A Sacred Path {5}

Dully, a row of yellow teeth appeared, then the rest of the mage took shape as Huang Lao relinquished the spell. Beads of sweat marked the man's flat, scarred brow and shaved pate – nothing unusual there: Huang Lao would sweat in an ice-pit. He held his head at an angle, achieving in his expression something like smug detachment combined with contempt. He fixed his small dark eyes on Tan Sangu. 'You remember work, don't you?' His smile broadened, further flattening his mashed, misaligned nose. 'It's what you were doing before you started rolling in the sack with dear Caoyu here. Before you went soft.'

Tan Sangu drew breath for a retort, but was interrupted by Caoyu's slow, easy drawl. 'Lonely, Huang Lao? Should I tell you that the camp-followers demand double the coin from you?' He waved a hand, as if clearing away unsavoury thoughts. 'The simple fact is, Duyu chose Tan Sangu to command the cadre after Nedurian's untimely demise at Mott Wood. You may not like it, but that's just too bad. It's the price you pay for ambivalence.'

Huang Lao reached down and brushed a speck of dirt from his satin slippers, which had, improbably, escaped unmarred the muddy streets outside. 'Blind faith, dear comrades, is for fools—'

He was interrupted by the tent flap swishing aside. High Fist Duyu Onearm entered, the soap of his morning shave still clotting the hair in his ears, the smell of cinnamon water wafting after him.

Over the years, Tan Sangu had come to attach much to that aroma. Security, stability, sanity. Duyu Onearm represented all those things, and not just to her but to the army that fought for him. As he stopped now in the centre of the room and surveyed the three cultivators, she leaned back slightly and, from under heavy lids, studied the High Fist. Three years of enforced passivity in this siege seemed to have acted like a tonic on the ageing man. He looked more like fifty rather than his seventy-nine years. His grey eyes remained sharp and unyielding in his tanned, lean face. He stood straight, which made him seem taller than his five and a half feet, wearing simple, unadorned leathers, stained as much by sweat as by the Imperial magenta dye. The stump of his left arm, just below the shoulder, was wrapped in leather strips. His hairy chalk-white calves were visible between the sharkskin straps of the Naopon sandals.

Caoyu withdrew a handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed it to Duyu.

The High Lord snagged it. 'Again? Damn that barber,' he growled, wiping the soap from his jaw and ears. 'I swear he does it on purpose.' He balled the handkerchief and flung it on to Caoyu's lap. 'Now, we're all here. Good. Regular business first. Huang Lao, you finished jawing with the boys below?'

Huang Lao stifled a yawn. 'Some sapper named Fiddler took me in, showed me around.' He paused to pluck lint from his brocaded sleeve, then met Duyu's eyes. 'Give them six or seven years and they might have reached the city walls by then.'

'It's pointless,' Tan Sangu said, 'which is what I put in my report.' She squinted up at Duyu. 'Assuming it ever made it to the Imperial Court.'

'Cao's still swimming,' Caoyu said.

Duyu grunted – as close as he ever got to laughing. 'All right, cadre, listen carefully. Two things.' A faint scowl crossed his scarred features. 'One, the Empress has sent a Claw. They're in the city, hunting down Panyon's cultivators.'

A chill danced up Tan Sangu's spine. No one liked having the Claws around. Those Imperial assassins – Lao shi's favoured weapon – kept their poisoned daggers sharp for anyone and everyone, Wuzhis included.

It seemed Caoyu was thinking the same thing, for he sat up sharply. 'If they're here for any other reason ...'

'They'll have to come through me first,' Duyu said, his lone hand reaching down to rest on the pommel of his longsword.

He has an audience, there in the other room. He's telling the man commanding the Claw how things stand. Shedunul bless him.

Huang Lao spoke. 'They'll go to ground. They're cultivators, not idiots.'

It was a moment before Tan Sangu understood the man's comment. Oh, right. Panyon's cultivators.seventy-nine years. His grey eyes remained sharp and unyielding in his tanned, lean face. He stood straight, which made him seem taller than his five and a half feet, wearing simple, unadorned leathers, stained as much by sweat as by the Imperial magenta dye. The stump of his left arm, just below the shoulder, was wrapped in leather strips. His hairy chalk-white calves were visible between the sharkskin straps of the Naopon sandals.

Caoyu withdrew a handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed it to Duyu.

The High Lord snagged it. 'Again? Damn that barber,' he growled, wiping the soap from his jaw and ears. 'I swear he does it on purpose.' He balled the handkerchief and flung it on to Caoyu's lap. 'Now, we're all here. Good. Regular business first. Huang Lao, you finished jawing with the boys below?'

Huang Lao stifled a yawn. 'Some sapper named Fiddler took me in, showed me around.' He paused to pluck lint from his brocaded sleeve, then met Duyu's eyes. 'Give them six or seven years and they might have reached the city walls by then.'

'It's pointless,' Tan Sangu said, 'which is what I put in my report.' She squinted up at Duyu. 'Assuming it ever made it to the Imperial Court.'

'Cao's still swimming,' Caoyu said.

Duyu grunted – as close as he ever got to laughing. 'All right, cadre, listen carefully. Two things.' A faint scowl crossed his scarred features. 'One, the Empress has sent a Claw. They're in the city, hunting down Panyon's cultivators.'

A chill danced up Tan Sangu's spine. No one liked having the Claws around. Those Imperial assassins – Lao shi's favoured weapon – kept their poisoned daggers sharp for anyone and everyone, Wuzhis included.

It seemed Caoyu was thinking the same thing, for he sat up sharply. 'If they're here for any other reason ...'

'They'll have to come through me first,' Duyu said, his lone hand reaching down to rest on the pommel of his longsword.