a stench on the wind for days afterward that made all of us retch. Without soldiers and equipment, the same thing will happen to us.”

  Yao studied her, and was pleased with what he saw. She was distressingly masculine, but he supposed that those were the required qualities in this situation. “Have you told others of this?”

  “They have been like Lun Shui-Lun,” she sighed, able now to use the departed official’s name since the man himself was no longer present. “They have told me all things I must have are impossible, and have refused to tell me where I might find aid.”

  “That is most unfortunate.” The response was only what good manners required, but the scribe was sincere. “You have come a long way to meet with such great disappointment.”

  Chih-Yü could not bring herself to answer. She clasped the top of her empty scabbard, then paced the length of the chamber with a long, mannish stride.

  “Is there no one else you might call upon to assist you? There must be someone who knows you and will address members of the Court on your behalf.” He knew that the relationships of blood were complex and intricate, but he was well aware that this young woman, warlord or not, could not gain her ends by the simple presentation of petitions.

  “My not-to-be-spoken-of brother was in this city for a time and he made himself odious to all of those whom I might have been able to call upon. It is profoundly disquieting to realize that a person of rank who does not have well-placed friends cannot bring petitions before the officials and have them attended to at once. The danger I have spoken of does not affect my stronghold alone, but all of this country. We have lost Pei-King. Must we lost Lo-Yang as well before the officials will decide that there is real danger in those Mongol warriors?” She stopped before the scribe and stared at him, as if hoping he could give her an answer.

  “It is true that there are unwarranted difficulties in approaching the highly placed ones,” Yao said with careful circumspection. “That was why I suggested that you have a high-ranking kinsman present your requests, but that is not possible, it would seem.” He sighed. There were often such knotty matters as this to be decided, and he always felt the helplessness of his station when he listened to the pleas of those who needed aid and would, in all likelihood, not get it.

  “What am I to do?” Chih-Yü demanded of the air. “If my brother were still here, I might have a way to reach someone in authority through his friends. Oh, he was debauched,” she said bitterly to Yao. “He was debauched, but only with those of the highest rank. If he had not discovered two poison attempts and fled, he might still know well-placed persons.”

  Yao pursed his lips. “Is there a way you might be able to speak to your brother’s friends?”

  Chih-Yü laughed unpleasantly. “A woman would have to be a great fool to present herself to such men. They would not assist me. My brother had some hold on them, but I do not.” She put her hands on her hips. “I killed a highwayman who tried to assault me. I would do the same to a Prince.”

  “Of course.” Yao once again took up the writing implements from his low table. “I am sorry that there is nothing more I can suggest, except…” He paused, considering T’en Chih-Yü carefully. “If you do not mind going among soldiers, you might want to visit the temple of the God of War. Soldiers, though rough fellows and well below your rank, still are more apt to listen to your plight with understanding. Officials like Lun”—he nodded toward the closed door which Lun Shui-Lun had used a little while before—“are ignorant of the reality of your struggles. Soldiers might not be.”

  The Warlord inclined her head. “I thank you, Scribe Yao, for your wise and sympathetic words. I am desolated to inform you, however, that the priests at the temple of the God of War have more requests for audience than even men like your Lun Shui-Lun.” She turned and started
from the audience room.

  “Forgive this further impertinence, then,” Yao said quickly, stopping her before she could leave.

  “What is it?”

  He studied the brushes clutched in his left hand. “Have you considered going to the university?”

  “The university?” Chih-Yü looked at the scribe, her dark eyes alive with impatience. “No, I have not. What good are students to me?” She felt what little hope she had left desert her. There had been too many disappointments these last ten days.

  “No, the Warlord misunderstands me,” Yao said with a placating smile. “I was not implying that the Warlord would find support among the students—though that is a possibility—but rather, I meant that the Warlord T’en would find others. There are men of great learning at the university, and where you cannot find help from those with power and arms, you may find another strength, that of well-honed and patriotic minds. Men who are trained to observe and remember are often fine spies as well as good professors. Those who can make elixirs to save lives can help your soldiers and poison your enemies. Those who can smelt metal compounds may use them for arms as well as for ornaments. The man who can translate a book can act as interpreter for a captured foe-man.” There was almost no expression in his lowered eyes, but his hands were so tense that they shook.

  Chih-Yü listened attentively, and when Yao fell silent, she had new respect for the scribe. “I must confess that your comments are new to me. I came here so determined to find troops that I have not given any other possibility my consideration. Now that I have talked with you, I will reassess my position. You have done me good service, Scribe Yao. I will remember it when I make my reports.” Her expression had lightened, and as she left the audience chamber, her step was lighter than it had been before.

  The guards at the entrance to the building raised their thick brows at the sight of a woman in military gear, but did not detain her as she started down the wide street. A moment later, one of them heard her speak to him.

  “I am not familiar with Lo-Yang,” Chih-Yü said to the guard on the southern side of the steps. “Will you be kind enough to inform me of the most direct route to the university?”

  The two guards exchanged tolerant smiles of the sort always reserved for ignoramuses from the country.

  “Looking for a student, are you, my girl?” the guard she had addressed asked her, winking at his companion.

  “No,” Chih-Yü answered in a voice well-known to her militia. “I am on official business for the stronghold Mao-T’ou. I have inquiries to make of the scholars there. Now, tell me at once where the university is.”

  Neither guard had ever been spoken to in such a manner by a woman. The farther one straightened and flushed, but the nearer one attempted to bluster. “Now see here, my girl, it’s all very well to go running about dressed up like a fighter, but—”

  Chih-Yü cut him short, her anger for all the frustrations she had encountered in Lo-Yang welling up in her. “This person is of the family T’en,” she announced loudly enough for passersby to hear her. “My distinguished father was General T’en. Perhaps you have heard of him?” she asked sarcastically, knowing that her late father was one of the most revered tacticians of the kingdom. “This person, being his rightful heir, is properly addressed as Warlord T’en, not ‘my girl.’ Now, where is the university, fellow?”

  The nearer soldier cleared his throat and came to attention. “The Warlord T’en, if she will give herself the trouble, will find the university near the old city walls, two li from here, two streets to the west of this one.” He had directed his eyes toward the roofs of the three official buildings across the square from the one he guarded. “The Warlord may avail herself of a guide, which this humble guardsman would be honored to summon for her.”

  “That will not be necessary, soldier, unless your instructions are faulty.” She gave him a challenging look and waited for his denial, and tapped her booted foot on the raised paving stones.

  “This humble guardsman assures the Warlord T’en that he has provided instructions to the best of his poor ability.” He was still looking at the rooftops, but his voice had hardened.

  “Then there should be no difficulty, should there?” She stepped back and found that there was a large number of people gathered to listen to her upbraid the guard. Chih-Yü understood why the guardsman was so resentful, so she added, “The Warlord T’en appreciates the assistance given her, guardsman, and will so inform the official Lun.” She turned away smartly and shouldered through the crowd. She wished she had applied for the right to carry her sword inside the city walls instead of the scabbard alone. Somehow, that empty scabbard made a mockery of her rank. Walking more quickly, she made her way through the bustling crowds down the long avenue toward the crenellated outline of the old city walls.

  Text of a dispatch from the scribe Wen S’ung to the Ministry of the Imperial Army in Lo-Yang. The messenger was ambushed by raiders and the message never delivered.

  In the fortnight of Great Heat in the Year of the Rat, the Thirteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, to the Ministry of the Imperial Army, at the behest of the General Kuei I-Ta.

  To the Ministers of War and the Protectors of the Imperial Presence, greetings:

  The General Kuei I-Ta finds himself and his men in desperate straits. The perfidious Mongols have once again breached the defenses we established near the village of Nan-Pi on the northern side of the Sha-Ming Pass of the Tsin-ling Mountains. The casualty toll of men now stands at 347 dead, 861 wounded, with another 212 ill from various diseases. This latest offensive on the part of the men of Temujin has effectively cut our supply lines, and if the Mongols are allowed to keep their hold on this pass through the winter, this garrison will not survive to oppose them.

  It has come to my attention that two companies of Imperial bowmen are stationed no more than eighty li from this place, in the Ma-Mei valley. Half of this force, speedily sent, would be of great assistance to us here, and would make it possible for us to rout the despicable Mongols.

  It is my sad duty to inform the Ministers and the officers of the Secretariat that the stronghold of Pei-Yo has fallen and all the men, women, children and chattel of the place hacked to pieces. We of this company tried to penetrate the Mongol forces to save those valiant defenders, but without archers and sufficient cavalry, we were helpless against their superior numbers. Six sallies were attempted, but all failed. The Mongols, since the taking of Pei-King, believe themselves to be invulnerable and mandated by Heaven to conquer all of our country. We have learned a dreadful lesson from these terrible fighters, and we dare not ignore it.

  Two days ago, Junior Officer S’a Gan led one hundred men toward Pei-Yo under cover of darkness with the hope of rescuing those few defenders who remained alive. This morning, the heads of this company adorned spikes around the Mongol camp and their horsemen have been throwing the flayed skins of our comrades over the barricades we have erected. Pei-Yo is less than twenty li away from us, and it will not be long before the Mongols turn their attention to us once more. Controlling Pei-Yo, as they do now, will make their work easier, for they will not have to fall back very far and will fight on fresh horses.

  General Kuei I-Ta respectfully requests that the most prompt assistance be rendered him and his men. If relief is not authorized quickly, it will come too late. Those of us defending the Sha-Ming Pass will gladly remain until the last of us is slain, but we ask that our deaths purchase a victory for our country. It is honorable to fall in battle, and we do not shrink from our duty. It is for those who come after us to hold our sacrifice at high cost.

  Our courier will leave two hours before dawn and it is hoped that he will be at the camp of the Imperial bowmen in the Ma-Mei valley by nightfall. If this report is sent promptly, marching orders should be delivered to the garrison by the fortnight of the White Dews, and may well be in time to avenge us without endangering the Ma-Mei valley by the action.

  General Kuei I-Ta prays that his wor
ds be regarded as those of a dying man, and given that devotion and respect incumbent upon such messages.

  By the hand of the scribe Wen S’ung in the second hour after sunset, near the village of Nan-Pi.

  2

  A brook had been diverted through the garden to splash over a course of smooth stones in plaintive, endless melody. Night-dappled, it gleamed where the nodding trees let the starlight through. There was a tang in the autumn wind as it fingered the leaves, loosening them one by one from the branches, dropping the first few in token of the winter to come. Low in the west a waning moon vied with the coming dawn, casting long, soft shadows across the compound and garden, touching the elaborately carved eaves and the open door, stretching along the silken carpet of Saint-Germain’s private chamber, reaching at last the brocaded coverlet of the wide bed where Ch’uan-T’ing lay alone.

  Saint-Germain sat in a chair of carved rosewood on the far side of the room, where the night was the deepest. He held a volume of the works of Li Po in one hand, his finger marking the page he had abandoned earlier, while he looked contemplatively at the young woman sleeping. His black silken sheng lei rustled no more loudly than the wind as he rose, setting the book aside. He crossed the room in five swift steps, and stood for some little time at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes resting on Ch’uan-T’ing’s still face.

  Softly he dropped to his knees on the bed, moving with utmost care so that she would not be disturbed. Unhurriedly he stretched out beside her, away from the moonlight so that he could see her face without shadow. He braced himself on his elbow and gave himself to the perusal of her face.

  Her features were tranquil in sleep, her lashes on her cheeks like tiny dark crescents, her brow untroubled and unlined, her hair haloing her head. Ch’uan-T’ing sighed in her sleep, her lovely, arched lips opening slightly. At this subtle movement the coverlet slid back, revealing her small, high breasts and the gentle rise of her ribs. The moonlight bleached the color from her skin so that she appeared made of the finest rice paper painted by the brush of a master.