Drakemaster, p.26
Drakemaster, page 26
Bao Xing felt a soft tap on her knee and dragged her attention from Guowei—reading. Yusen held a curl of paper and rested it against her knee. She took it, half-expecting to find it a note he had written. Was her husband even literate? A tear marked one edge of the paper, and a few scorch marks edged the other. The page came from a longer work, then. At the scorched edge, a painted woman wept, her body clothed in a horsehide. It illustrated the origin of silk, the white maiden becoming the silk worm that made China justly famous. The fine illustration and excellent penmanship suggested the text had come from an imperial library. She tilted it to see the strokes of the author’s brush and how the painter had captured the lady’s beauty, and her sadness.
Beyond her hand, she noticed Yusen’s rapt attention. He watched her as eagerly as she had watched Guowei, and he gestured toward the page, with a nod of encouragement. The intensity of his stare unnerved her—reminding her of that first night when she had been introduced to the khan back in the army encampment.
Bao Xing tried a smile, resisting the urge to cover her mouth as was proper for a Han lady. It was a slight and timid expression, but Yusen grinned, then quickly turned around as if he, too, felt it improper to show his pleasure. The intense stare broken, Bao Xing allowed herself to breathe.
Apparently, when the palace at Kaifeng had been ransacked, her husband had been among the thieves, ripping up scrolls and tearing tapestries. For a moment, she was even more disgusted by him. Still, the words of Ming Lun, the lessons of Mistress Luo, the teasing remarks of her friend Chubei all added up to one thing: the power that a woman could have over a man, even where women should have no power at all. A glimpse of a tiny foot, a whiff of her perfume, and a man might do anything. Bao Xing’s new position meant that she could not go anywhere near the library or its keeper. She must live now at the whim of her husband—but might he not bend to her whim as well?
Bao Xing made a little sound of delight and cradled the page in her hands as if enthralled. Before her, Yusen glanced over his shoulder, then his chin rose, his hair brushed back, and he took a deeper breath, settling in the mantle of her approval. Good. Let him earn it with more than a torn page from a vanished text. Bao Xing sat through court, dreaming of what she might take from him in exchange for her marriage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Over a dinner of cool stewed mutton with slithery noodles, Yusen slurped his soup and regarded his wife. A certain radiance returned to her face since he had given her the paper. Most men gave their wives jewels and silver to make them happy, but his delighted in a few smears of ink. It made him wish he, too, knew how to read, how to write, how to scribe poems worthy of her attention.
She slurped as well, displaying her enjoyment, the tip of a noodle sliding between her crimson lips before she settled back and dipped her fingers in a washing bowl. Meili, her obsequious servant, offered a cloth to dry Bao Xing’s hands. They could have eaten with the court, and received their food fresh from the hands of the khan’s servers, but Yusen was a keen observer of court habits: no newly married man attended a communal meal for several days, and the envy seemed greatest the longer the new husband stayed away. Yusen intended to be gone at least until the next full moon, even if his absence meant nothing like what the other men dreamed.
“My husband,” she said suddenly, pressing her fingertips together.
“What is it?”
“Thank you for writing you gave.” She smiled, her hand rising toward her lips, then lowering again.
Yusen accepted her gratitude, taking a sip of tea—green and flavored with some kind of burnt rice, without any milk or salt at all. The flavor wrinkled his nose and lips. “Meili—you must learn to make proper tea. I know there are yaks available for milking.”
She blinked, her eyes gone round, and he leaned toward her, pointing to the cup. “Milk. Salt. For the tea.”
Bao Xing spoke a quiet patter of her own language, explaining, and the girl nodded, but the fear remained as she answered. “She does not know how Mongol tea. She tries to know.”
“Good, that’s fine.”
Meili withdrew, stacking the empty bowls on their tray, then hustling it back toward the kitchens. Bao Xing reached toward the writing desk she had dug out while he was tending to his horses that evening, her fingers specked with bits of ink already. She picked up a bit of paper and set it on the table between them. “These are things of writing. In archives. You bring me other writing? Thank you.” She tried to smile again, but her brow remained furrowed. “More writing, yes?”
Yusen noted the characters she had written. “You want me to bring you more books or pages.”
“These things.” She traced the line of characters with her long finger, pausing at one pair of characters. “I like read them, yes?”
“These things.” He gave a nod, then yawned and stood up, scowling. The top of his chest was covered with pretty things, women’s jars, the marriage scarf, the cane that Mandarin had given her. Yusen swept them all off into a pile at one end, the cane giving a satisfying thunk. Much as he hated Munkjar, the general’s gift was the only practical one in the lot—and Meili had lugged that to the far end of the room where Yusen stored his dirty boots and weapons in need of care. He unlocked the chest with a key that hung at his throat, then removed his belt and coiled it carefully into the chest. Someday, he would have the silver belt of the khan’s tumaan. For now, he selected a different belt, and a clean del for the next day, draping these on top after he had closed and relocked the chest.
The fact that the drakemaster produced nothing of importance about the mysterious weapon rankled, but he could not let the possibility fade. If he reminded the khan of the slave’s good labor, and how the drakemaster’s mechanical mind had produced the firedrake, the khan would see that this warning must be heeded, and that Yusen could be vital in tracking it down. The womanly Minister of Archives claimed the slave was deranged or a liar, but Yusen had known him for over two years: the slave couldn’t keep his mouth shut, but Yusen had never known him to lie. Odd, that Yusen had so much confidence in a man who had no respect for him.
When he turned back, Bao Xing remained at the table, that crease marring her brow. She picked up the page and held it out. The characters meant nothing. He had already seen them. Yusen shrugged. “It’s bed time.”
Bao Xing replaced the paper, very carefully smoothing it in the center of the table. She understood what he said that time, and faced it with reluctance. Yusen stomped across the room, shedding his del into the pile to be washed by his wife’s servant. His trousers and undervest needed to be washed—and repaired as well, for threads dangled at the hems—but he could not bring himself to strip bare in front of his wife. Nakedness was a risk he could not afford.
“We go to shrine?” Apparently, she wanted to burn some more sticks for her dead mother.
“Go on.” He should take her riding, to the nearest oovo, to leave offerings to the Eternal Sky. “Do you know how to ride?”
She stared at him.
“Horses. Can you ride a horse?” He pointed to the saddle in the corner, and she shook her head. “You’ll learn.” He imagined her racing through a sunlight field, her hair streaming out behind her.
She shook her head, but took up her cane and hobbled toward the door to visit with the dead.
Climbing into bed, Yusen lay awake until she returned, trying to get comfortable on the thick mattress that threatened to swallow him whole. Meili quietly greeted her mistress and followed this with the tinkling of pearls and jewelry as she prepared Bao Xing for bed. Feigning sleep, Yusen closed his eyes and remembered her entrance into court on a breeze of musk and that tinkling of jewels. For an instant, every man in the room froze, even Munkjar, casting glances from the corner of their eyes, some of them stony-faced, knowing their wives would not approve. They focused on the khan’s court and the reports he received, but every one of them tracked her passage across the chamber and knew when she came to sit at Yusen’s back, in all of her perfection. The bed shifted as she climbed in and moved toward her side, and he pictured instead the fear in her eyes when her laughter angered him. And that after vowing to be gentle with her. He knew how to be gentle only with Tsang, and he doubted Bao Xing would respond to a lump of sugar in quite the same way.
In the morning, after checking on his horses, Yusen sent his wife to Mistress Luo to find a suitable instructor in the Mongol language. She was very intelligent, a fast learner. The study of language would give her some occupation worthy of her mind, at least until he brought her what she wanted. For himself, he walked the corridors where the Mandarins had their offices, carrying a leather sack and looking determined. Yusen had no official reason to be in the archive, nor did he trust the archivist: the man lied about the drakemaster. What else was he lying about? What would he do or say if he knew Yusen had been here?
And so, Yusen was a scout once more, alert and eager, though he betrayed none of it. For a little while, he stood quietly in the shadow of a pair of huge pillars as the Mandarins went about their business. The floors squeaked and groaned, the curtains at the doorways swished and slapped the walls, the corridor empty of breezes save when someone passed by. He counted the floorboards outside the archive and studied the painted cloths that draped the walls. Every hour, a servant passed with a gong to announce the time.
Around the Hour of the Goat, the Mandarins returned to their apartments to lunch, or have meals brought to their offices by Chinese servants in blue tunics and trousers. Only tea entered the archive, carried by Chinese servants, who returned later for the tray. Much later, a little group of Mandarins stopped by the door, convincing the Minister of Archives to step out with them, and they strolled off, nattering in their own tongue. Yusen tread softly, stepping over the floorboards that creaked or squealed, sliding a hand behind the curtain and sliding himself inside, letting the cloth down without a breeze or slap.
Shelves of scrolls towered above him, smelling of old paper or musty straw. Yusen followed the scent of ash to a pile of baskets and chests. He recognized the characters for the city of Kaifeng on a dangling seal and started rummaging. Some bound pages he flipped open, some of the scrolls he unfurled. Once in a while, he tucked one into the leather sack. Two had especially fine drawings and paintings, and he added those as well, until the sack weighed down even him. Satisfied, he closed the lid and turned—
Footsteps in the hall hit the eighth board near the next office, the one that groaned the softest, but only on the end near the archive. Someone spoke, raising his voice as if to a companion further away.
Catching his breath, Yusen saw no place to hide. He dropped the sack into a basket and slipped a scroll on top, then he clasped the edges of one tall shelf and scrambled quietly up, leaning into it, until he was higher than a man. Finding a half-empty bin, he squeezed into it, stepping on the scrolls. Something crinkled under his foot, but he crouched without moving as someone entered the room below and paused. The man gave a single harder breath, half a sigh, then crossed below where Yusen crouched, rustled some pages, and walked back toward the door. Yusen risked leaning forward, peering out, but the man stopped by the door and, with another puff of breath, blew out the last lantern, leaving the room in darkness as the curtain slapped the wall with his departure.
Carefully, Yusen climbed down and retrieved the sack, sliding back out into the corridor. He muttered in Mongolian as he went, casting dark looks at any servants or Mandarins who noticed him. He hefted home his sack in triumph and dropped it at Bao Xing’s side. Startled already by his abrupt entrance, his wife scrambled from her desk to bow.
Her face averted, she told him, “Meili takes dishes. Already cold. Late.”
Yusen’s stomach growled. “She must bring more. Very hungry.” He patted his stomach, then pointed at Meili. “Hurry! Food.”
The girl left, the curtains swaying behind her, and Yusen pulled off his boots, rubbing his feet. The thick felt boots heated his feet during the climb, though they had been comfortable enough during the long hours of waiting. Bao Xing reached toward the sack, and he said, “Books. To read.”
She glanced to where her list still sat in the middle of the table, where it had been since the previous night. Then she opened the sack, removing a scroll with a broken bar—probably broken when he had dropped it into the basket to conceal his work. Her frown deepened. She pulled out a few more, opening one to reveal a glorious illustration of the Heavenly Horses, the legendary steeds that ran so fast they sweated blood. She let the cover fall shut and set it aside, then pulled out the next one and sucked in a breath, lifting the book into the light. Grubby threads held pages of sloppy calligraphy, but his wife stroked the work as if it the pages were silver and the letters, gold.
“How?” She pointed to her list. “You read?”
Yusen snorted and shook his head. “I’m a scout.” Her eyebrows squeezed together, as if the word meant nothing to her, as it might not, he realized. He didn’t need to read to recognize the symbols when he saw them again. “I look…” he pointed to the list, with its meaningless patterns, then tapped his forehead. “I remember. I scout…” he mimed scanning the horizon and checking the ground. “I think of plans. I take back what I learn.” He shrugged. “I tell the captains, and they tell my plan to the general as if they thought of it.”
His wife sorted the documents into piles, continuing to stroke some of them, utterly ignoring others. He pulled out the one with the Heavenly Horses and tossed it onto her desk, causing a few brushes to roll down onto the floor. “Read me.”
Bao Xing picked up the brushes, starting to straighten their tips, then set them into a bamboo holder and picked up the book. “You hear Chinese?”
“I hear you.”
Bao Xing opened the book and began to read, carefully at first, then relaxing into it, her voice rounding the syllables of her own language, drawing out and emphasizing in a way that made him wish he understood more than a fifth of the words. The book described the travels of an imperial envoy who spent years as a captive of the enemies of the people he was meant to parlay with. The envoy took a wife and had a child before he managed to escape. Even then, his loyalty lay with his ruler. Yusen admired the man’s dedication, though a better scout would have seen the envoy through safely. And of course the paintings of horses were excellent.
Meili returned, burdened with a large tray holding a covered bronze vessel and a few other things. The greasy richness of stewed mutton filled the air, and Yusen attacked his meal. The servant set down the pot nearby and took up a ladle, dipping it in, scooping, and pouring a stream of beige liquid back into the pot. Tea! And she had even learned to stir it properly.
Pushing aside the empty soup bowl, Yusen snapped at the girl to give him a smaller bowl of tea, the salty, milky brew briefly sending his memory home to the steppes, to his mother’s hearth. He breathed in the scent of it, cradling it with both hands. “Good.”
His wife broke off her reading when he spoke, and he addressed her next. “You learn to speak well, you attend me when I go to court, you see that my things are repaired and cleaned. Afternoons, it’s cool enough, we’ll go riding.”
She pulled the book to her chest. “I cannot.”
Yusen noted her narrow gown with its many layers underneath. “Not in those clothes. Make some riding clothes—Mongolian clothes.”
“I—not clothes. Feet too small.” She revealed a tiny foot clad in a slipper covered with stitching, even on the sole. With its thick heel and pointed toe it must be the most worthless shoe he had ever seen.
Yusen stretched out his own legs, slightly bow-legged from growing up on horseback, and let his foot settle next to hers. His toes stuck up past her shoe. Yusen wiggled them, their grubby flexibility contrasting with the bound-up, hidden foot of his wife. Bigger feet, even though she stood more than a head taller than he.
“Riding is not about feet, but balance. You have good balance to walk in these shoes, even with a cane. You make the clothes, and I will show you riding.” He finished his tea and stood up, stretching out the muscles of his back and shoulders, still stiff after carrying the heavy sack of books, then he went through the ritual of preparing his clothes for the next morning, finding his other del and a fresh pair of trousers before going to bed.
The lanterns in the main chamber stayed lit for a long time, and he could hear the turning of pages, then his wife finally came to bed as well, accompanied by the click of her cane hanging on its peg. His clothes were clean, his wife was wise and beautiful, worthy of running a household, and her servant obeyed him, if grudgingly. He provided her the books she asked for, and she would do whatever he told her. So far, his marriage was a great success.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Zhencai began with walking meditation, trying to push the world from his mind, trying to reject the pain. He stumbled around in a circle over and over, the pines blurring and bending, reaching out to snare him, a constant reminder of the world he must reject. Andao tried to follow, but kept kicking his master’s heels or stumbling over him. Zhencai spun about, wobbling, and pointed away. “Go, novice. Perform sitting meditation until I am finished.”
The young man’s hands, meant to be held behind him as they walked, flashed through a series of gestures as if he couldn’t figure out what he meant to say. The movements made Zhencai dizzy, and he planted his feet, thrusting his finger more insistently.
Stalking to the other side of the narrow meadow they occupied, Andao folded himself into a seated posture and gripped his hands together into something like prayer. “Master, I—”
