Free The Mandate of Heaven by Tim Murgatroyd Page A

Nan-shi … where I have gone. And thank him. Thank him for everything. Tell him that when I have found my father I will repay my debt to your family a thousand times over! I will never forget!’
    ‘You won’t dare go to the Salt Pans!’ cried Teng. ‘All you ever do is get angry with me! And boast!’
    But Hsiung had gone. Teng’s words echoed in an empty chamber.

    At dawn Teng sat upright in bed. In a moment he was padding through cold, dark corridors to the kitchen. A familiar smell greeted him and he laughed. The stove was warm, a neat fire smoking. For all his bragging and fierce soldiers’ oaths, Hsiung had decided not to leave after all. Teng rubbed his hands before the flames. Though it would be tempting to jeer, he was determined to say nothing. He would even help prepare the morning millet to show he did not view Hsiung as a common servant.
    After a while he grew restless and was about to step outside when he noticed something wrong: Hsiung’s pile of neatly folded bedding and clothes had vanished. Only a single blanket remained.
    ‘Fool!’ cried Teng, dashing out into the courtyard.
    A thick lake mist was rolling inland. Droplets beaded plants and wooden surfaces. Think , he urged himself, a scholar of high purpose thinks before he acts .
    Then Hsiung’s intention became obvious. If he was to leave for the Salt Pans with Sergeant P’ao they would hardly crawl upon muddy roads for hundreds of weary li . Not when a swift passage across the lake was possible. In addition, Teng had noticed a small fleet of river junks gathering in the harbour over the last few days.
    He considered rousing Deng Nan-shi. But a perverse desire held him back. Yesterday, on the stone tortoise’s back, he had imagined saving Hsiung from hordes of Mongols. Now was his chance to be a real xia !
    Picking up his bamboo sword, he hurried into the misty lanes of Monkey Hat Hill then out into the stirring city. Although he had only visited the Port District once, Teng did not lose his way.
    But when he reached the stone bridge over Bright River, he found a queue of people and carts. Soldiers were searching all Chinese for contraband or hidden weapons; Mongols or their servants were waved through without question.
    ‘What’s happening?’ he asked an old peasant woman carrying a basket of winter greens. Luckily, she gave no sign of recognising him as a cursed Deng.
    ‘Rebels,’ she whispered, ‘spies in the city.’
    He joined a small crowd gathered round a poster beside the bridge, discussing a crude picture of a grossly fat man reminiscent of Lord Buddha and the words: Beware traitors! Beware bandits! Beware Liu Shui, notorious Red Turban and Yueh Fei bandit! Beware the despicable brigand known as Hornets’ Nest! A reward was offered, large enough to buy a dozen farms.
    Teng looked round guiltily. He had no illusions where the fat Liu Shui was hiding at this very moment. How could Father be so reckless? To take such a risk after all their years of caution?
    A low bell tolled across the city. The Third Hour of daylight: surely the fleet would not delay. He must hurry.
    None of the soldiers questioned him as he crossed the bridge. Fog was dispersing beneath a feeble sun when he reached the harbour. A gloomy day was commencing, heavy with drudgery and tedium for thousands in the Port District. For others, a day that would end their future.
    The Red Turban prisoners had been chained together in groups of ten, their defiance choked by bulging wooden neck yokes. Most were barefoot and in rags. Nearly four hundred prisoners waited on the wharf for transportation to the Salt Pans. Of those, half would be lucky to last a year.
    Many soldiers had gathered to ensure the embarkation went smoothly. This was less straightforward than it seemed. In the winter dry season water levels on the lake fell and one could only berth large junks at the end of long wooden jetties projecting into the water. In between lay fetid, clinging mud, pecked by