Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
Dark of the Sun (34 page)
The most devoted greetings, Elder Brother, the most worthy Tsa Wa-Tso, now serving the Wen Emperor at Chang’an in the capacity of Translator of Documents to the August Personage, on this the ninth day of the Fortnight of the Fruitful Fields, from your faithful younger brother, Tsa Tsa-Si, from the most pitiful city of Yang-Chau.
Would that I could tell you, Elder Brother, that the many privations and difficulties of the Year of Yellow Snow have ended, but, alas, such is not the case. We continue to struggle under a sun that has become less than an oil-lamp in the heavens, and because of the lack of such virtue as the sun is wont to provide, trade and life suffer. The University is all but deserted. I have only four pupils left, and were it not for the generosity of the Worthy Foreigner Zangi-Ragozh, and the compassion of Professor Min Cho-Zhi, who supervises his personal affairs, I would be a beggar on the street, or worse. I now have thirty-one years, but I feel as if I had double that. I have consulted a physician, who has given me herbs to treat these conditions, which has provided some relief, but I am far from being what I would expect of myself, and I have had to delegate some of my duties to others, notably Councillor Ko She-Hsieh, who has taken over dealing with the accounts of the enterprises of the absent Worthy Foreigner and will do so until I am sufficiently recovered to resume the work for myself. I have been unable to assist Professor Min as I would like, for he has recently withdrawn to a small house at the rear of the compound and has devoted himself to reading the classic teachings of Mo-Tzu, in the hope that his philosophy will ease passage through these difficult days.
I have not heard anything from Zangi-Ragozh and so cannot provide any of the information you requested. I have learned—as you must have as well—that the men traveling with him, Yao, Gien, and Jong, have been enrolled in the army at Lo-Yang, and that Zangi-Ragozh and his manservant, Ro-shei, went on up the Huang Ho, but where they went is still a mystery. No word has come from him, and if any has been sent, it has not yet reached its destination—not an uncommon fate of messages at present. It is all due to the lessening of the sun’s power, for the Powers of Water are not kept in check, as seen in the tremendous amount of rain we have had since the great clap of thunder of thirty-nine fortnights ago. We saw great waves soon after that did great damage and caused many deaths, and darkness engulfed the sun shortly after they struck. Since then the balance of yin and yang has been disturbed, and evidence of this is everywhere evident.
That does not mean that I have abandoned my duties. I am continuing to accomplish as much as I might, and I am still supported by Zangi-Ragozh’s household, as he stipulated in his instructions to Min when he left. No matter what becomes of Min, I have an obligation and I will not disgrace our name by failing to execute every particular of my assigned tasks to the limit of my capacity. I wish I could say that the rest of Zangi-Ragozh’s household has displayed equal probity, but that is not the case. Meng, his cook, was caught stealing from the larder and selling the food he took at vastly inflated prices. Jho took him before the Magistrate, who ordered Meng’s hands be struck off Meng’s injuries were cauterized and treated, but the stumps became infected, and his arms blackened and he died. Also, some of the furniture of the house has been stolen—by whom we cannot determine—and the losses reported, but so far no one has been apprehended with the items in his possession. I realize that unless some object of very high value is taken, we will have to accept the losses and account for them as best we can if Zangi-Ragozh should ever return.
Thank you, Elder Brother, for informing me of our nephew’s death and the illness of our sister. I know that since her husband died, three years since, she has been much put-upon and has struggled with imperfect health. I have burned incense for the boy’s soul, and I have listed his name among the tablets in my Ancestor Shrine. I realize that it is an imposition upon you to take our sister into your household, particularly since your wife has said she is not in favor of having our sister with you, which is not an unexpected response, for no woman likes to give over her position to a sister or mother. Perhaps our youngest brother, Tsa Tsi-La, would be willing to have our sister with him, unless he has been posted to some barbarian station where no one bathes and the winters are harder than cold iron. I could contribute to her maintenance, not a great deal, but an amount that could ease the burden on Tsa Tsi-La; if you were willing to do the same, it may render her life more endurable.
They are saying that when the weather improves, the Emperor at Chang’an is going to take to the field with his Army and bring the Middle Kingdom back to unity. If this is truly the case, I hope he will reconsider and wait a year, for no part of the Middle Kingdom has brought in a good harvest, so the new-planted crops are especially vulnerable. Much ground lies fallow, producing only occasional weeds, and even they are stunted and burned. The yellow rain has blighted many farms. The fields are not the only sufferers: what livestock is left is thin and pathetic, unsuitable to labor or the pot. Because of all the rain, everything is sodden, and cloth decays while it is worn. For the peasants, life is much more demanding than before the thunderclap. There has been Swine Fever and Gray Cough among them, and some horses have succumbed to Black Sores, which has meant that many peasants and farmers have fled in terror, for the Black Sores touches men as well as horses and sheep and hogs. There has been no trace of Black Sores in Yang-Chau, but we have seen Lice Fever as well as other fevers, from tainted air and the sweat of foreigners. We will endure more fevers before this onerous time is done and hope that the Immortals do not desert us entirely.
Your most devoted younger brother,
Tsa Tsa-Si, Professor
(his chop)
Tsa Tsa-Si, Professor
(his chop)
“There are more tents on the islands,” Rojeh said in Imperial Latin as he came into the makeshift laboratory Ragoczy Franciscus had established in the house he had hired. He had paid an outrageous price for three months’ residence, and additional sums for furnishings and other supplies; he made no complaint, aware that the Master of Foreigners would support the landlord in any situation.
“Ah? Whose, do you know?” He was in the process of sifting the whitest sand through a silken sieve, removing every imperfection.
“They are Jou’an-Jou’an,” Rojeh told him, watching him closely to see his reaction.
Ragoczy Franciscus continued his work, but his fine brows lifted, an indication of curiosity. “Do you know which clan?”
“They appear to be the Desert Cats; I recognized Baru Ksoka’s tent, in any case, so either they have come, or they were vanquished by a rival clan and their goods seized.” Rojeh stopped by the plank table and studied Ragoczy Franciscus’ face. “Do you think it strange that they should come here?”
“Not particularly. It is far more likely that we should meet in a place like this than on one of the stretches of trade route that cross this region.” He glanced toward the window. “I am more curious about why they have come so far west than that, having done so, they have come to this place.”
“Does it bode well?” Rojeh asked.
“How can I tell until I have seen them? if the new clan is the Desert Cats.” He set his sieve aside, straightened up, and added, “This will keep for now.”
“You are making glass?” Rojeh asked.
“Three of my vessels are broken and I cannot do half of what I would like to do without having the necessary instruments, including glass vessels,” Ragoczy Franciscus said. “Pragmatic necessity, old friend.”
“The athanor you’re building isn’t ready yet,” Rojeh pointed out.
“I know, but I am aware that I must make the most of it as soon as it is,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, wiping his hands on a cotton cloth. “Is the blue roan in her stall or in the paddock?”
“In her stall. I was planning to turn her out at midday.” Rojeh paused. “Would you rather wait until late afternoon to—”
“I still have my native earth in my soles, and the sun is still feeble; between those factors, I should do very well, at least for as long as I will require to investigate the Jou’an-Jou’an.” He rubbed his chin, testing his newly trimmed beard and nodding with satisfaction. “I had best wear a sen-gai.”
“Most of them are looking shabby,” said Rojeh. “But the one with the dark-red piping is quite presentable. Would you like me to lay it out for you?”
“No need,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, “I can find it well enough.” He set down the cloth and started toward the door. “Make sure this room is locked when you leave.”
“Certainly,” said Rojeh.
Ragoczy Franciscus left his laboratory and went to the rooms set aside for his use in the sprawling house. Since he had hired the house some nine days since, he had been working to make it into a suitable residence without doing anything to alarm the landlord or his neighbors, one of whom was a Hunnic trader, the other of whom was the widow of a wealthy Constantinopolitan with three surviving children. His comings and goings occasioned no observation, particularly those private expeditions he made very late at night, so he knew his departure now would not give cause for alarm. He reached his apartments and went to the chest containing the clothespress. Unfastening the sturdy boards, he looked through the various garments and finally pulled out the sen-gai he had been seeking. He closed and buckled the press and took off his Persian caftan of heavy black cotton, which he wore over leather leggings; he tossed this onto the back of the single chair in the room, then pulled on the sen-gai, securing the belt before looking for his silver-and-black-sapphire pectoral; since arriving in Sarai, he had made a point of wearing jewelry to indicate he was a man of rank as well as fortune. He found his chilanum and its scabbard; he secured these to his belt. Now that he was suitably armed, he went to the stable to groom and saddle the blue roan.
The guards no longer stopped him at the gate, and he rode out of Sarai without incident, letting his roan set the pace down the low hill to the delta islands. Threading his way along the narrow tracks, he noticed that there were five more bodies wrapped in reeds and left out for cremation on ground already blackened by repeated fires. He continued along the tangle of paths toward the island Rojeh had indicated, and as he rode, he began to consider what he would say if this were indeed the Desert Cats clan who had arrived here. He chided himself for anticipating an answer and put his concentration on the narrow track ahead.
Three children were playing at the edge of the camp, one of them Baru Ksoka’s son Zumir; the boy looked up from pursuing a rough leather ball as he heard Ragoczy Franciscus’ horse approach; there was an angular scar on his jaw that had not been there when Ragoczy Franciscus had last seen him. He took a defensive stance and shaded his eyes. “Who are you?” he shouted in dreadful Persian. “What do you want here?”
Ragoczy Franciscus answered in the Jou’an-Jou’an tongue, “I am an old friend of this clan, though a foreigner, Zumir. Is your father about?”
Zumir peered up at him. “No. He’s not. Neitis Ksoka is Kaigan now.”
“Neitis?” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “What happened?”
The boy glared at him. “Why should I tell you, foreigner? You are not one of us.”
“I would like to know what became of him.” He spoke evenly, his dark eyes on the youngster.
“There was a landslide,” said Zumir cautiously, trying to make out the stranger’s features, his young countenance twisted with concentration. “He and four others perished, along with their ponies. Nine more were hurt.” His face cleared suddenly. “Zangi-Ragozh. I know you. How do you come to be here?” He ran impulsively toward the blue roan, only stopping as the horse backed up a few steps.
“I stayed on the middle branch of the Silk Road when you went north,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “Did you reach Dzungaria?”
“Yes,” said Zumir as the other boys came up beside him, their curiosity outweighing their trepidation.
“How long did you remain there?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked patiently. “It can’t have been long.”
“It wasn’t.” Heaving a prodigious sigh, Zumir began his account. “We went between the Tien Shan and the Atlai Mountains, searching for a region with grass enough for the ponies and goats. We eventually found a sheltered valley where we tried to make a place for our clan; most of the grass in other areas had dried up, but there enough grew for our needs, and that made the valley we found a good place for us; but another, larger clan of Uighurs found the valley as well—they drove us out by main force, killing ten of us before my father decided we had best abandon our site. We went northwest for many days and came to the Aral Route. We were crossing the pass southeast of Lake Balkhash when the landslide came. Most of the clan thought it was an omen and wanted to turn back, but Dukkai said we must go on. She read the smoke and said that the way forward was the only safe course for us to take.”
“Then Dukkai is with you,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“Yes,” said Zumir, with a sly look at Ragoczy Franciscus. “She is as much our leader as Neitis Ksoka is. He makes no decisions until she reads the smoke for him.” He clapped his hands once and turned around to his companions. “Go fetch Dukkai,” he said. “Bring her here. At once. Muksi, don’t tell her who has come, just bring her.” He shooed them on with a gesture, then turned back to Ragoczy Franciscus. “What happened to your ponies? I haven’t seen that horse before.”
“I have the ponies still, three of them. I acquired this horse since I and my companion parted from you.” He was amused by the question. “What of my wagon? Do you have it still?”
Zumir glowered. “The Uighurs took it during their fiercest raid.” He squinted up at Ragoczy Franciscus. “Do you have another?”
“I did, but no longer.” He swung down from his horse and walked up to the boy. “How have you fared in the last year, Zumir?”
“We have had lean times,” he admitted as if confessing an error, “and the Lord of the Skies no longer hears our prayers, or, if he does, the God of the Day does not obey him anymore. Plants no longer thrive, and even the trees of the forests are withering.”
“It has been a hard time,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, kindness in his eyes.
“Nothing changes it. We have had so much to—” Zumir’s face crumpled. “We have given sacrifice, and we have done all that Dukkai has said must be done, but nothing avails us. When our men are killed, we make food of them, so that we may live and be strong.”
Ragoczy Franciscus was not shocked by this revelation, but he was saddened. “Did that happen with your father?”
Zumir nodded. “As much of him as we could recover.” He coughed to hide a sob, and then stared hard at Ragoczy Franciscus. “It is necessary. We all know it.”
“When you are starving, you must take what there is to eat,” said Ragoczy Franciscus with a slow nod, glancing up as the two boys came hurrying toward them, all but dragging Dukkai between them.
“I only had a little,” Zumir muttered, as if to reassure himself.
“See?” the taller of the two boys with Dukkai shouted. “A surprise!”
Dukkai halted, her face gone pale, her blue eyes wide. “Zangi-Ragozh,” she exclaimed, one hand to her eyes as if she might rub the sight of him away. “How? Why are you here?”
“Dukkai,” he said; he could see she was thinner, and her skin had taken on the fragile look of paper. He started toward her. “Zumir tells me things are much changed for the Desert Cats.”
“Oh, yes. As the world is much changed. We are here, where we have never been before.” She took a step toward him. “Zangi-Ragozh. I thought I would never see you again alive.”
His smile was quick and ironic. “I am as alive now as you have ever known me to be.”
“I had no message of your coming,” she said a bit distractedly. “The smoke should have shown me.”
“Perhaps because I came another way than the roads you took,” he suggested gently. “How could your smoke know that I would remain in Sarai, as I have done? I might well have moved on by now, and our paths would never have crossed.” He studied her features, noticing how much deeper the lines were, and how much more removed her gaze was.
“I have looked for signs, asked the gods and the Lord of the Skies and the Lords of the Earth for them, but all have been silent. The smoke should have—” She stopped. “My daughter died. She came too soon, and she struggled to live, but it was not enough.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, his concern genuine.
“So all you did to help me carry her turned out to be for nothing,” she said remotely. “I should have read the smoke, but I could not believe that my child would be born only to die.” She blinked twice and knotted her hands together.
“We are all born only to die,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as gently as he could.
She gave him a hard, startled stare, then fixed her eyes on a point well beyond his head. “But later, not sooner.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I mourn Baru Ksoka, but I know he lived out his life. My daughter did not live long enough to be given a name.”
Ragoczy Franciscus recalled that the Desert Cats did not name their children officially until they had taken their first step. “So she is only Dukkai’s Daughter?”
Dukkai nodded. “I had a name for her, but it will never be spoken. I wonder if Apostle Lazarus is right, and there must be suffering on earth for anyone to be worthy of joy in Paradise.”
“There is a church in Sarai, not far from the Foreigners’ Quarter. The priest will talk to you, if you like.” He made the suggestion without expecting her to accept it.
“When we return to our territory, Apostle Lazarus may explain it to me, if he is still alive, and if I ever see him again,” she said as if speaking of something in a distant time.
“I am sure he would be pleased to instruct you,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as if speaking to child. “Are you planning to return to Kumul?”
She shook her head. “The smoke has not shown that as coming. I cannot tell when we shall go that way again.”
Ragoczy Franciscus stopped himself for asking her more; instead he said, “This camp is very near the water, and much affected by damp. I have secured a house in the town, inside the walls. If you would like to stay there … ?”
“In a house? With walls of brick or stone?” She stared at him in disbelief. “No. My place is here, with my clan, whether there is dampness or dryness.”
Ragoczy Franciscus regarded her with a combination of anguish and tenderness. “You will find a place to make your own, Dukkai.”
“But not with houses,” she declared. “Houses keep the Lords of the Earth from speaking, and they turn against those who will not listen, and shut out the gifts the Lords of the Earth provide. The smoke has revealed that the houses and walls of the Middle Kingdom so blocked the Lords of the Earth that the lands became barren and the sun was robbed of his strength. The Lord of the Snows has taken the place of the Lords of the Earth, and we must warm the land with blood of our enemies to drive back the Lord of the Snows.”
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