Recovering from her shock, Ting stepped to Wu's feet and pushed the frightened young guard aside. The anger had drained from her face. It had been replaced by something between incredulity and sadness. "Why?" she asked. "Why such a foolish attack?"
"For. .. children," Wu gasped. Each word made her lungs ache as though she were breathing ice instead of air. An agonized half-scream escaped her lips.
Ting looked at the veteran holding the children. "They don't need to see this! Get them away from here!" She waved her arms at the other guards. "Get away from here, all of you!"
The veteran obediently took the children and left the hall. The rest of the guards retreated to the edge of the room.
Ting returned her attention to Wu. "Where is the ebony tube?" she asked, kneeling at the wounded woman's side. "It doesn't matter now. Tell me."
Wu shook her head. "Children are safe."
"What do you mean? Why are they safe?" the mandarin asked as she leaned close.
"No good to kill—if I'm dead," Wu said.
"Is that what you think?" Ting sighed, her voice breaking with regret and guilt. "They must die anyway."
Wu lifted her head. "Why?" Though she had intended to yell, a hiss was all that escaped her lips.
Ting could no longer meet Wu's gaze. "Because they might know."
"No!" Wu's arm shot up from her side, and she clasped Ting's throat. Her fingers closed into the dragon's claw choke, but the last breath left her lungs before she could crush the mandarin's larynx.
13
Besieged
Hsuang Yu Po had never thought the odor of roasting meat would make him so miserable. The smell was rich and sweet, for the meat had been basted with honey. A desperate longing stirred in his stomach, and his mouth watered with a hunger that he knew would not be satisfied.
"Knaves," commented Cheng Han. The tzu's powder-stained face was drawn with starvation. His good eye bulged from its sunken socket, but the useless one had receded even farther into his haggard skull. His breath stank from the internal effects of starvation, and his k'ai hung off his frame as though his body were an armor stand.
With the other commanders of the noble armies, the two men stood in the highest room of Shou Kuan's bell tower. Save for a rough-hewn table, several benches lining the walls, and a window overlooking the city's main gate, the room was barren. Even the plastered walls had never been painted.
The window looked over the gate to the dusty road running from Shou Kuan to Tai Tung, the location of the emperor's summer palace. Although the road ran eastward, it entered Shou Kuan from the south, as was customary. If the main gate had been on any wall but the southern, it was commonly believed, evil spirits would have found it easy to enter the city.
Before turning eastward, the road ran seventy yards south and climbed to the top of a knoll. On top of the knoll stood two hundred shirtless Tuigan. From the bell tower's window, Hsuang could barely make out their long braids of hair and the shaven circles on the tops of their heads.
The half-dressed barbarians were tending fifty large, smoky fires. Over each fire, huge slabs of meat were roasting. As the enemy clearly intended, the morning breeze was carrying the smell directly to Hsuang and the others.
Hsuang tore his eyes away from the tormenting sight. To the right and left of the bell tower, the city walls were manned by soldiers of the Twenty-Five Armies. Like Tzu Cheng and the other commanders, the soldiers appeared gaunt and haggard. To a man, their glassy eyes were fixed on the smoky fires outside the city. Although the men's appearance and obvious hunger concerned Hsuang, he was far from shocked or surprised. In the three weeks since the battle at Shihfang, nobody had eaten more than a few handfuls of grain.
After the battle, the Twenty-Five Armies had retreated under cover of darkness. The Tuigan had followed close behind, preparing to attack. Fortunately, the peasants had obeyed Hsuang's messengers and burned their lands that very night. As the noble armies retreated down the road, their flanks had been protected by blazing fields. Only a small rearguard had been required to keep the Tuigan from overtaking them. Most of survivors had reached the safety of Shou Kuan's walls shortly before dawn.
Up to that point, everything had gone according to Batu's plan, and Hsuang had remained confident that his son-in-law would overcome the barbarians. However, the noble's confidence had deteriorated when his subordinates reported the city's condition. Upon hearing of the noble armies' defeat, the efficient citizens of Shou Kuan had obeyed the directive Hsuang had sent before the battle. They had burned their food stores and fled, leaving the city deserted and barren.
Hsuang had begun each of the twenty-one days since by cursing himself for not sending a special messenger to the city prefect. Of course, his self-derision had done nothing to alleviate his mistake, and now he was in danger of failing Batu. The troops of the Twenty-Five Annies were starving. It would not be long before they lacked the strength to keep the barbarians from the city. Already, men were dying of hunger, and illness was on the rise.
Hsuang wondered where his son-in-law was. Two days ago, the tzu had promised his subordinates that help would arrive soon, but he knew they placed no faith in that vague reassurance. Unfortunately, without the Mirror of Shao, he could not contact Batu to ask when the provincial armies would arrive. Nebulous promises were all he had available to keep up his men's morale.
Hsuang was the not only one concerned with the army's morale. Pointing at the dusty knoll outside the gates, Cheng Han said, "Those cooking fires are within archery range. Let the men occupy themselves by making the enemy pay for his fun."
Hsuang considered the request, but finally decided against it. "No. We'll need the arrows when help arrives."
"Of course," Cheng said, bowing modestly. "What could I have been thinking?" There was a barely concealed look of mockery in his eyes, but he made no further protest.
Hsuang did not blame the man for his doubt. The gray-haired noble still had not told his subcommanders that Batu intended to surprise the Tuigan at Shou Kuan. If the enemy stormed the city and happened to capture one of the nobles, Hsuang did not want his son-in-law's plan revealed.
The old lord was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this decision. Shou nobles did not fear death nearly as much as they feared dying like cowards. Yesterday, one young lord had actually suggested mounting a suicidal charge before the pengs grew too weak to fight. To Hsuang's alarm, several wiser nobles had voiced support for the young man's idea. The commander wondered how long it would be before the rest of the lords urged him to choose battle over starvation.
Considering their restlessness, Hsuang decided it would be wise to allow his men some fun at the barbarians' expense—providing it didn't cost too many arrows. Turning to his subordinates, he said, "On further thought, I think Tzu Cheng is right: we should make the Tuigan pay for our misery. Each of you may select ten archers. Give each archer four arrows. We will see which of our armies kills the most barbarians."
The nobles all smiled and voiced their approval. Within seconds, each lord was laying wagers that his archers would kill more barbarians than those of any other army.
Cheng approached Hsuang. "A wise decision," said the scar-eyed lord. "By tomorrow, our men may be too weak to pull their bows."
"Let us hope they remain strong a few days longer than that," Hsuang countered, catching the tzu's eyes with a meaningful gaze. "I am confident that help will arrive soon."
Before Cheng could respond, a sentry knocked on the stairway door. "My lords, it is most urgent!" he called.