The Blue Mountain (The Forbidden List Book 2) Page 10

  Their last stop was one of the up-market drinking establishments. Haung found a place where he could watch the door and waited. After ten minutes he thought about going in himself. Finding a table close by where he could eavesdrop on any conversation or maybe see who he met. Either might have given him a clue or another lead to follow. He took a step forward, then stopped and looked down. His robe was rich but not rich enough. He had money but not enough. More to the point, he felt dirty and to go into that establishment feeling out of place would just make him stand out. Haung retreated back into the shadows.

  As the lamps were being lit and the shadows shrinking under their yellow glow, the noble and his bodyguard emerged. The noble stumbled over the door sill and his protector was forced to reach out a hand to stabilise him. The rich man shook off the helping hand, glared at the bodyguard, turned away, swaying a little, and began to meander down the street at a far slower pace than before. When Haung judged they were far enough away, he fell in behind. The bodyguard turned round only once on the next leg of their journey. Haung slipped into another shadow until the man had turned back to his charge. For the rest of the walk, the bodyguard was hard pressed to keep the noble upright. Each time, he had to reach out a steadying hand the noble would turn, glare and speak harshly to him.

  The character of the streets changed from retail and commercial into residential. And not just any homes, but those of the wealthy. The homes of people who could afford enough land in the city to build a wall around their homes. Haung watched them enter through double arched doors into a spacious courtyard beyond. He sighed. I feel like I have been here before, he thought, recalling the house in Yaart where had fought and killed Jing Ke. Only later to discover it was not the real assassin and terrorist.

  * * *

  Haung stared at the sìhéyuàn, the courtyard home with its plaster walls. If this house followed the pattern of most, then the gate he could see would be in the south-east corner with a yǐng bì, a screen that would shelter the goings on in the house from the street, behind it. The sun had set and he had become a little lost following the noble through the streets, but he guessed that the gate was on the correct, fashionable side of the house. With that assumption made and a sense of orientation in his mind he could work out the probable layout of the rest. His point of entry would be accomplished, this time, without the aid of magically strengthened leg muscles.

  Next to the gate and forming the southern wall would be the servants’ quarters, the kitchen and the family’s eating space. The buildings on the west and east would be for the grown-up children, any uncles, aunts or guests. The main building, along the northern wall, was likely to be where the head of the family slept and where he would spend most of the day engaged upon family business or relaxing. If the family were rich enough, there might be a personal shrine in that building too.

  Haung waited until it was fully dark before making his preparations. Such as they can be, he thought. The decision to follow and infiltrate the house had been spur of the moment and he took stock of his belongings, seeking anything that would help. It was a quick search. He had nothing except a small bag of coins and the clothes he was dressed in. Still, he considered himself lucky. Since coming to the Holy City, the clothes he had chosen were no longer the loose robes and skirt, yi and chang, but the more imperial style of close fitting pao and loose trousers, ku. He smiled slightly as his hands moved to the fashion from his youth in Yaart that he had held onto. A wide silk belt wrapped around his waist and tied with a knot that rested on his right hip. It had always been a useful place to secrete prepared scrolls, paper spells, lock picks or to hook a weapon through. Of course, and his smile faded, he had none of those things on him now. Still, you made the best of what you had. Flex, adapt and overcome, his Jiin-Wei trainers had taught him.

  Unwinding the belt, he placed it over his nose so that it covered the lower half of his face and tied it tight at the back of his head, pushing the loose ends down the back of his robe. The street was quiet and he slipped across and up to the wall by the gate. It was going to be hard to climb over the wall. The slate roof hung over the edge of the wall and any attempt to pull himself over would cause the slates to slip. The crash they made as they hit the street would negate any chance of a stealthy entrance. He turned to his right, followed the wall around the corner and down the narrow alley between the target house and its neighbour. It was wide enough for two men to walk side by side as long they were not adverse to bumping shoulders on every step. The eastern alley had a gully for water in the centre and weeds grew near the walls. However, there was nothing there to assist him. Turning left at the end, he followed the northern wall and, halfway along, he found something that might help, a broken crate.

  In the dark, he examined the remains of the crate the best he could, by touch more than sight. It was too fragile and broken to stand on. He pulled at the wooden sides and it split easily along the grain. Trying to break it the other way, against the grain, proved impossible. Haung ran his hand across the wall of the noble’s house. Here, around the back, out of sight, the plaster covering had not been maintained. There were areas where it was missing entirely, and other sections where it could be flaked off without effort. Haung rubbed the shard of the crate in his hand and pondered. No better option would present itself and, if he really wanted to find out more about the noble that had been prying into his life, this was it. Or he could go home. Haung shook his head. No, he had come this far.

  Collecting more pieces of the thin wood, he set to work. Using his fingertips, he found a section of wall that seemed suitable for the task. He flicked away the remnants of the plaster between the bricks and then pushed a slat of wood between them, wedging it in as far as he could. He took a deep breath, wrapped his hand around the small step he had just made and pulled down, testing its strength. The wooden step held, its strength against the grain and its depth in the wall enough to resist his efforts. Haung smiled beneath his improvised mask.

  He broke the crate into more steps and wedges. Reaching above his first step, he repeated the process again and again. Once he could reach no further, he placed his trust in the first of his steps, putting his foot onto it and lifting himself up. His other foot went onto the next step, and then the next until he could reach the top of the wall. It was easy to pull himself up and over those tiles that would fall. Haung rolled onto the roof of the northern house. Laying on his back, he rubbed the red lines on his palms where the wooden steps had cut into them.

  Step one done, he thought.

  * * *

  Haung edged the door open and listened for any creaking of wood or squealing of hinges. Thankfully, the door was well maintained. He took a deep breath and slipped into the main house, closing the door behind him. With a guiding hand on the wall, he moved away from the entrance and crouched down, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The impenetrable darkness slowly gave ground to a grainy, hazy mix of greys.

  He was in a large room with an open walkway down the centre. Square wooden pillars reached from floor to ceiling. Next to each, a small table with a vase resting upon it. Haung inched forward to take a closer look and, even without his colour vision, he could see that it was decorated in exquisite style. The others, he surmised, would be the same. Beyond the pillars to the left was a small seating area around a low table, a closed door and, next to that, a collection of shelves that looked to contain a selection of scrolls and more pottery.

  To the right, another area of seating, this time surrounding a higher table and something that caught Haung’s interest, a desk. He took another breath and could feel sweat forming on his back. Haung picked the robe away from his skin, drawing in a cooling draught of air. During the journey to the desk, on quiet feet, the sweat was accompanied by a nagging itch between his shoulder blades. He stopped halfway and listened. His beating heart and suppressed breathing were all the sounds he could hear. A quick scratch to dislodge the itch and he moved on.

  The desktop
was neat. A pile of paper, weighed down with a smooth keep-stone, in the top right hand corner. An inkwell and linen covered wooden writing block in the centre and, on the left, another pile of paper. Haung flicked through it, a lot of figures and writing. It was too dark to read. He was tempted to stuff a few pages into his robe for later examination. In the end, he decided against it. The aim of the night was to discover the identity of the noble. He rubbed the paper between forefinger and thumb, still tempted, but its absence would be noticed. For once, Haung wanted to have the advantage.

  A noise from behind the door across the room made him duck behind the chair. Haung waited, trying to keep his breathing quiet and his heart calm. The itch between his shoulder blades returned. His hand went to the necklace, feeling its outline below his robe. Once more, he wished he had not forsworn the magic of the Fang-Shi. A little spell to set some alarms upon the doors, another to mask any noise he made and the whole process could have been done by now.

  When no more noise came from the door, he returned to rifling through the desk. In one of the drawers he found a seal. Raising and tilting it, trying to see the picture and writing upon it was fruitless. Haung looked at the door again, checking. He slipped a piece of blank paper off the right-hand pile, pressed the seal onto the ink cloth he had found in the drawer and then onto the blank paper. He made several impressions before wiping the seal clean and replacing it. The paper, he blew on until he was certain the ink was dry, folded it and hid it within his robe.

  Work done, he thought and started back towards the entrance, but the itch stopped him. Standing still, next to one of the pillars, he paused and thought. Perhaps it was just an itch, but relying on your feelings and hunches was an integral part of his Jiin-Wei training. Haung turned a full circle, taking in the layout of the room again. The door through which he had entered, the pillars, the vases, the bookshelves, tables and the door opposite. What was missing? He looked again. Everything seemed to be in its rightful place, the sign of a tidy mind that liked rules, and enjoyed keeping to them. But something was out of place, or rather there was something missing. It took a moment before he realised what it was. Every main house, in every courtyard house he had ever seen, had two rooms leading off from it. One he could see opposite which meant there should be one behind the desk.

  “Bugger,” he whispered as he gave in to the itch and turned towards where the door should be. He crept past the desk, to the wall and rested his palm against it. With the utmost care he ran his hand over the wall, focusing upon the slight changes in the feel of the wall.

  And there it was, a slight depression in the wall which he followed up and across, outlining a door with his sense of touch. Sure of its location he set about trying to open it. Placing his hand where the handle should be, he pushed. The door did not move. He tried all four corners and the door still refused to open. Sweeping his hands around the outside of the door and pushing on any section that felt, or he imagined felt, different to the rest, had no effect. The itch was growing. He needed to see what was in the room beyond.

  Haung stepped back and bumped the desk chair. There was not much room between the wall and the desk, enough for a chair but too little to sit comfortably. In the grainy light, he examined the area. There was nothing on the under surface of the desk, but below it, set into the floor, just where a foot would rest if someone were sat in the chair, was a section of floor that was just a fraction lower than the rest. He pressed it down and with a subtle click the door opened inwards. Haung pushed it open further and peered in.

  “Now that is interesting,” he whispered. The room beyond was lined with bookshelves and desks. On the desks, a collection of flasks, vials and tubes. At the far end, a long tube held up on a tripod and an armillary sphere. The only people who had a use for the stars were the philosophers who tried to understand how the land, life and the earth came to be, the astrologers who tried to predict the future by the motion of the stars and one other group, the Fang-Shi. The sphere itself was worth more than an average trader could make in a year.

  The itch between his shoulder blades was a strong hint that the owner of this room, of this house, was not a philosopher or an astronomer. He scratched beneath his collar. Time to go he decided, and with another press of the hidden switch closed the door.

  Chapter 15

  Zhou came to a halt before the rest of the Wu on ground that, in the physical world, the temple rested upon. They had all returned to their human forms and not one of them looked anything but tired and despondent. It was also clear that they were arguing amongst themselves.

  “Stop it,” Boqin, just ahead of Zhou, stepped in between them. “We have to work together to stop these creatures.”

  “What are they?” Húli asked.

  “We don’t know. Zhou,” Boqin waved in his direction, “looked through the archives and could not find any mention of such creatures existing. Nor was there mention of this red energy they seem to be infused with.”

  “What about the birds of fire?”

  *I can only suppose that they were brought here from the fire realm,* Dà Lóng spoke and they all looked up. The long wyrm floated down from the sky and settled to the ground. Its form shimmered, a sparkling shower of blue, and was replaced with a man whose eyes shone red and gold. The Emperor bowed. “Honoured Wu. Boqin. Little Cub. It is good to stand upon the mountain once more. Even if it is for such a short time and in such dire straits as we find ourselves.”

  Boqin was the last to turn. “Jian-min, it has been a very long time. I never thought to see you here again.”

  “Ah,” the Emperor gazed at Boqin, “that is a name I had not thought to hear again. You requested I come to your aid. I told you, all those years ago, I would only return when you asked. Not before.”

  “And I had hoped that would be forever,” Boqin growled.

  “Listen...” Zhou began but was interrupted by a loud groan that echoed from the mountains. A quiver that ran through the ground beneath his feet. The Wu looked around in confusion.

  “What was that?” Zhou asked.

  “Earthquake?” Boqin said.

  The ground shook again. No gentle tremor, but great heaves of earth lifted the land and then settled back, the mountain taking deep breaths. Zhou staggered, thrown off balance, and fell to his knees. The next wave threw him onto his back. The earth groaned in agony once more and there came a noise that, to Zhou’s baffled ears, sounded as if a thousand silk robes were being ripped apart. He struggled to keep himself rooted to the earth, holding onto clumps of low grass to stop himself being thrown about like a child’s toy.

  In his disjointed vision he saw trees sway, their crowns colliding with one another and become tangled. They pulled at each other, a tug of war and a fight to escape the other’s embrace. The losers were dragged from the earth, trunks screaming as they were bent and splintered. Roots whipping back and forth as they were ripped from their mother earth, leaving behind bowl shaped depressions of dark soil.

  Those great trees whose trunks were too strong, too sturdy to flex and sway in time with the heaving earth struggled to retain their grasp on the earth. Ancient wood would not bow nor give in. They stood, had stood, for an age rigid, proud and immovable, yet, with sharp cracks, the trunks snapped. The trees collapsed, dying, to the earth.

  Still the shaking continued and now, from the earth, dust rose to obscure vision. Fine and grey it rose, or perhaps the ground fell away and the dust was merely left to hang in the air. Zhou coughed as he breathed it in. His mouth turned dry, the fine rock powder absorbing all the moisture in his mouth and throat. It stopped, the mountain returned to calm and peace.

  Zhou stayed face down on the earth. His fingers still clung to the clumps of grass that had been his anchors through the shaking, bucking and heaving. He worked his jaws, bringing as much spit back into his mouth as he could. His teeth and gums were clagged with thick dust and he could taste the dry earth on his tongue. Zhou spat a grey, green, filthy gobbet of dust and saliva.r />
  Surprisingly, many of the trees still stood, though the fallen reminded him of jumbled chopsticks, broken trunks of sharp tooth-picks and up-turned roots of twisted noodles. The dust, he could now see, had only risen to a foot or so above the ground and was settling, covering the grass in a fine, grey film of powder.

  “Everyone all right?” Boqin’s voice sounded loud in the quiet.

  The other Wu called back as Zhou, touching the earth with the palm of his hand one last time, making sure it was not about to throw him skywards, stood. He looked to the others. They were all rising to their feet. Some were dusting themselves down, causing more of the fine dust to rise up around them in faint clouds.

  “We’ve never experienced an earthquake in these mountains,” Dà Lóng said. “Where is Biānfú? He knows these mountains better than anyone.”

  “He fell in the battle,” Zhou answered.

  “He is being looked after,” Boqin said. “Though, hopefully, that earthquake will have driven off those creatures and give us time to rest, to plan.”

  “I’ll look,” Dà Lóng said. The Emperor turned and walked a few steps. Blue light streamed from his form and Zhou was forced to blink. He was buffeted by the first down draft of the Dragon’s wings and had to shift his feet to remain upright.

  *The creatures have gone,* the dragon’s voice sounded in Zhou’s head.

  “Good,” Boqin nodded, “then we have some time.”