Path of the Eclipse (12 page)

“I can see twenty, perhaps more.” He concentrated, damning the smoke that had turned the light ruddy and brought its own shadow to the hills.

“Any indications…?”

“… that they’re ours? No.” His eyes were stinging, but he continued to search the distant figures in the hope of discovering their identity. “Perhaps you’d better warn the others?” he suggested, and did not look to see whether or not the gatekeeper obeyed him. He gripped the rough timbers of the wooden ramparts, ignoring the splinters that sank into his hands. Who was coming. What had happened. The words sounded in his mind in a dozen languages, and he refused to think of the number of times he had waited to learn what had become of his companions. He wished he had a clarion to signal the approaching men, yet knew that even if he had one, neither Chih-Yü nor her men were familiar with its call.

The few militiamen who had been left behind hurried toward the battlements, one of them pausing to take a stirrup crossbow from its place on the wall.

“I would like to have some artillery,” one of the militiamen muttered as he set up his standing quiver where he could reach his arrows without turning away from the walls.

“Get the women into the main buildings,” the gatekeeper shouted as he hurried across the courtyard. “Children in the cellars until we know who’s coming!”

There was swift, frenzied movement as the people of Mao-T’ou stronghold hastened to carry out his orders.

Saint-Germain was aware of the activity, but he did not allow it to divert his attention. He could see the figures more plainly now, though the distant roiling smoke made everything indistinct. He wiped at his eyes as if to clear the air by this action. “Move, move,” he whispered tightly as the mounted figures came over the crest of the hill and the men on the ramparts were readying their weapons. The extent of his relief as he recognized the chestnut roan Chih-Yü had been riding that morning was greater than a sense of good fortune for the Mao-T’ou stronghold.

“Hold!” he shouted to the militiamen, who turned to him in suspicion and surprise. “It’s T’en Chih-Yü. That’s Jui Ah on the dun. See?” Saint-Germain pointed at the figures, who were now becoming separate from the smoke. They no longer looked like wraiths of darkness, but like what they were—an exhausted militia troop returning with casualties to their base.

“It is the Warlord!” one of the men on the ramparts agreed, shocked, and turned to the man next to him in amazement. “They’ve made it back.”

“Open the gates!” Saint-Germain ordered, and no one thought it strange that he was obeyed at once.

Even as the huge wooden bolt was being lifted, Saint-Germain was climbing to the lookout tower, which had only recently been completed. The last part of it was unfinished, but it gave him a better view of the ridge. He glared toward the smoke, beyond the company T’en Chih-Yü led, fearing to see armed men on squat Mongol ponies racing after them. He watched until he could hear the sound of approaching horses, and was assured. There were no Mongols in pursuit this day. Later it might be otherwise, but for now the militiamen of Mao-T’ou stronghold and their Warlord were out of immediate danger.

The gates groaned open, and shortly afterward, Chih-Yü led her men through them to be greeted by shouts from her guards.

Saint-Germain stayed by the watchtower and looked down into the courtyard.

Chih-Yü’s face was darkened with smuts, as were all her men’s faces. Her sheng me was torn and her scale armor had several leaf-shaped scales missing. There was blood on her left leg and boot and she had a makeshift bandage around her right hand. As the gatekeeper rushed up to her, she slid out of the saddle.

The gatekeeper looked about in consternation, starting to motion for assistance, but faster than he could act, Saint-Germain vaulted down from his position by the watchtower, landing close enough to her chestnut roan to make the horse whinny and rear.

The militiamen stared at him in awe, and a few made gestures to protect themselves. Jui Ah, who had started toward Chih-Yü, cursed and turned to shout orders to the men.

Chih-Yü was already getting to her feet. “What a silly thing to do,” she remarked in a shaky voice. “I’ve been in the saddle too long, I think.” She glanced around at the waiting faces—at her troops, who were exhausted, some wounded; at the gatekeeper, who regarded her anxiously; and at Saint-Germain, who stood near her, one hand extended to help her up. “Shih Ghieh-Man,” she said, puzzled. “I didn’t see you before.”

“He jumped from up there…” the gatekeeper said, and for the first time seemed aware of the extraordinary thing the foreigner had done.

“Western circus tricks,” Saint-Germain said with a shrug of dismissal. He salved his conscience with the admission that it was a circus trick, one he had seen done for the first time in the Circus Maximus when Claudius had ruled in Rome.

“Impressive, nonetheless,” Chih-Yü said as she gave him her unbandaged hand and let him pull her up. “I’m famished. My legs feel like lead. My throat is raw from the smoke and the shouting. Have someone prepare my bath and heat up the bathhouse for the rest. We’ll need treatment for nine of my men. Two did not come back.” This last was said quietly, painfully, and she looked away.

“That’s most fortunate,” Saint-Germain said quickly, and looked to the others for confirmation. “To lose so few.”

“There were men from Shui-Lo fortress there, as well,” Jui Ah announced. He swaggered as he got off his horse, parading for the benefit of those who had stayed behind to guard Mao-T’ou stronghold.

“There were more than a hundred of them,” Chih-Yü said, silencing her Captain. “They were well-mounted and better armed. Tan Mung-Fa told me he has persuaded his uncle in the Ministry of War to address the Emperor on his behalf, which apparently he did, because at least half his men wore the badge of the Imperial household.” She could not quite stop her sigh.

“Then Tan Mung-Fa will have informed the Emperor how it is with us, and your petition will be heard,” Jui Ah declared with satisfaction, looking to the other men to give him their support.

One of the injured men screamed as he reached the ground. Until he had dismounted he had not been aware of the severity of his wounds, but the agony hit him at once, and half a dozen of his fellows rushed to his aid.

“Tan Mung-Fa is for later,” Chih-Yü said crisply, seeming more herself again. “Get the surgeon out here and tell him to start to work on those who are wounded. When he is through with them, I’d like him to look at my hand.”

The others were already moving to carry out her orders as Saint-Germain asked her softly, “Would you like me to examine your hand? I know a little of medicine.”

“You do?” She was startled, but just for an instant. “Of course you do. You’re an alchemist.” With a jerk of her other hand she tore away the bandage. “I got my knuckles grazed,” she said, feeling ashamed.

Saint-Germain looked at the caked blood and torn skin. “This must be cleaned first. Afterward I will give you a powder that will take away the sting and will keep the flesh from corruption. If you will allow me.”

“Certainly,” she said, then turned to the others. “After the evening meal, I will want to speak to all of you in the main hall. We must set our strategy now, or we’ll be in as much danger as Bei-Wa was. And all of you saw that fortress burn.” The stern set of her face and the clipped words gave emphasis to her orders. Her men would be there in the main hall after their evening meal. “I will also want a complete report on all injuries, no matter how slight. Let no man think he is showing heroism if he makes light of his hurts, for that will make you a danger to all of the rest of us.” She looked toward her stablehands. “I will want to know how all the horses are. Be as honest as you can be. If a horse is not fit for riding, tell me so.” When she had received an acknowledging wave from the oldest groom, she looked again at Saint-Germain. “Very well. Give me a little time to bathe and I will join you in your quarters.”

“Thank you,” he responded, making no attempt to conceal his admiration for her.

“And if you indeed have such a powder as you described, make certain that the surgeon has it. I can’t afford to have one man sicken.” She nodded to Saint-Germain as she turned and strode across the courtyard. Two women stood at the door waiting to assist her and holding a cloak for her.

Saint-Germain made his way through the confusion in the courtyard to the two new buildings that squatted next to the wall on the cliff side of the stronghold. They were incongruous here, looking very much the afterthought they were. The door of the larger building opened as Saint-Germain approached and Rogerio stood aside to let his master enter the alchemical laboratory housed there.

“The troops are back,” Saint-Germain said in Latin as he closed the door. “They did not do badly, all things considered.” He crossed the room to a locked chest, which he opened as he spoke. “Here. This is the burn dressing, and these”—he gave Rogerio two glass vials of greenish-white powder—“are for the surgeon to treat open wounds. For the love of all the forgotten gods, don’t tell him it is made from moldy bread or he won’t touch it.”

Rogerio held the containers in his hands. “How long will it be, do you think, before they strike here?” He had the appearance of middle age and his sandy hair was streaked with gray. When attending to the laboratory, he wore a Roman tunica of heavy linen, but when among the Chinese, he put a blue quilted cotton coat over his Western garments.

“It’s hard to say,” Saint-Germain said, only one faint line between his fine brows showing his concern. “Perhaps longer than we know. I would guess that they’re trying to get to Lan-Chow, and won’t bother too much with little strongholds like this one. If they can cut off these isolated outposts, they will fall more easily at the end of the harvest.” He pulled open another drawer in the chest. “Take these, too,” he added, handing Rogerio two rolls of linen bandages. “I doubt they have enough in reserve.”

“And have we?” Rogerio asked with more concern than condemnation.

“For the moment. A few more skirmishes and most of my medicaments will be low, but that’s to be expected.” He paused as he reached for one more roll. “Do you remember that battle in Thessaly? Niklos Aulurios almost lost the day. We were pulling our garments to pieces to help the wounded, but it was senseless.” There was a haunted look in his face. “Niklos was a fool to battle those Huns. He’s a brave man.”

“You disapprove of his bravery?” Rogerio asked, startled. “You, of all people?”

Saint-Germain laughed sadly. “No. Not of bravery. But the suffering. You’d think the demons of the air would be glutted by now.” He closed the case sharply. “Forgive me, old friend. I wish that…” A despairing gesture finished his thoughts. “Warlord T’en is coming here when she has bathed. Her hand is hurt and I’ve offered to dress it for her.”

Rogerio stared at Saint-Germain a moment. “Warlord T’en is also a very brave woman,” he said at last.

There was real pain in Saint-Germain’s face as he said quietly, “I know. I know. And I fear for her.”

Wisely, Rogerio said no more, but took the medicaments and bandages Saint-Germain had given him and went in search of the surgeon.

By the time Chih-Yü arrived, Saint-Germain had mastered himself. There was no trace of the bleakness that possessed his soul as he opened the door for her, going on his knee to her in the Frankish manner as she entered his quarters.

Though she was tired, she was able to smile at this courtesy. “I thank you for whatever honor it is you do me,” she said as Saint-Germain rose once more. “You look quite … splendid.”

He had dressed for her in full Byzantine finery, in damasked silk robes with silver embroidery and a wide jeweled collar. His short, loose curls were perfumed with a distillate of roses and jasmine. He took her unhurt hand, bent and kissed it. He was amused to see how his finery puzzled her. “Come,” he said as he led her into the reception chamber.

The room was not very big and so it had been carefully furnished. There were two low couches of Persian design, covered in black velvet embroidered with silver, and it was to one of these that Saint-Germain brought T’en Chih-Yü. Between the couches there was a matching table of inlaid rosewood, and against the wall stood a red-painted Roman chest of antique design. It was the chest that Saint-Germain approached, and opened to reveal a number of pigeonholes, some filled with scrolls, some with sealed vials. He took one of the latter and came back toward Chih-Yü.

“I did not know your tastes were so fine,” Chih-Yü said, at once nervous and critical.

“When you have traveled as far as I have, Warlord, you learn to love beautiful things wherever you find them.” He dropped to his knee again, but this time his purpose was more pragmatic. “Let me see your hand,” he said.

She hesitated, then held it out. “It’s getting sore,” she told him, as if confessing a moral weakness.

“Small wonder.” He examined the torn knuckles and realized that though the tendons were bruised and the skn lacerated, none of the bones were damaged, and the tendons would recover. “How did it happen?”

Chih-Yü raised her chin defiantly and met his dark, compelling eyes. “It was a stupid mistake. If my father were alive and had seen it, he would have boxed my ears for such an error. I tried to block a blow with the hilt of my sword.”

“You’re lucky, then,” he said sincerely, knowing full well what a chance she had taken. “If the blow had been harder, you might have lost your fingers.”

“I said it was a stupid mistake.” She was defensive now, and her hand stiffened in his.

He had drawn a cloth and a roll of linen bandage from one of the capacious pockets in his robe, and he released her hand to open a little jar that stood on the table. He moistened the cloth with the liquid in the jar. “This will probably sting, but it will clean the scrape. After that, I will apply the powder I mentioned, and then wrap your hand in clean linen.” As he said this, he drew the cloth over her hand.

“It does sting,” she admitted, her eyes watering. “What is it?”

“A distillate,” he answered truthfully and uninformatively. “It’s been known to alchemists for several centuries.” When he was through, he set the cloth aside and opened the vial he had taken from the chest. “This is the powder.”