Chapter 15

“We are presently camped one day’s march east of the city of Prosperity …” the Emperor said. He was dictating to his secretary, Mandarin of the First Rank Ash Staff. “The capital of Jiading Province,” he added to save Boundless Shore from having to ask someone. First Mandarin would know, of course. “So far we have seen no sign of earthquake damage, although we are told that the Golden River is higher than normal for Harvest Moon.”

He waited for Ash Staff to wipe his brush and take more ink. First Mandarin had been appalled at the idea that the Emperor would inscribe his own correspondence. Emperors wrote poetry, and some had been known to dabble in landscapes, but nothing more. Butterfly Sword knew that his own calligraphy was suffering from disuse, and would be regarded by his regents with silent contempt. Besides, writing with a water cask as a table and a saddlebag as a chair did not lend itself to creating the best art, although Ash Staff produced excellent script under those conditions.

Ash Staff had been recommended to His Imperial Majesty by First Mandarin, and might well be a grandson or great-grandson of the old rascal. He would certainly be writing his own reports back to Sublime Mountain, tattling on what the Emperor was up to but hadn’t thought to mention.

“Our progress has been slower than we had hoped since we left the Grand Canal.”

In fact, it had been appalling. The canal’s advantage had been that the Emperor’s small flotilla of two boats had been able to transit the problem locks and shallows much faster than the army’s huge fleet had done. But since leaving the canal where it met the Golden River, Iron Spur had proceeded upriver by land, on horseback along the towpath. As a result, he was closing the gap only very slowly. He was still a month behind the Imperial Army.

Back on Sublime Mountain, Butterfly Sword had fantasized about outracing the wind across the Good Land, but that had not happened. Emperors could not speed along like imperial couriers. Of course he had not expected to travel in his formal robes, acres of golden silk embroidered with pearls and precious stones, but there might be occasions when he would want to dress up. That meant bundles and more bundles, and valets to look after them, and the only trained valets were eunuchs, of course, and few eunuchs knew how to ride. Even his traveling clothes must make a statement: Did he outrank General Iron Spur or didn’t he? If he concealed his rank too well, some uppity officer might set him on latrine duty. Not that Butterfly Sword would mind that very much—he had attended to such matters for years back in Sheep Rocks, and it was not a skill that required constant practice—but the officer would necessarily have to be beheaded. Also, Butterfly Sword needed privacy, which meant a large tent all to himself. And so, despite his bragging to Iron Spur, his presence slowed the general’s progress, which was galling. The worst of it was that everyone in the company soon knew who the big “Captain Dragon Claw” was. Notwithstanding all his protests, guards were posted around his tent at night.

So his dream of a small, fast-moving group had bloated into a nightmare of about two hundred people, crawling along at the pace of the slowest horse. Butterfly Sword was now convinced that Iron Spur was being overprotective of his Emperor’s safety. Without him to guard, he would take to the river. Of course, he could be overruled, but that must be done tactfully, for Butterfly Sword had promised not to interfere in the way the army was run.

The lantern flickered; wind flapped the tent. The air was permanently full of bugs and a dust that worked its way into everything. Why should Butterfly Sword complain? Even here, bivouacking in a swamp on the banks of the mighty Golden River, he was better off than nine-tenths of the people he had seen on his journey so far. His people, but he would not sleep tonight if he thought much about that.

“We have received your report inscribed on the First Day of Harvest Moon. We approve of your actions regarding the unruly eunuchs, for truly they are vermin.”

But they weren’t, not really. They were thousands of wretched, mutilated men he had thrust out into a contemptuous and unforgiving world with no means of earning a living, but if he wrote that, First Mandarin and Boundless Shore would think he was insane.

“Try to find useful employment for the dutiful.”

Now what?

“The Grand Canal,” he said, “is in a much worse state than we expected.”

Years of neglect had left the banks and locks in dismal condition, and vast stretches of the channel in need of dredging. Butterfly Sword had long since stopped feeling sorry for what he had done to the Empress Mother. For years, that murderous old crone had wasted the revenue of the Empire on megalomaniacal plans for a totally unnecessary Water Palace. Even if the Bamboo Banner could be stopped in its tracks and Heaven granted the phony Emperor Absolute Purity a long reign and the wisdom of all the teachers, he would be hard put to restore the Good Land to the happy prosperity it had known in the days of Zealous Righteousness.

Ash Staff was waiting again. …

“On land, we are held back by the slowest horse.” He had to mention horses somewhere, so that Boundless Shore would know that his letter was genuine.

“We have therefore decided to continue from here by water.”

Ash Staff looked up in alarm, then remembered his manners and wrote what the Lord of the High and Low had spoken. The local peasants were still terrified that the Golden River would break through the upstream obstruction caused by the earthquake and come roaring down upon them in gigantic waves. But the river here was so wide that its far bank was out of sight. Butterfly Sword could not believe that such an enormous expanse of water could behave like a mountain stream. He could even see traces of debris left on the shore above the current waterline. That was why he had sent Iron Spur ahead to talk to the local governor.

“Who goes there?” demanded a voice outside.

Iron Spur’s voice gave the password.

“We will continue in the morning,” the Emperor told his secretary. “Enter!”

Ash Staff obediently corked his ink bottle and put his tools away in his scribe’s box.

The general entered and bowed. It had taken two weeks to train him not to kowtow out here in the field. He was very effective as a leader, Iron Spur. His men adored him, and he organized their fodder and comfort meticulously so he could drive them hard. Quite likely, he was a very able tactician, but a strategist, probably not. Butterfly Sword tended to think of him as “Young” Iron Spur, although he must have at least five years on Butterfly Sword himself.

“Greetings, Supreme Guardian. I haven’t seen you smile like that in a month. You have good news.”

“Indeed, yes, Your Majesty! The learned governor completely confirms what your imperial wisdom had already discerned. The great Fish Moon Earthquake did dam the Golden River just downstream from Wedlock, and when the river did escape from its chains, it indeed displayed its anger with a great flood, but its fury abated downstream. Many vessels are now riding its vast waters again untroubled.”

So now it was safe to bathe? Mustn’t say so, mustn’t make jokes. At times, Butterfly Sword had to restrain himself from sharing confidences with Iron Spur, for he was not in on the great conspiracy. His grandfather First Mandarin would not have told him that he was to serve a phony Emperor, because if the deception were ever revealed, all those in the know would face the death of a thousand cuts, or worse. Only Butterfly Sword, First Mandarin, and “Empress” Snow Lily knew the truth—plus Gray Sister Lark and unknown members of the Gray Order, of course.

“Let us drink together to celebrate your news.”

Of course, the general had to unwrap the flask from its cooling wet wrappings and fill the goblets. He even had to drink first, to show that it was not poisoned—or if it were, that he was not party to the fact.

It didn’t seem to be. Butterfly Sword took a swig.

“And has the noble governor any vessel he might put at our disposal?”

“Indeed he had, sire! The Starlight Dream, a recently commissioned but well-tested paddleboat scheduled to leave tomorrow laden with rice for the stricken lands. He promised to continue coal loading through the night and have accommodation arranged for us on board.”

Had Iron Spur hinted that his party included a very important person he must not name? Had he threatened force? Or was the governor just a loyal servant of the throne? Stranger things could happen, but not often.

“Is he dispatching the food for charity or to make a profit on the famine prices upstream, do you know?”

Iron Spur smiled respectfully. “He implied the first, sire, and the truth should be available when we arrive near the disaster.”

“Wherever the truth lies, we will hold him up as an example to others. And once we are safely afloat and on our way, I think the noble Starlight Dream should fly our imperial flag, so that the people may know we are attending to our duties.”

And if the Emperor ever did manage to catch up with his lost army, he could appropriate more ships, load his troops on board, and sail them up the Golden and Jade Rivers to Cherish, which he hoped to reach in time to intercept the Bamboo Banner. But that would depend on events.

“What did the governor say about the passage of our army through Jiading?”

“He was reticent, sire, but I believe your orders against looting and uncompensated expropriation were not fully carried out. Evidence for a court-martial could be readily obtained hereabouts.”

“I will have Ash Staff collect some statements before we sail. You have other news?” Butterfly Sword could read Iron Spur quite easily now. He was fairly sure that the warrior’s loyalty had ripened from duty to sincere respect. Yet how many Emperors had died believing such improbabilities?

“His Excellency reported some news of the Bamboo Banner, reports he had received from Jingyan Province. The governor there is convinced that the rebel rank and file have all been addicted to yang leaf, sire. That might explain some of their alleged miracles.”

“Inform us about yang.”

“A narcotic, sire, grown in tropical lands. It dulls pain, makes the user both gullible and submissive. Apparently, Bamboo has been doping all his followers with it. The governor personally questioned some prisoners—three of them, all skinny as ferrets and raving imbeciles from yang withdrawal. They begged him to put them to death, Your Majesty. He refused to oblige traitors, and just chained them up in public to starve. Which did not take them long, regrettably.”

“And where is Bamboo getting this invidious yang?”

“That we do not know, but he cannot have an unlimited supply.”

“You mean that his army may explode into thousands of raving lunatics swarming in all directions?”

“As Your Majesty says.” Even yet, Iron Spur had not quite adjusted to the idea that Emperors sometimes had brains.

“Would that be an improvement?”

“It would be a shame, if Your Celestial Majesty will forgive my saying so, to come all this way and not find anyone to fight.”

“Spoken like a true warrior. You may pour more wine.”

The collapse of the Bamboo Banner into a crazy rabble would not be the worst of events for the Son of the Sun himself, but it might be harder on the Gentle People than a straightforward military massacre. The Empress Mother had never said that running an empire was easy.