Chapter Nineteen

The reception area at the heart of the royal tent was almost crowded. The king sat in a carved chair with high, square arms, flanked by Ssu-ma, Ssu-kung and several of the higher-ranking officers. The prisoners, still bound, faced them. Joss, Alasdair and Chuan stood to one side, near the soldiers who had marched the captives into the tent.

From where she stood, Joss could see the profile of the older prisoner. The corner of his mouth was tucked in firmly, his shoulders were squared and he stood stone-still. But once or twice Joss saw a slight quiver in the hands tied behind his back. Beside him stood the boy. He didn’t quite come up to his father’s shoulder, but he clearly was trying to keep his back as straight as he could.

Standing near the prisoners was an elderly man who Joss had noticed from time to time during the march. He was a humble-looking soul with big front teeth and a habit of sniffing—rather like a rabbit with a cold. He was a scholar, one of the few people in the Middle Kingdom who was familiar with the language of the White Ti, and he had been brought along as a translator.

But the translation wasn’t going well. The rabbity-looking man made a few remarks to the prisoners, but got not response beyond a puzzled look from the older captive. He responded with a single short sentence.

“What did he say?” asked the king.

“Sire, he is awed by your presence.”

The prisoner repeated the sentence and Joss frowned. The translation didn’t ring true for her. It certainly didn’t match the man’s posture and expression. He didn’t look in the least awed.

The prisoner spoke the same short sentence a third time, and she listened intently. She sensed his language was basically similar to that of the Middle Kingdom.

The translator repeated, “He is awed by your presence, sire.”

“No he’s not,” Joss blurted out. Everyone turned to look at her.

“Do you know his speech?” Ssu-ma asked. She thought there was a hint of suspicion in his voice and floundered, “No, no.” Then faltered into silence.

“Ask him who he is,” said the king.

The translator slowly spelled out a sentence in the foreign tongue. A look of total bewilderment passed between man and boy, and the man changed to another sentence. The translator hesitated nervously, then said, “I believe . . . I believe he says he is a thief, my lord.”

“A thief!” The king thumped the arm of his chair. “I knew these White Ti to be rascals. But to admit it so coolly!”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Once again, Joss spoke before she knew she was doing it. The rabbity scholar jumped at her voice.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“He can’t be a thief.”

Ssu-kung broke the astonished silence. “Ah. So you do speak this enemy tongue.” His voice was greased silk.

“No,” she replied. “Although I think I could do as good a job as he’s doing.” She jerked her thumb at the translator, who seemed close to tears.

“Sire ... I know this language only from scrolls and study. I have had no opportunity to speak it.”

Ssu-ma snorted in disgust. “I told you to get me someone who could translate,” he said to Ssu-kung. “You should have thrown him out with the turnips.”

The rabbity man flinched, and Joss’s heart went out to him.

“Can I try something?” she said. Hardly waiting for an answer, she went towards the prisoners and motioned to the man to bend forward a little so that his forehead was on a level with her face. She looked steadily into his eyes for a few moments, hoping she could somehow reassure him with her gaze. “Don’t worry,” she murmured illogically, as if he could understand. Then she brushed his hair aside and laid the tip of her tongue lightly on his forehead.

She felt him stiffen, but she dug her fingers into his shoulder to hold him still. There was a slightly metallic taste on the tip of her tongue as if she had touched it to a weak electric battery, and she felt a faint throbbing in her own forehead. The silence in the room was so deep that it was like a ringing in her ears. Finally, she let go her grip on the prisoner and stepped back.

“Now,” she said. “Who are you?”

A shadow of wonder crossed his face, followed by the faintest expression of relief.

“I am Deng-Xu merchant and traveller.”

“And this is your son?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say earlier?”

He let his calm gaze travel around the rich furnishings of the tent. “I said you are thieves.”

“What have we stolen?”

“My goods. My trading goods and hence my profits for an entire year.” His voice was composed and yet indignant.

Joss’s attention was distracted by a sharp question from the king. “What are you saying?” She looked around to realize that almost everyone in the room was staring at her with suspicion. “Oh, sorry . . .” she said and translated the conversation.

Ssu-kung looked at her narrowly. “How does this happen? That you understand this speech?”

She answered warily. “It’s just a . . . a gift that was given to me. To touch people on the forehead and understand them.” For some reason, she didn’t add that she could extend this gift to others in the room and allow them to communicate directly with the prisoner.

Ssu-ma stepped forward and, lifting her chin, looked closely in her eyes. “And before this time, you have never heard the speech of the White Ti.”

She looked steadily back at him. “No.”

“And this is a gift that all people in your world have? The boy, for instance?”

“Alasdair can, yes. But not everybody. It happened as we came into this world.”

His grip tightened slightly on her chin. She felt the strength of his hands and his potential power over her. “This is the truth?” he demanded.

Alasdair came to her defence. “It is,” he said fiercely.

Ssu-ma looked from her face to Alasdair’s. Then, apparently satisfied, he let go of Joss’s chin and stepped back to assume his position near the king.

The king clapped his hands and said jubilantly, “You see how wise I was to bring her, Ssu-ma.”

The Director of Horses permitted himself a grim smile. “I will allow that you were fortunate, sire.”

But Alasdair, looking around the circle of faces, saw that suspicion lingered on a few of them and that Ssu-kung wore an expression of settled resentment as he stared at Joss.

Ssu-ma turned back to Joss. “Ask him his business in this region,” he commanded.

Through a series of questions and answers, Joss found that Deng was finishing his summer’s travel to trade goods throughout the southern tip of the lands of the White Ti. That he and his son were natives of the town of Xi. That Xi lay somewhere to the north.

But then the answers started to dry up. Deng would not say anything about his people, except that their leader, their “overlord,” was named Prince Min. To any question about the location of their capital, the strength of their armies, the nature of their weapons and warcraft, he returned no answer. His lips closed firmly and he stared stoically ahead.

Ssu-ma stepped forward at last with one of the metal knives in his hand. “Ask him about this.”

The merchant looked at the weapon and a flicker of resentment showed in his face.

“That is my property.”

“Do all your people carry such property?”

But Deng refused to answer any further. Eventually the Director of Horses gave up and snapped out an order to remove the prisoners. As they were hustled out by guards, Ssu-ma called, “Wait.” He walked across the room to stare closely in the prisoner’s eyes.

“Tell him . . .,” he said slowly, “Tell him there are many kinds of property. It is wise to know how to value what is most important to you.”

As Joss finished translating this, she saw the merchant’s eyes turn swiftly towards his son. For an instant, he wore an expression of ... fear? ... horror? But before she could be certain, his face settled into its impassive folds. He gave no other sign that he had heard Ssu-ma’s remark. The onlookers stood silent as he and his son were marched away.

Later, before Joss and Alasdair went to their sleeping tents, they stopped by the line where their ponies were tethered to check whether the beasts were fed and watered. Leaning against the placid flanks of her pony, Joss asked “What do you think he meant?”

“Who?”

“Ssu-ma. When he said that last thing to the prisoners. About knowing how to value property.”

Alasdair’s face was solemn. He pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes before saying, “It was some kind of threat. He wants them to talk.”

She shivered, remembering the pressure of the strong fingers on her jaw. “I don’t like Ssu-ma.” It was as though she had finally decided something she hadn’t been sure of before. “He’s capable of anything.”

Alasdair frowned. “But he needs information, Joss. I think he just does what he has to do to get through this campaign.”

“He’d do anything,” she repeated. And repeated it to herself again as she drifted off to sleep.

The beginning of the next pulse came cooler and damper than the air had ever been before. As the soldiers gathered in jostling lines for the first meal, Alasdair looked up at the sky. The light node was paler than he had ever seen it. The rays of Yao-chi’s thread were invisible.

“Funny,” he said to himself, looking up.

A crusty soldier standing right behind him followed his gaze. “Fog coming in,” he said, then poked Alasdair’s ribs impatiently. “Get going there.” He jumped and apologized, then set his clay bowl down for a dollop of millet porridge.

Before the meal was finished, the first tendrils of mist started to creep into the camp. Alasdair looked up to see that the line of horses behind the royal tent was almost completely concealed. The trees on the far side of the road were no more than looming, suggestive shapes. Then the fog came in as quickly and thoroughly as a chemical reaction taking place in a test tube. Beside him, the crusty soldier looked up from his rapidly emptying bowl and grunted in satisfaction.

“They won’t be marching us anywhere this pulse,” he said through a mouthful of porridge.

Soon the company commanders confirmed this prediction, shouting orders through the camp. The soldiers seemed torn between gratitude to the fog for giving them a rest from the ceaseless lashing of horses and dragging of carts, and fear of what it represented.

“It’s early this winter,” muttered another soldier near Alasdair. “We should have been on our way back home before the first fog.”

The camp battened down to wait out the weather. Joss wandered around as aimless as the mist, feeling as though it was seeping into her own soul.

She located the tent where the prisoners had been put. It was separated from the main body of the camp by the king’s royal pavilion. The prison tent was watched by two armed guards, one stationed on the north side and the other on the south. The stared coldly at her as she wandered by. Flustered, she wandered over to scratch the nose of one of the king’s personal horses.

As she stood partly screened by the horses, she saw the king, Ssu-ma and Ssu-kung come out of the king’s quarters and walk towards the prison tent. They stood looking for a few moments; then the king spoke to Ssu-ma, who nodded and raised his voice to give orders to the guards.

“See no-one comes near. No food—give them a single mouthful of water at each meal time.” The leader of the guards, partially concealed by the swirling fog, gave a gesture of salute, and the king and his companions headed back towards the royal tent.

Joss knew suddenly that she had to hear what they were going to talk about. She waited until they had disappeared, then scurried along the line of horses to the far side of the royal tent. Here, she took a breath and forced herself to stroll coolly, purposefully, as though she were approaching the king’s quarters from the direction of the main camp. She passed the guard at the entrance and nodded casually to him. She was a common enough visitor and she knew he wouldn’t challenge her.

Once inside, however, she did not go through to the main reception area. Instead, she slipped into one of the small chambers that rimmed the centre, screened off from the centre by silk walls fastened to carved wooden supports. She tiptoed across this space to crouch in the far corner, her knees hugged against her chest.

“. . . and most of all, I need information.” It was Ssu-ma’s voice, flat and forceful. “We have come into this region poorly equipped . . .”

“Poorly equipped! The best-equipped army since my father’s campaign against the Chou. I gave you all the money you asked for.”

The Director of Horses cut into the king’s indignant voice. “Poorly equipped with knowledge, Your Highness. We do not know this country and you would not wait for me to send spies and have them return. I am playing guessing games, and if the winter fogs continue to come down so early, we are even more vulnerable.”

“Then these prisoners are like a gift from the God of the Soil. They can tell you what you need to know.”

“If—and only if—I can get anything out of them.”

“Lack of food will weaken them.”

“I pin little faith on that, sire. The man has no look of treachery about him. He does have a look of great stubbornness.”

“But the boy...”

“The boy will not be nearly so useful a source of information. He is too young.”

There was a pause, until Ssu-kung spoke. “Then we will have to carry out your threat.” Joss could hear a sort of gloating in his voice. “Torturing the boy will uncork the father’s mouth.”

“Torturing a child is not consistent with the power and dignity of the Middle Kingdom.” The king’s voice was clear and indignant, and Joss felt a rush of warmth towards him.

“Of course, of course.” Ssu-kung was soothing. He knew he had stepped over the line.

“I warn you, sire, it may be necessary.” Ssu-ma said heavily. “I may have no alternative but torture.”

There was a silence, and in it Joss seemed to hear the awful word again.

The boy she had helped capture would be put through slow, agonizing pain while his father had to watch. Joss saw the calm face in her mind’s eye, saw the affectionate concern with which he had looked at the young face beside him when they were captured in the clearing.

Torture. The word banged in her ears like a gong.