Legend of The Young Master

Chapter 213: Law of War

Many of the women from the group came and stood with Feiru, showing that they agreed with what the seamstress had said.

"Sluts and harlots," said a voice.

The heads of the crowd turned as one.

Monk Zen looked as if he'd been through hell. His face was streaked with old, dried blood. His robe was flayed and fell around his waist, showing his ascetic body, lacerated with further cuts.

The people parted for him. He walked between them like a king.

"Sluts and harlots. Are these your allies, demon?" He stopped at the edge of the crowd.

"Not all of us are sluts, Monk," said Master Zhenying as he burrowed into the crowd. "Dujuan! Wenxu! What are you doing with this man? Fomenting mischief?" Master Zhenying walked into the crowd, looking for other merchant apprentices he knew.

"You killed the Pavilion Mistress," Wuyi said.

Monk Zen drew himself up. Wuyi knew he was too proud to deny the crime. Fool.

"She was an evil harlot, a creature of demons who chose to put her own appetites against—"

A stone hit the Monk in the head. He snapped around, eyes blazing, and just for a moment, he didn't look like a gentle and righteous monk. He looked like a madman. His eyes raged.

"Take that man," Wuyi said. He pointed his sword.

Baijian reached out with his spear, caught the Monk's foot with the head, and pulled. The Monk fell. Baijian kicked him viciously, his foot making a distinctive meaty sound as it connected with the Monk's gut.

The Monk retched.

Two archers grabbed him and hoisted him up. He tried to speak, but he got the butt of Baijian's spear in the arch of his foot. He screeched.

And suddenly, there was no crowd. Just frightened people, looking for salvation.

And most of them asked, "Where is the king?"

✶ ✶ ✶

Xilai listened to the angry crowd and kept his head down. He was almost drained of Qi—needed more recovery time, and the last thing he needed was a confrontation with ignorant witch-hunters.

Let the boy handle all that.

He dressed carefully. The old Pavilion Mistress had never been a friend of his—but now, in death, he had to admire her. She had disclosed power of a level she had never had in youth—and had deployed her power brilliantly. She'd held the Enemy for long moments while he prepared his masterstroke.

Sadly, his masterstroke hadn't quite come off. But she hadn't died in vain. The fortress still stood. And the Enemy's beard had been badly singed. Again.

And now all of her secrets would go to her grave with her, and her soul would fly to her heavens.

✶ ✶ ✶

In the prayer hall of pavilion.

Baijian appeared at Wuyi's side. Wuyi was doing his damnedest to appear as someone supporting the pavilion out of respect for the Pavilion Mistress. He had murmured prayers with the group. He had himself well in order.

She had wanted him to understand.

He knelt when the other attendees knelt. Elder Yueli led the service in the absence of the monk, a matter that seemed to excite no comment.

In his sacred chamber, he looked at harmony. Now that the Pavilion Mistress's soul had been acquired by the statue, he could feel a vague presence emanating from the statue, similar to what he used to feel from the Pavilion Mistress.

"Young Master?" asked Baijian, at his elbow.

"Not now."

"Now, Young Master," Baijian said.

He glared at Baijian and sighed. Then Wuyi stood, walked to the door, and Baijian followed him.

"What?" he asked when he was outside. The pavilion members were praying for her to rest—there was light music being played in the background. Every voice in the woven fabric of music was a thread of unique power. It was incredibly beautiful.

Baijian looked at the door to the cellars. "I have the monk, heavens rot his false soul to hell. I put him in the darkest room with a lock." Anger made his voice thick.

Wuyi nodded. "You valued her too."

Baijian shrugged. "She blessed me." He looked away. "That monk, he's going to die hard."

Wuyi nodded. "We'll try him for treason first," he said.

Baijian had his back to the door. "Why try him? You're lord of a fortress under siege. Law of War."

Wuyi shook his head and did not answer.

✶ ✶ ✶

Outside the fort. Merchant Zhenying picked his way fastidiously along a trench, following Shen—clambering over the cooked bodies of a hundred swamplings, their charred remnants a testimony to the power of fire. They smelled like cooked meat, and when he lost his balance and stepped on one, it crunched as if he'd stepped on charcoal. He paused.

His skin prickled.

Jin strode past him, eyes wary, moving faster. The beastmaster didn't seem to mind stepping on the cremated swamplings.

Zhenying wondered how long he'd have to do this before he was like Jin or Shen.

Behind him, forty men moved carefully along the trench—a group of archers, new recruits, farm boys. The reinforcements.

They came out of the trench under the wall of the Bridge Castle and hollered to the watch to open the postern. Zhenying had answered the call from the fortress before mains, and he wasn't in armour. He grabbed a bite of baozi and an apple, and one of the girls who'd come with the convoy handed him some good wine. He smiled. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" he asked.

She was Hua. Young attendants fancied her, and Wenxu had drawn her naked, which was still a nine-day wonder among the wagons, despite the flying monsters and magic. That made Zhenying laugh.

She smiled back at him. "Money," she said. "Same as you."

He shook his head and laughed again. "If we get back to the capital, come and ask me for a job," he said.

She looked at him. "You mean that?" she asked.

He made a face. "Of course."

She rolled her eyes. "Just when we're all going to die."

✶ ✶ ✶

Wuyi looked out through the hole in his wall and watched the fires burning in a swathe across the enemy's camp. The enemy's men, at least, cooked some food.

The rest of the camps were dark.

His back hurt. But then, his side hurt too. He now had cracked ribs on both sides of his ribcage—his shoulders were wrenched from the stress of being pushed around by the specter, and his right hand had odd, numb spots in it, and he had no idea why.

He was supposed to be in bed.

Dong stood uncertainly by the door.

"You want to be in bed, I suppose," Wuyi said.

Dong shrugged. "I'm hungry."

Wuyi went to the table in the middle of the room and tossed his attendant a fruit. Then he looked at the flute on the table. Over the years in the south, he had spent some time learning noble arts, including playing music. He hadn't played it in— He couldn't remember when he had last played it.

He picked it up, suddenly decisive, and walked out the door into the hallway. He reached another door—Jia's abode. Dong tried to cut him off, worried. Wuyi understood that Jia must be with his lady.

"Oh, Dong," he said. "I don't care." He knocked on the door.

In three heartbeats, Jia was there.

"Grab your music instrument," he said as he cupped his hands to the lady behind Jia. "Jia, these people need some music. Not a grim silence. Let's light a fire."

Jia sometimes forgot that his young master was only a few years older than he was. He grinned. "Give me—us—a moment."

✶ ✶ ✶

Feiru looked out into the darkness because she'd heard music.

There it was again, the sound of a southern flute. A wild, joyous sound. And then another, lower flute played back. There was a bonfire burning on the cobbles.

An archer, Qinujian, came and peered out of the North Tower. He shouted something. One of the stable girls peered out of the stable door and saw Huan girl dancing by firelight, her legs flashing. She ran back to bring her sisters.

Xuanxian Luo heard music playing below the windows at the end of the healing hall. He threw his feet over the end of the bed, walked softly across the floor, and opened one casement. The sound of the notes raced in like a spell. He leaned out, listening.

The pavilion attendant appeared by his side. "What is it?" she asked.

Luo giggled. "Young Master is very good at the flute." He shook his head. "Leastways, he used to play. In the south. Ain't heard him in an age."

She smiled and leaned out. "You like him," she said.

Luo thought about that for so long, Liwei thought he wouldn't answer. From their vantage point, they saw the music do its work. Men came out of the stable and down the steps from the towers and the stumps of the towers. Women emerged from the stables and from the dormitory.

Suddenly, there were as many people in the courtyard to dance as had been there for the monk. The two instruments were joined by some other instruments. The dancers began to move in a circle.

"I don't hate him," Luo admitted.

Liwei turned. "You are not lost, Luo," she said. "You are a good person."

He stepped back as if she'd struck him. But then he grinned. Then he stiffened. "Where are you going?"

She smiled. "You can come guard me. I'm going to dance. Or at least to watch."