Ken Liu - Broken Stars

Zhao Da spat. “These hooligans are colluding with the enemy. You could call it treason if you really wanted to prosecute. The city defense is always short on arrows, so the emperor decreed that he’d pay ten coins for every arrow turned in. The five hundred arrows these hooligans collected can be exchanged for five thousand coins, enough to buy thirty-four pints of alcohol. They lower twenty pints in a cask to the Song soldiers, hand out four pints to bribe the watchers on the wall, and drink the remaining ten until they pass out in the streets. Degenerates!” He turned to glare at them, and shouted, “You fellows have some nerve to do this in my sight!” The hooligans only laughed and bowed to him before whisking the carts down an alley.

Zhu Dagun knew that whatever Zhao Da said, he was certainly in the hooligans’ pay. But he didn’t bother pointing this out; instead, he sighed. “The longer the siege goes on, the worse the thoughts in people’s heads. Sometimes it feels as if it’s better to let the Song army take the city and get it over with, huh.”

“Nonsense!” Zhao Da bellowed. “Any more traitorous talk and I’ll whip you!” Zhu Dagun still couldn’t figure out if Zhao Da was Ma Feng’s agent, dispatched to help him, so he didn’t speak further.

The sun beat down ruthlessly. The oxcart plodded forth in the shade of listless willows, down the main road through the internal gate dividing West from Central. Central City was no more than seventy yards across, divided into two levels. The waterwheel, the foundry, and the various other hot and noisy machines were on the lower level. The upper level was for horses, carts, and pedestrians, and on either side of the road were the government buildings for the Departments of Hydrology, Textiles, Metallurgy, and Divination.

The road had been paved with jujube wood wherever possible. Central City had been built in the time of Empress Wu Zetian by the Secretary of Bing Prefecture to connect East and West Cities on either bank of the Fen River. In the three hundred years since, the jujube paving had been regularly polished with wax and tamped down by feet and hooves, until it gleamed a deep brown like dried blood and was hard as stone. When struck, it rang like a bronze bell; swords bounced off it, leaving only white scratch marks. Pried up and used as a shield, it could deflect blades and arrows, even bolts from the Song army’s repeating arcuballistas. At this point in the siege, the paving was full of gaps, carelessly filled in with yellow mud. Walking over it, you never knew which foot would start sinking. The soft spots could sprain an ox’s ankle.

“Off,” Zhao Da said. He instructed a subordinate to return the oxcart, while he personally led his captive through Central City on foot.

The Fen River was shallow and thin from the drought. Zhu Dagun looked at the turbid flow that wound in from the north, babbling through the city’s twelve arch bridges before continuing southward without rest. “Liao, Han, Song: north to south, three nations connected by a single river.” He sighed unconsciously. “With such a sight before me, I ought to compose a poem to commemorate—”

Before he had the chance, Zhao Da delivered a hard smack to the back of his head, knocking his cap askew and beating the poetic inspiration right out of him. “Enough, you starving scribbler. I sweated buckets getting you here, and I don’t need your chattering. The magistrate’s office is right ahead. Shut up and walk!”

Zhu Dagun quieted obediently, thinking, The moment I’m free I’m going to go online and cuss you out to everyone, you corrupt official . Then he realized that if he succeeded in convincing Prince Lu of the East City Institute, Han would no longer exist. Would the internet still be there when Jinyang belonged to Song? For a time, he walked in a daze.

Wordlessly, they crossed Central City into the modest-scaled East City. They walked past the Taiyuan county building and made two turns on the dusty street to enter a courtyard of gray brick and gray tile. The courtyard walls were tall and smooth; the windows were covered with iron bars. Zhao Da exchanged greetings with the man inside and handed over papers, while the soldiers shoved Zhu Dagun into the west wing. Zhao Da took off Zhu Dagun’s chains. “The boss is giving you a cell to yourself. You’ll be brought two meals a day. If you want money, more food, or bedding, ask your family to bring them. Try to escape and your crime rises one rank in severity. Trial is in two days. Just tell everything like it is to the boss. Got everything?”

Zhu Dagun felt a sharp burst of pain in his back; he stumbled and fell into a cell. Guards locked and chained the door, then left.

Zhu Dagun pulled himself up and looked around, rubbing his butt. He found that the cell had a bed, a sitting mat, a bronze basin for washing his face, and a wooden bucket serving as a chamberpot. Although the room was poorly lit, it was neater and cleaner than his own home.

He sat on the mat. He groped the pouch inside his sleeve and found that everything was intact: a copy of the Analects , so that when he debated Prince Lu he could borrow courage from the writings of sages; an empty wooden box, with a hidden compartment containing Ma Feng’s voluminous petition—it may have been an entreaty to surrender, but the impeccable writing and righteous language had Zhu Dagun’s abject admiration; a double-edged dagger forged of prime steel, six and three-tenth inches. Of what import is the anger of a common man? The First Emperor had asked this of Tang Ju. A spray of blood five paces long, answered he. Thinking of this final tactic, the Han words churned Zhu Dagun’s Shatuo and Turkic blood.

Only when Zhu Dagun awoke did he realize that he’d fallen asleep in the first place. A ray from the setting sun slanted through the window. It was late in the day now.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Zhu Dagun slowly climbed to his feet and stretched, looking out through the gaps between the bars.

Earlier, Ma Feng had said that he’d planted agents inside the prison to appear at a suitable time. At this moment, a guard was strolling over, an oil-paper lantern in his left hand and a box of food in his right, humming as he went. He stopped at Zhu Dagun’s cell and knocked on the bars with the lantern. “Hey, time to eat.” He took two flatcakes from the box, wrapped them around some pickled vegetables, and passed them through the bars.

Zhu Dagun accepted the meal with a friendly smile. “Thank you very much. Does your superior have any words for me?”

The guard glanced around, then set down the food box and took out a scrap of paper. “Here, read this,” he whispered. “Don’t let anyone see it. The general said to tell you, ‘Do what you can, but leave the rest to the will of heaven.’ As long as you do your duty, you’ll benefit whether it works or not.” Then he raised his voice. “There’s water in the basin. Scoop it up with your hands if you want to drink. Relieve yourself in the bucket. Don’t get any blood, pus, or phlegm on the bedding. Got it?”

The guard picked up the food box and strolled off. Zhu Dagun devoured the flatcakes in a few bites, poured some water down his gullet, then turned around and read the note by the last fading sunlight. However, once he was done, he felt more confused than before. He’d thought that the guard had been sent by Guo Wanchao, but the note suggested otherwise. It read:

Dear Sir:

Our state of Han is in big trouble. We’re low on soldiers and grain and rely on the siege defense machines to keep going. Lately I heard that the East City Institute people have been uneasy and Prince Lu seems unstable. If he defects to Song, Han is doomed. Woe! If you read this letter I hope you can talk to Prince Lu and make him see the light. He mustn’t surrender! He refuses to see any guests at the East City Institute so I can only try to do it roundabout like this. For the sake of our people, please you must persuade him to stay strong! We’ll beat Song one day for sure!