deeply, and gave in to my blandishments.
Lin Chu-Tsai was becoming impatient. He had asked Gurbesu to find Zhong Kui and bring him to the palace. Zhong Kui was his pet name for the foreigner Nick Zuliani. Nick had won it both by being as tenacious as the legendary demon of that name, and by the bushy beard he wore which resembled the demon’s own. The original Zhong Kui was said to have been a man who committed suicide after failing his palace examinations. Reborn as a demon, he had vowed to rid the world of other mischievous lesser demons. And whereas Lin Chu-Tsai could not conceive of the self-confident Zuliani killing himself over a failed test, he nevertheless thought of him as someone who had become a harrier of bad men. Nick had proved his worth as a hunter of murderers to the Great Khan — Kubilai — and thereby won a place as official Investigator of Crimes. But now Lin Chu-Tsai, Clerk to the Minister of Justice of the Mongol Empire, had need of him himself.
‘Where are you, Zhong Kui? We must be on our way today, or suffer the consequences.’
He looked again at the document he had been handed by Ko’s servant that very morning. It purported to be a command from Kubilai himself to look into a criminal matter in the town of Pianfu. A murder, indeed. But the fact that it came through Ko Su-Tsung — Lin’s arch-enemy in the Khan’s palace — made him deeply suspicious. What was Ko doing referring a case of murder to him? The cadaverous, cold-hearted man was now effectively the head of the Censorate, a terrifying government department that kept an eye on all other government departments and officials. Ostensibly, its role was to eradicate all forms of corruption. But that very grave duty afforded the Censorate, and Ko Su-Tsung, the ultimate corrupting evil. He wielded power over the fate of every single person working for the Great Khan with no one in a position to challenge him. There was no one to watch the watcher, meaning that proof of misdeeds were hardly ever required by Ko — mere suspicion was enough to ruin a man for ever. Lin Chu-Tsai lived by an opposite code that demanded evidence of wrongdoing. Ko needed none.
Lin put the paper down on his desk, and pushed it away from him. It was as if he were trying to deny its existence. He was sure it was a trap to ensnare him and Zhong Kui both. But he knew he would have to comply with its demands, or fall into the other trap of dereliction of duty. Sighing, he picked up the offending document again, and perused its contents carefully. If he was to avoid the trap, he needed another brain urgently.
‘Where are you, Nick Zuliani?’
TWO
W hile Lin was fretting, I was hurrying through the vast building site that was Kubilai’s new capital, with Gurbesu in tow. Her pleasure at our dalliance was tempered now by her recollection of Lin Chu-Tsai’s sense of urgency. In fact she was getting more and more angry with me for the delay, for which she felt she would be blamed. In fact our current lack of speed was her fault. I would have gone faster, but her tight Chinee robe didn’t allow for rapid progress. Her wooden pattens also slowed her down as they fitted so loosely. Even so, our speed meant they clattered an irate tattoo on the stone cobbles of the streets in the old town.
Once we were out of Old Yenking and over the Yun-Ho river bridge we were grateful for the stout footwear. We were approaching a building site of massive proportions. This was Kubilai Khan’s latest and grandest project after the Great Enterprise, as Xanadu had been called. But where Xanadu had been a reflection of Kubilai’s Mongol ancestry, this new capital was Kubilai looking forward. It would be all Chinee, and was the first step to the Great Khan establishing a new dynasty. I had heard tell that the architect who was creating this most Chinee of capitals, however, was an Arab by the name of Ikhtiyar al-Din. Lin had told me that he had seen detailed plans drawn up by the Arab for passes and gates, audience halls, roads and residential quarters, reception rooms and administration offices, shrines, guard houses, stores and quarters for officers on duty in the imperial household. In addition to all that practical and domestic architecture there would be pools, ponds, gardens, parks and places of dalliance. The grand astrologer had selected a propitious date and work had begun. A multitude of artisans had already descended on the site, measurements were taken, and the necessary materials assembled. The new city and palace were to be in the form of a series of ramparts nesting pleasantly one within the other like the layers of an onion. At the moment though, it was simply chaotic.
Thousands of workers scurried like ants across the huge area that was to be the personal palace and administrative centre of Kubilai’s vast empire. They were still building the ramparts that meandered over hills and along three winding rivers. And these ramparts were made of mud beaten down between wooden shuttering until it was solid. The end result of all this feverish activity was that clinging, wet earth filled the whole site. It began to stick to our shoes until they weighed like lead. Finally, Gurbesu’s feet became embedded in a particularly cloying patch. She halted, and cried out.
‘You’ll have to pull me out, Nick. I can’t move.’
I yanked hard with little success and a bunch of curious Chinee workmen began to gather to observe the fun. They grinned at Gurbesu’s predicament making all sorts of suggestions in a language I barely knew. But it was clear from their gestures which part of her anatomy they thought I should grab in order to effect her release. They gawped even more when Gurbesu’s silken robe came open at the top. The buttoned-up bodice beneath barely contained her large breasts, as Chinee undergarments were not designed for such voluptuousness. Her face turning red — with embarrassment or anger I couldn’t tell — she yelled at me to pull harder.
‘Get me out of this mess.’
I pulled. With a deep sucking noise, her feet came free leaving her wooden pattens stuck in the mud. She groaned, but regained her composure and control of her undergarments. Ignoring the gawping workmen, she trotted ahead of me, her white socks quickly turning black with more clinging mud. I hurried after her as we made for the lake that bordered the western edge of the site. This was where Kubilai had his temporary headquarters while the new Tatu was being built.
When we had arrived some months earlier, the lake was still choked with silt and plants, its margins dotted with the remains of previously rich Chinees’ summer houses. These were by now slowly decaying all around the edges of the lake. Kubilai had quickly had the area cleared, and had selected Jade Island, set in the southern end of the lake, as his temporary home. It was said there was a palace within a palace on the island, and in this second palace Kubilai’s corpulent frame lounged on a vast bed inlaid with jade and gold. From there, he watched as great quantities of wine were dispensed from a huge jade urn. I hoped for a summons to his palace one day, as I wanted to partake of that bounty.
But Jade Island was not our destination today. So we ploughed through the filth of a city in the making towards one of a scattering of the old summer houses that had been left standing. They were positioned close to the new bridge that now linked the southern end of Jade Island with the surrounding land. The summer houses were convenient, if temporary, locations for those who ran the vast and overworked bureaucracy that was needed for Kubilai’s ever burgeoning empire. Inside one of them my boss, Lin Chu-Tsai, was no doubt fretting over my late arrival. I did not want him to know what had caused our delay, and tried to hold Gurbesu back. But before I could get my story straight with her, she was stomping angrily up the wooden steps and into Lin’s summer house; a move that was no mean feat in muddy white socks and no shoes. I strode after her, my boots leaving large black footprints on the steps and tiled floors.
Inside, everything reflected a picture of calm, except for Lin Chu-Tsai’s face. This was most unusual, as my friend was normally the most even-tempered of men, with a serene mood that he ensured was mirrored in his surroundings. Despite the dilapidated nature of the exterior of the summer house, Lin had quickly created a subtle interior with items he had brought from his residence in Xanadu. Lattice-work wooden screens, deep mahogany in colour, hid the worst of the cracks in the walls, and a fine vase stood where the light from the window of his office lit up its translucent blue porcelain. A low table in the centre of the large room that was Lin’s office and living space was surrounded by deep silken cushions. Each cushion was richly embroidered with a different Chinee pattern ranging from rampant dragons to strangely shaped unicorns. The table top was usually stacked with neat piles of papers on which Lin was working in his capacity as Clerk to the Minister of Justice. For in reality, Lin was the embodiment of justice in Kubilai’s empire, and he did all the work attributed to his master, a Turk by the name of Alawi Kayyal. The Minister held his post because of the quaint and repressive system of hierarchies in the Mongol Empire.
