Path of the Eclipse Read online

  “The Worthy Magistrate is misinformed,” Saint-Germain said smoothly. “The Warlord T’en, who pays me the compliment of hiring me, is a woman. Quite a young woman, in fact. I would estimate her age at no more than twenty-two or -three.” He could see that the Magistrate was surprised and he decided to press his advantage. “I have, until recently, lectured at the university of Lo-Yang under the sponsorship of Kuan Sun-Sze. You may address me as Shih Ghieh-Man—”

  “A foreign name!” the Magistrate scoffed.

  “And, as you have so correctly pointed out, I am a foreigner.” He heard the sound of boots in the hall, louder than the gibbering rain, and he feared for Rogerio and his outriders.

  The Magistrate folded his arms and tucked his hands into his voluminous sleeves. “You come here with wagons and armed men—”

  “Three wagons and six outriders,” Saint-Germain interjected.

  “You will not speak until I give you leave to do so!” the Magistrate burst out, his face flushing. “You will stand in a respectful attitude and you will keep silent.” He glared at Saint-Germain until the other inclined his head slightly. “Very well. You have come here with wagons and armed men. We are a country at war, though the imbeciles in K’ai-Feng and Lo-Yang seem unaware of that fact. Glib foreigners are not given the same freedoms here.” His expression soured as he spoke. “My illustrious uncle, Hao Chen-Nai, has received many foreigners in his home and entertained them as he would the Emperor himself!”

  Saint-Germain nodded inwardly, recognizing the rancor of a member of a junior branch of an illustrious family. This Magistrate was close enough to real power to be tantalized and embittered by it. “I have not met your uncle,” he said to the Magistrate, though it was a lie—he had met the sagacious Hao Chen-Nai nine years ago, shortly after he had finished his house in Lo-Yang. He had not seen the cultured old man since. “You are fortunate in your distinguished name and your highly regarded ancestors.”

  “Thank you,” the Magistrate Hao said curtly. Then he added, since he was grudgingly well-mannered, “My personal name is Sai-Chu. I have been District Magistrate here for four years.”

  And, thought Saint-Germain, in another few years he would be transferred, as the law required, to another equally unimportant post in some provincial city, never allowed to reach any higher position than what he had already achieved. He felt sympathy for Hao Sai-Chu even as he admitted that the man’s frustration made him dangerous. “It is a pleasure to renew my acquaintance with your family. The dedication of the Haos to the Empire is legendary.”

  “Dedication,” Magistrate Hao repeated sullenly. “Yes.”

  En Jen, the Buddhist priest, stepped in from the hallway. “August Magistrate,” he said quietly, “the guards have asked to have your instructions for the others.”

  Hao Sai-Chu glared at the old man, half-rising as he listened. He shot a swift look at Saint-Germain and resumed his place on the bench. “Hold them for the time being. I will send word when I am through here and will tell them then what is to be done.” He watched Saint-Germain covertly to see how this pronouncement affected him.

  Saint-Germain looked up at the beams of the dressing room and fixed his thoughts on the sound of the rain on the roof tiles. It would not benefit him or the men accompanying him if he let himself be harried by this contumelious official. Idly he wondered what had happened to his safe-conduct and his clothes. Surely, he told himself, he would not be made to appear in the tribunal wrapped in a towel? He could not entirely convince himself of that.

  “Your men…” Magistrate Hao was saying. “Where did you hire them?”

  “The outriders were hired in Lo-Yang through the good offices of the Ministry of Roads and Transport. These men were recommended because of their long experience and knowledge. They have been most useful, as this part of your country is largely unknown to me.” He kept a level tone and easy manner, though it was becoming an effort.

  “And the seventh man?” Hao Sai-Chu leaned forward. “What of him?”

  “Rogerio comes from the city of Gades. He has been my servant for many years. I have traveled a great deal, Magistrate, and this man has been with me much of the time.” He doubted that Magistrate Hao had ever heard of that Roman city in Spain, and he decided to press this advantage. “Instruct your guards to speak to my servant. He will tell them the same thing.”

  “No doubt,” was the sarcastic answer. “Do not think that because I am in a remote city that I am unaware of the subtleties of you crafty foreigners. I am not one to be deceived by convincing lies.”

  “It is not my intention to lie to you, Worthy Magistrate Hao. Why should I, when I am on legitimate business?” He lowered his voice as he spoke but did not look at the Magistrate, knowing that such men do not like their authority challenged.

  “I have only your word on that, foreigner.” Hao Sai-Chu gave Saint-Germain a thorough and appraising scrutiny. “You are very strong. I think you are stronger than you look.”

  Saint-Germain did not answer this, though he realized with ironic self-appreciation that half his lifetime ago he would have confirmed the Magistrate’s evaluation by putting his fist through the wall. Such fruitless demonstrations were behind him now, but the memory of those events still had the capacity to sting him.

  “You say nothing,” the Magistrate snapped.

  “I was thinking on the follies of my youth,” Saint-Germain answered with a wry smile.

  “Youth is an abuse of men unless it is eternal.” His face showed he would brook no opposition. “They say that the Taoist charlatans have a skill in such matters. It is said that they know the secret of the Elixir of Life.”

  “So I have heard.” A sizable portion of the alchemical studies done by Taoist scholars was devoted to that very question.

  “You would know nothing of that, of course.” Hao’s restless eyes grew fervid.

  “Taoist alchemy is transmitted from master to student by word of mouth, Worthy Magistrate. What master would accept a student of my age, and a foreigner to boot?” He hoped that Hao Sai-Chu would be sufficiently gratified by this response to overlook the fact that Saint-Germain had not answered his question.

  Magistrate Hao nodded ponderously. Then he turned to the door as a small man in scribe’s garb bustled into the room. “What is it?”

  The scribe hesitated. “The inventory…”

  “Let me have it at once.” He held out his hand in a peremptory way and waited until the small scroll had been placed in it. “You may leave us,” he informed the scribe as soon as his fingers had closed around the paper. The scribe bowed and departed, though neither Magistrate Hao nor Saint-Germain paid him any attention. “Three wagons,” Hao said to the foreigner after a moment.

  “That is correct.” His senses were sharpened again, and he made himself seem disinterested.

  “One of the wagons is filled with containers of earths and liquids,” Hao said, reading from the scroll.

  “It is part of my work, Worthy Magistrate. They will be required by Warlord T’en when I arrive at Mao-T’ou stronghold.” The rain was heavier, though the wind had slackened. He could feel the drafts decrease.

  “One of the wagons has personal items of clothing, beddings, saddles, and other such materials.” He sounded vaguely disappointed. Then his face brightened. “I see here that there are also two large wooden panels with pictures in colored stones in that wagon.”

  Now that it was too late, Saint-Germain regretted bringing the Byzantine mosaics with him. “I have had them for some time,” he remarked, waiting for the Magistrate to comment further.

  “I have seen such pictures. There are very few of them in this kingdom. A man who possesses one might be counted extraordinarily fortunate.”

  Saint-Germain closed his eyes once, swiftly, and then said what he knew he must say. “If the Worthy Magistrate Hao finds my poor mosaics so much to his taste, I would be deeply gratified—far above the paltry value of the pictures themselves—if he would be willing to
accept them as gifts.” He loved those mosaics. They had been made when Justinian ruled, and Saint-Germain had been able to keep them with him on most of his travels in the intervening centuries. To have to part with them now felt like a betrayal of friends. He did not want them to go into the hands of this jealous man.

  “You flatter me, Shih Ghieh-Man. The gift is a handsome one, and I will do my poor best to be sure they are correctly appreciated. There is nothing that would delight me more than to have these stone pictures hang in my private quarters where I may take the time to contemplate their foreignness.” Hao made no attempt to apologize for the gloating success he felt. He gave Saint-Germain an ingenuous smile.

  “I hope they will bring you joy.” It was a legitimate wish, he knew. For otherwise the Byzantine mosaics would be shut away in some neglected storeroom, and would eventually fall to ruin.

  “Very gracious of you,” the Magistrate said, getting to his feet at last. “Well. You will want to put on some clothes, I think. It is really quite cold in here.”

  “And my men?” Saint-Germain asked, not quite able to disguise his contempt.

  “Ah, yes. Your men. I fear that we are very shorthanded here, and the militia can use every man it can get. For that reason, I think I must insist that three of your outriders remain here in the service of our Marshal of Defense. Being honorable men, they could have no objection to aiding us. We have much need of skilled fighters, as the Mongols have been raiding just two valleys away.” He tapped the little scroll with his long nails. “I think it is possible to spare three for you.”

  “And Warlord T’en also has need of skilled armed men,” Saint-Germain reminded the Magistrate with angry civility.

  “Why, of course she does. But she does not have a city to contend with. Her militia will be of a different sort.” There was such consummate arrogance in Hao Sai-Chu’s voice, such deprecation in the curl of his lip, that Saint-Germain was appalled that this man was allowed even the modicum of power he wielded here in this isolated district.

  “I will do my best to explain your actions to her,” Saint-Germain said in a carefully neutral tone.

  “There is nothing to explain,” Magistrate Hao said lightly, gesturing with the closed scroll to indicate of how little importance the matter was. “She knows how things are here. No doubt she will be more than satisfied with the three outriders. I am certain that three are more than she requires.” He was at the door, but did not open it. “I have already had the fourth meal. I have always made a habit of taking my fifth meal in private. Perhaps tomorrow…”

  “Thank you, I will fend for myself,” Saint-Germain responded, more brusquely than he had intended.

  “Excellent. I will have someone send you word.” He tugged the door open rather abruptly and found En Jen hovering less than a step away. “If you say one word of this, priest, I will order you sent to the Ai-Ming monastery.”

  En Jen blanched, and Saint-Germain was taken aback. The Ai-Ming monastery was reserved for those monks and priests who had dishonored their calling. The place, built halfway down a canyon on the edge of the desert, was named for the emotion it evoked—despair.

  “I heard nothing,” the old priest declared staunchly, though his hands trembled.

  “Good. Remember my words if I should ever learn otherwise.” He started into the hall, then turned back. “Is there anything you require? If you are truly on your way to the Mao-T’ou stronghold, I suppose I must offer you what poor assistance I can.”

  Saint-Germain wanted to demand the return of his outriders, but said calmly, “If I may have access to a forge, I would appreciate it. One of my wagons has a damaged wheel and the axle is worn. I would like to rim the wheels with iron and put in heavier axle pins.”

  Magistrate Hao shook his head sadly. “If I had a smith to spare, I would be pleased to do this, but—”

  “I will do the labor. All I require is a forge. I have my own iron and tools.” He was standing very straight and there was a light in his eyes that glittered unpleasantly.

  “Oh, very well,” the Magistrate grumbled. “Your clothes will be brought to you presently. I cannot imagine why it has taken so long for them to be delivered.”

  “Can’t you.” Saint-Germain folded his arms and regarded Hao Sai-Chu sardonically. “How grateful I am for all you have done.”

  “You should be,” the Magistrate agreed, and there was a threat under his words. “A foreigner in this part of the country … well, no one would blame me had I decided to question you more … shall we say rigorously?” He met Saint-Germain’s eyes for a moment, then stared down at the scroll he held once more.

  “I imagine we understand each other, Worthy Magistrate,” Saint-Germain said, his voice cold.

  “Yes.” Hao was about to close the door when Saint-Germain spoke once again.

  “I am aware that your minions might be somewhat lax in the performance of their duty. When one is hurried, many courtesies are forgotten. I would count it as a token of your goodwill and the efficiency of your servants if I found my safe-conduct in the innermost pocket of my sheng go where I left it.” He watched Magistrate Hao until he saw the man duck his head in acceptance. “Very gracious of you, Worthy Magistrate. And very wise.”

  Hao Sai-Chu could not resist planting a final barb. “I intend to make a full report to the Secretary for the Co-Ordination of the Regional Militias. If it turns out that you have in any way misrepresented yourself—”

  “The Secretary may send soldiers to the Mao-T’ou stronghold,” Saint-Germain finished for the Magistrate. “I am certain that Warlord T’en will welcome them.”

  A sudden gust of wind curvetted through the dressing room, and a few muffled voices were heard. Steps approached, and a moment later a man in the official dress of a tribunal scribe entered the hallway and gave Hao Sai-Chu formal greeting. The Magistrate scowled, but stepped back to hear the whispered words of the scribe. Saint-German did not move; he watched the two men through the half-open door.

  At last Magistrate Hao turned to him with a penetrating look. “Your clothes are being brought,” he said shortly.

  “And my safe-conduct?” Saint-Germain inquired politely.

  “It is in order!” With this irritated announcement, Magistrate Hao swung away from the door and stamped off down the hallway.

  Some little time later, Rogerio opened the dressing-room door and stepped inside. He carried a stack of carefully folded garments. He himself was already dressed in his usual somber manner.

  “Did they trouble you?” Saint-Germain asked as his manservant held out the black sheng go.

  “A few questions and a great many threats,” he answered calmly.

  “Were you harmed?”

  Rogerio paused an instant. “No.”

  Saint-Germain knew the man too well to accept this. “What happened?”

  “You know that we are losing three of the outriders?” He did not wait for Saint-Germain to answer. “They’ve also intimated they might confiscate the wagons.”

  “When?” Saint-Germain had picked up the quilted woolen dalmatica, but paused in the act of pulling it over his head.

  “When did they intimate that? When they had us in the dressing rooms.” Distaste tightened Rogerio’s mouth.

  “Then you need not worry yourself,” Saint-Germain told him sadly. “That has been resolved.”

  “Resolved.” Though Rogerio did not inquire further, Saint-Germain relented.

  “It appears that the Worthy Magistrate has a taste for Western art. He has permitted me to give him my Byzantine mosaics.” Now he did not conceal the bitterness he felt, and he saw an answering ire in Rogerio’s features. “So you see.” He opened one hand fatalistically.

  Silently Rogerio handed Saint-Germain his Persian-style leggings.

  As Saint-Germain bent forward he felt oiled paper press against his chest. He straightened up and reached into the unfastened collar of his sheng go. “Ah.” He pulled out a tightly folded packet. “The safe-cond
uct, I assume.”

  Rogerio offered Saint-Germain a pair of thick-soled slippers. “I watched the scribe read it and seal it, and I myself replaced it.”

  Some of the reserve faded from Saint-Germain’s dark eyes. “That was well done of you.”

  “I also took time to be certain that nothing was added to the documents,” Rogerio added after a short silence.

  Saint-Germain stepped into his slippers. “This is much better,” he said abstractedly. “Yes,” he went on as he secured his wide belt, “you’ve been very wise. Hao Sai-Chu has cost me too much already. I have sacrificed my mosaics to his greed. It would be unpardonable to become victims of his stupidity. I assume that there was another document?”

  “The scribe told me it was an accident and that the two papers had stuck together,” Rogerio said quietly.

  “And the second letter was an order for imprisonment or execution.” His compelling gaze rested on his servant’s face. “Execution,” he said softly. “I will work the forge tonight. Tell the other three that we leave at first light.” He went to the door of the dressing room. “The rain is stopping. That’s in our favor.”

  Rogerio bent quickly, and when he stood again he had a thin Egyptian dagger in his hand. “You may have need of this, I think,” he said as he offered it to Saint-Germain.

  Saint-Germain’s small hand closed on the hilt. “So I might,” he said lightly, and tucked the weapon into his sleeve before stepping into the hall.

  Text of a letter from the Pope of the Nestorian Christian Church of Saint Thomas in Lan-Chow to the Nestorian community in K’ai-Feng.

  In the twelfth month of the Year of the Rat, the Thirteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, the one thousand two hundred seventeeth Year of Our Lord, to the Pope and congregation in K’ai-Feng.

  Greetings from Lan-Chow.

  We are certain that you have heard of the latest Mongol incursions here, and we wish to reassure you that we are, by the Grace of God, unharmed. There have been many battles to the northeast but they have not penetrated this far, and we are confident that the reinforcements promised to the garrison here will be sufficient to keep the barbarian invaders from reaching our walls.