Read Online The Mandate of Heaven by Tim Murgatroyd - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim Murgatroyd
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animated.
Salt Minister Gui and a number of other officials were fawning before the splendid horseman – none other than Jebe Khoja himself.
Dozens of bystanders watched. A blacksmith’s apprentice in a leather apron turned to Hsiung. ‘Red Turbans,’ muttered the lad, pointing at the prisoners. ‘They must have been spared for a reason. Maybe they’re short of hands in the Salt Pans. I heard hundreds escaped …’ The blacksmith’s boy went dumb for a grizzled man had drawn close to overhear their conversation.
‘Interesting, my lads! Who told you that, I wonder?’
Hsiung realised the man was one of the Great Khan’s hired accusers. He sidled away.
‘You!’ called the man. ‘What is in that sack?’
Hsiung dodged into the square. It was filling with manacled, shuffling rebel prisoners. Orders were shouted on every side, drowned out by whinnying horses and clip-clopping hooves. No one in the thick press of cavalry and captives noticed his presence. Beaten, downcast faces surrounded him, advancing in columns towards the slave pens, herded by trotting riders like cattle to a shambles. Many were wounded or spirit-broken, a few defiant; all wore heavy wooden neck yokes and chains linking their ankles.
Hsiung looked around for a way out. But he was trapped in a maze, unable to do anything except flow with the prisoners deeper into the square. Abruptly he came to a circle of braziers and glowing branding irons. Here slaves were being marked on their cheeks with the character salt . Beyond them, like an unreachable shore, he spied a clear route to the alleyways of the Port District. A large soldier appeared before him, barring the way.
‘You boy! What’re you doing here?’
Shrieks and groans, the acrid smell of scorched hair, skin and flesh as branding began in earnest. The soldier stepped closer.
‘What’s in that bag?’ he demanded. He turned to another man. ‘Sir, there’s a …’ When he looked round the boy had vanished, leaving his sack on the ground. Out of it spilled solid, grey bricks of pure salt.
Hsiung only stopped running when he was through the broken gates of Monkey Hat Ward. Deep twilight; indigo beneath a layer of low, basalt clouds. Across the city people hurried indoors lest the Watch find them and demand bribes not to report them to a magistrate.
His heart still beat painfully. Sheer luck had saved him. A group of rebels had kicked over some braziers, chanting Yueh Fei! Yueh Fei! Sparks and glowing coals poured across the cobbles until the rebels were swiftly cut down. In the confusion he had raced between lines of prisoners, so escaping into a shadowy alley.
Yet Sergeant P’ao’s blocks of salt remained behind, each worth a night’s carousing. Hsiung did not anticipate understanding or sympathy for the loss. He had no means of recompensing the sergeant and expected, at the very least, a beating.
Night had fallen as he entered Deng Mansions. In the gatehouse he was surprised to find Deng Nan-shi holding a feeble oil lamp.
‘There you are!’ said the scholar. ‘I’ve been looking for you. We have a visitor, a most intriguing gentleman. Come, Hsiung!’
The boy almost fled back into the night. When he realised Sergeant P’ao could not have reached here so fast, he followed his master inside.
Their visitor possessed characteristics rarely observed in Hou-ming: a belly bulging like a happy Buddha’s and jowls heavy with meat. Good-feeding had swollen his legs and arms. As for his clothes, they rustled slightly when he moved, as only the best, stiffest silks do. Gold and silver thread decorated the hems of his coat.
Such a gentleman seemed too fine for Deng Nan-shi’s shabby library, yet his hunched shoulders suggested profound deference towards the scholar.
‘Come in, Hsiung,’ commanded Deng Nan-shi. ‘Don’t be shy. Here is …’ He glanced quickly at his guest. ‘Perhaps I should not mention names?’
The visitor’s moon-like jaw rose and fell.
‘Now,
Salt Minister Gui and a number of other officials were fawning before the splendid horseman – none other than Jebe Khoja himself.
Dozens of bystanders watched. A blacksmith’s apprentice in a leather apron turned to Hsiung. ‘Red Turbans,’ muttered the lad, pointing at the prisoners. ‘They must have been spared for a reason. Maybe they’re short of hands in the Salt Pans. I heard hundreds escaped …’ The blacksmith’s boy went dumb for a grizzled man had drawn close to overhear their conversation.
‘Interesting, my lads! Who told you that, I wonder?’
Hsiung realised the man was one of the Great Khan’s hired accusers. He sidled away.
‘You!’ called the man. ‘What is in that sack?’
Hsiung dodged into the square. It was filling with manacled, shuffling rebel prisoners. Orders were shouted on every side, drowned out by whinnying horses and clip-clopping hooves. No one in the thick press of cavalry and captives noticed his presence. Beaten, downcast faces surrounded him, advancing in columns towards the slave pens, herded by trotting riders like cattle to a shambles. Many were wounded or spirit-broken, a few defiant; all wore heavy wooden neck yokes and chains linking their ankles.
Hsiung looked around for a way out. But he was trapped in a maze, unable to do anything except flow with the prisoners deeper into the square. Abruptly he came to a circle of braziers and glowing branding irons. Here slaves were being marked on their cheeks with the character salt . Beyond them, like an unreachable shore, he spied a clear route to the alleyways of the Port District. A large soldier appeared before him, barring the way.
‘You boy! What’re you doing here?’
Shrieks and groans, the acrid smell of scorched hair, skin and flesh as branding began in earnest. The soldier stepped closer.
‘What’s in that bag?’ he demanded. He turned to another man. ‘Sir, there’s a …’ When he looked round the boy had vanished, leaving his sack on the ground. Out of it spilled solid, grey bricks of pure salt.
Hsiung only stopped running when he was through the broken gates of Monkey Hat Ward. Deep twilight; indigo beneath a layer of low, basalt clouds. Across the city people hurried indoors lest the Watch find them and demand bribes not to report them to a magistrate.
His heart still beat painfully. Sheer luck had saved him. A group of rebels had kicked over some braziers, chanting Yueh Fei! Yueh Fei! Sparks and glowing coals poured across the cobbles until the rebels were swiftly cut down. In the confusion he had raced between lines of prisoners, so escaping into a shadowy alley.
Yet Sergeant P’ao’s blocks of salt remained behind, each worth a night’s carousing. Hsiung did not anticipate understanding or sympathy for the loss. He had no means of recompensing the sergeant and expected, at the very least, a beating.
Night had fallen as he entered Deng Mansions. In the gatehouse he was surprised to find Deng Nan-shi holding a feeble oil lamp.
‘There you are!’ said the scholar. ‘I’ve been looking for you. We have a visitor, a most intriguing gentleman. Come, Hsiung!’
The boy almost fled back into the night. When he realised Sergeant P’ao could not have reached here so fast, he followed his master inside.
Their visitor possessed characteristics rarely observed in Hou-ming: a belly bulging like a happy Buddha’s and jowls heavy with meat. Good-feeding had swollen his legs and arms. As for his clothes, they rustled slightly when he moved, as only the best, stiffest silks do. Gold and silver thread decorated the hems of his coat.
Such a gentleman seemed too fine for Deng Nan-shi’s shabby library, yet his hunched shoulders suggested profound deference towards the scholar.
‘Come in, Hsiung,’ commanded Deng Nan-shi. ‘Don’t be shy. Here is …’ He glanced quickly at his guest. ‘Perhaps I should not mention names?’
The visitor’s moon-like jaw rose and fell.
‘Now,
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