Dowager Empress of China
Foreign Devils
Walter Jon Williams
There is no longer anyone alive who knows her name. She has always been known by her titles, titles related to the role she was expected to play. When she was sixteen and had been chosen as a minor concubine for the Son of Heaven, she had been called Lady Yehenara, because she was born in the Yehe tribe of the Nara clan of the great Manchu race. Later, after her husband died and she assumed the regency for their son, she was given the title Tzu Hsi, Empress of the West, because she once lived in a pavilion on the western side of the Forbidden City.
But no one alive knows her real name, the milk-name her mother had given her almost sixty-five years ago, the name she had answered to when she was young and happy and free from care. Her real name is unimportant.
Only her position matters, and it is a lonely one.
She lives in a world of imperial yellow. The wall hangings are yellow, the carpets are yellow, and she wears a gown of crackling yellow brocade. She sleeps on yellow brocade sheets, and rests her head on pillows of yellow silk beneath embroidered yellow bed curtains.
Now Peking is on fire, and the hangings of yellow silk are stained with the red of burning.
She rises from her bed in the Hour of the Rat, a little after midnight. Her working day, and that of the Emperor, begins early.
A eunuch braids her hair while her ladies—all of them young, and all of them in gowns of blue—help her to dress. She wears a yellow satin gown embroidered with pink flowers, and a cape ornamented with four thousand pearls. The eunuch expertly twists her braided hair into a topknot, and fits over it a headdress made of jade adorned on either side with fresh flowers. Gold sheaths protect the two long fingernails of her right hand, and jade sheaths protect the two long fingernails of her left. Her prize black lion dogs frolic around her feet.
The smell of burning floats into the room, detectable above the scent of her favorite Nine-Buddha incense. The burning scent imparts a certain urgency to the proceedings, but her toilette cannot be completed in haste.
At last she is ready. She calls for her sedan chair and retinue—Li Lien-Ying, the Chief Eunuch, the Second Chief Eunuch, four Eunuchs of the Fifth Rank, twelve Eunuchs of the Sixth Rank, plus eight more eunuchs to carry the chair.
“Take me to the Emperor’s apartments,” she says.
The sedan chair swoops gently upward as the eunuchs lift it to their shoulders. As she leaves her pavilion, she hears the sound of the sentries saluting her as she passes.
They are not her sentries. These elite troops of the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen are not here to keep anyone out. They are in the employ of ambitious men, and the guards serve only to keep her a prisoner in her own palace.
Despite her titles, despite the blue-clad ladies and the eunuchs and the privileges, despite the silk and brocade and pearls, the Empress of the West is a captive. She can think of no way that she can escape.
The litter’s yellow brocade curtains part for a moment, and the Empress catches a brief glimpse of the sky. There is Mars, glowing high in the sky like a red lantern, and below it streaks a falling star, a beautiful ribbon of imperial yellow against the velvet night. It streaks east to west, and then is gone.
Perhaps, she thinks, it is a hopeful sign.
The audience room smells of burning. Yellow brocade crackles as the members of the family council perform their ritual kowtows before the Son of Heaven. Before they present their petitions to the Emperor they pause, as they realize from his flushed face and sudden intake of breath that he is having an orgasm as he sits in his dragon-embroidered robes upon his yellow-draped chair.
The Emperor Kuang Hsu is twenty-eight years old and has suffered from severe health problems his entire life. Sometimes, in moments of tension, he succumbs to a sudden fit of orgasm. The doctors claim it is the result of a kidney malady, but no matter how many Kidney Rectifying Pills the Emperor is made to swallow, his condition never improves.
The illness is sometimes embarrassing, but the family has become accustomed to it.
After the Emperor’s breathing returns to normal, Prince Jung Lu presents his petition. “Your Majesty,” he says, “for three days the Righteous Harmony Fists have rioted in the Tatar City and the Chinese City. There are no less than thirty thousand of these disreputable scoundrels in Peking. They have set fire to the home of Grand Secretary Hsu Tung and to many others. Grand Secretary Sun Chia-nai has been assaulted and robbed. As the Supreme Ones of the past safeguarded the tranquility of the realm by issuing edicts to suppress rebellion and disorder, and as the Righteous Harmony Fists have shown themselves violent, disorderly, and disrespectful of Your Majesty’s servants, I hope that an edict from Your Majesty will soon be forthcoming that allows this unworthy person to use the Military Guards Army to suppress disorder.”
Prince Tuan spits tobacco into his pocket spittoon. “I beg the favor of disagreeing with the esteemed prince,” he says. Other officials, members of his Iron Hat Faction, murmur their agreement.
The Dowager Empress, sitting on her yellow cushion next to the Emperor, looks from one to the other, and feels only despair.
Jung Lu has been her friend from childhood. He is a moderate and sensible man, but the situation that envelops them all is neither moderate nor sensible.
It is Prince Tuan, a younger man, bulky in his brocade court costume and with the famous Shangfang Sword strapped to his waist, who is in command of the situation. He and his allies—Tuan’s brother Duke Lan, Prince Chuang of the Gendarmerie, the Grand Councillor Kang I, Chao Shu-chiao of the Board of Punishments—form the core of those Iron Hats who had seized power two years ago, at the end of the Hundred Days’ Reform.
It is Tuan who has surrounded the Dragon Throne with his personal army of ten thousand Tiger-Hunt Marksmen. It is Tuan who controls the ferocious Muslim cavalry of General Tung, his ally, camped in the gardens south of the city. It is Tuan who extorted the honor of carrying the Shangfang Sword in the imperial presence, and with it the right to use the sword to execute anyone on the spot, for any reason. And it is Tuan’s son, Pu Chun, who has been made heir to the throne.
It is Prince Tuan, and the others of his Iron Hat Faction, who have encouraged the thousands of martial artists and spirit warriors of the Righteous Harmony Fists to invade Peking, to attack Chinese Christians and others against whom they have a grudge, and who threaten to envelop China in a war with all the foreign powers at once.
The young Emperor Kuang Hsu opens his mouth but cannot say a word. He has a bad stammer, and in stressful situations he cannot speak at all.
Prince Tuan fills the silence. “I am certain that should the Son of Heaven deign to address us, he would assure us of his confidence in the patriotism and loyalty of the Righteous Harmony Fists. His Majesty knows that any disorders are incidental, and that the Righteous Harmony Fists are united in their desire to rid the Middle Kingdom of the Foreign Devils that oppress our nation. In the past,” he continues, getting to his point—for in the Imperial Court, one always presented conclusions by invoking the past—“in the past, the great rulers of the Middle Kingdom established order in their dominions by calling upon their loyal subjects to do away with foreign influences and causes of disorder. If His Majesty will only issue an edict to this effect, the Righteous Harmony Fists can use their martial powers and their invincible magic to sweep the Foreign Devils from our land.”
The Emperor attempts again to speak and again fails. This time it is the Dowager Empress who fills the silence.
“Will such an edict not bring us to war with all the Foreign Devils at once? We have never been able to hold off even one foreign power at a time. The white ghosts of England and France, and even lately the dwarf-bandits of Japan, have all won concessions from us.”
Prince Tuan scowls, and his hand tightens on the Shangfang Sword. “The Righteous Harmony Fists are not members of the imperial forces. They are merely righteous citizens stirred to anger by the actions of the Foreign Devils and the Secondary Foreign Devils, the Christian converts. The government cannot be held responsible for their actions. And besides—the Righteous Harmony Fists are invulnerable. You have seen yourself, a few weeks ago, when I brought one of their members into this room and fired a pistol straight at him. He was not harmed.” The Empress of the West falls silent as clouds of doubt enter her mind. She had seen the pistol fired, and the man had taken no hurt. It had been an impressive demonstration.
“I regret to report to the Throne,” Jung Lu says, “of an unfortunate incident in the city. The German ambassador, von Ketteler, personally opened fire on a group of Righteous Harmony Fists peacefully exercising in the open. He killed seven and wounded many more.”
“An outrage!” Prince Tuan cries.
“Truly,” Jung Lu says, “but unfortunately the Righteous Harmony Fists proved somewhat less than invulnerable to von Ketteler’s bullets. Perhaps their invincibility has been overstated.”
Prince Tuan glares sullenly at Jung Lu. He bites his lip, then says, “It is the fault of wicked Chinese Christian women. The Secondary Foreign Devils flaunted their naked private parts through windows, and the Righteous Harmony Fists lost their strength.”
There is a thoughtful pause as the others absorb this information. And then the Emperor opens his mouth again.
The Emperor has, for the moment, mastered his speech impediment, though his gaunt young face is strained with effort and there are long, breathy pauses between each word. “Our subjects depend on the Dragon Throne for their safety,” he gasps. “Prince Jung Lu is ordered to restore order in the city and to stand between the foreign legations and the Righteous Harmony Fists … to prevent further incidents.”
Kuang Hsu falls back on his yellow cushions, exhausted from the effort to speak. “The Son of Heaven is wise,” Jung Lu says.
“Truly,” says Prince Tuan, his eyes narrowing.
Using appropriate formal language, and of course invoking the all-important precedents from the past, court scribes write the edict in Manchu, then translate the words into Chinese. The Dowager Empress holds the Chinese translation to her failing eyes and reads it with care. As a female, she had not been judged worthy of education until she had been chosen as an imperial concubine. She has never learned more than a few hundred characters of Chinese, and is unable to read Manchu at all.
But whether she can read and write or not, her position as Dowager Empress gives her the power of veto over any imperial edict. It is important that she view any document personally.
“Everything is in order,” she ventures to guess.
The Imperial Seal Eunuch inks the heavy Imperial Seal and presses it to the edict, and with ceremony the document is presented to Prince Jung Lu. Prince Tuan draws himself up and speaks. “This unworthy subject must beg the Throne for permission to deal with this German, von Ketteler. This white ghost is killing Chinese at random, for his own amusement, and in the confused circumstances none can be blamed if there is an accident.”
The Empress of the West and the Emperor exchange quick glances. Perhaps, thinks the Empress, it is best to let Prince Tuan win a point. It may assuage his bloodlust for the moment.
And she very much doubts anyone will miss the German ambassador.
She tilts her head briefly, an affirmative gesture. The Emperor’s eyes flicker as he absorbs her import.
“We leave it to you,” he says. It is a ritual form of assent, the Throne’s formal permission for an action to take place.
“The Supreme One’s brilliance and sagacity exceeds all measure,” says Prince Tuan.
The family council ends. The royal princes make their kowtows and leave the chamber.
The Dowager Empress leaves her chair and approaches her nephew, the Emperor. He seems shrunken in his formal dragon robes—he has twenty-eight sets of robes altogether, one auspicious for each day of the lunar month. Tenderly the Dowager dabs sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He reaches into his sleeve for a lighter and a packet of Turkish cigarettes.
“We won’t win, you know,” he sighs. His stammer has disappeared along with his formidable, intimidating relations. “If we couldn’t beat the Japanese dwarf-bandits, we can’t beat anybody. We’re just going to lose more territory to the Foreign Devils, just as we’ve already lost Burma, Nepal, Indochina, Taiwan, Korea, Hong Kong, all the treaty ports we’ve had to cede to Foreign Devils …”
“You don’t believe the spirit fighters’ magic will help us?”
The Emperor laughs and draws on his cigarette. “Cheap tricks to impress peasants. I have seen that bullet-catching trick done by conjurors.”
“We must delay. Delay as long as possible. If we delay, the correct path may become clearer.”
The Emperor flicks cigarette ash off his yellow sleeve. His tone is bitter. “Delay is the only possible course for those who have no power. Very well. We will delay as long as possible. But delay the war or not, we will still lose.”
Tears well in the old woman’s eyes. It is all, she knows, her fault.
Her husband, the Emperor, had died of grief after losing the Second Opium War to the Foreign Devils. Their child was only an infant at the time. She did her best to bring up her son, engaging the most rigorous and moral of teachers, but after reigning for only a few years her son had died at the age of eighteen from exhaustion brought on by unending sexual dissipation.
Since then she has devoted her life to caring for her nephew, the new Emperor. She had rescued Kuang Hsu from her sister, who had beaten him savagely and starved him—one of his brothers had actually been starved to death—but she had erred again in choosing the young Emperor’s companions. He had been so bullied by eunuchs, so plagued by ill health, and so intimidated by his tutors and the blustering royal princes, that he had remained shy, hesitant, and self-conscious. He had only acted decisively once, two years ago, during the Hundred Days’ Reform, and that had ended badly, with the palace surrounded by Prince Tuan’s Tiger-Hunt Marksmen and the Emperor held captive.
“I will leave Your Majesty to rest,” she says. He looks at her, not unkindly.
“Thank you, Mother,” he says.
Tears prickle the Dowager’s eyes. Even though she has betrayed him, still he calls her “mother” instead of “aunt.”
She walks from the room, and with her twenty-four attending eunuchs returns to her palace.
Alone in the darkness of the litter, no one sees the tears that patter on the yellow brocade cushions.
“All the news is good,” Prince Tuan says. “One of our soldiers, a Manchu bannerman named Enhai, has shot the German ambassador outside the Tsungli Yamen. Admiral Seymour’s Foreign Devils, marching up the railway line from Tientsin, have turned back after a battle with the Righteous Harmony Fists.”
“I had heard the Righteous Harmony Fists had all been killed,” says Jung Lu. “Where was their bullet-catching magic?”
“Their magic was sufficient to turn back Admiral Seymour,” Prince Tuan retorts.
“He may have just gone back for reinforcements. More and more foreign warships are appearing off Tientsin.”
It is the Hour of the Ox, just before dawn. Several days have passed since Prince Jung Lu was ordered to seal off the foreign legations. This has reduced the number of incidents in the city, though the Foreign Devils continue their distressing habit of shooting any Chinese they see, sometimes using machine guns on crowds. Since no one is attacking them, the foreigners’ behavior is puzzling. Jung Lu sent several peace delegations to inquire their reasons, but the delegates had all been shot down as soon as they appeared in sight of the legations. Jung Lu has been forced to admit that the foreigners may no longer be behaving rationally.
“In the past,” Prince Tuan says, “Heaven made known its wishes through the movements of the stars and planets and through portents displayed in the skies. This unworthy servant reminds the Throne that this is a year with an extra intercalary month, and therefore a year that promises unusual occurrences. This is also a Kengtze year, which occurs only every ten years. Therefore the heavens demonstrate the extraordinary nature of this year, and require that all inhabitants of the Earth assist Heaven in creating extraordinary happenings.”
“I have not heard that Kengtze years were lucky for the Pure Dynasty,” Jung Lu remarks. But Prince Tuan doesn’t even slow down.
“There are other indications that war is at hand,” he says. “The red planet Mars is high in the heavens, and the ancients spoke truly when they declared, ‘When Mars is high, prepare for war and civil strife; when Mars sinks below the horizon, send the soldiers home.’
“But there is another indication more decisive than any of these. Heaven has declared its will by dropping meteors upon the Middle Kingdom. Three falling stars have landed outside of Tientsin. Another three landed south of the capital near Yungtsing. According to the office of Telegraph Sheng, three have also landed in Shantung, three more southwest of Shanghai, and three near Kwangtung.”
The Dowager Empress and the Emperor exchange glances. Several of these falling meteors have been observed from the palace, and their significance discussed. But reports of meteors landing in threes throughout eastern China are new.
“Heaven is declaring its will!” Prince Tuan says. “The meteors have all landed near places where there are large concentrations of Foreign Devils! Obviously Heaven wishes us to exterminate these vermin!”
Tuan gives a triumphant laugh and draws the Shangfang Sword. The Emperor turns pale and shrinks into his heavy brocade robes.
“I demand an edict from the Dragon Throne!” Tuan shouts. “Let the Son of Heaven command that all Foreign Devils be killed!”
The Emperor tries to speak, but terror has plainly seized his tongue. Choosing her words carefully, the Dowager Empress speaks in his place. Delay, she thinks.
“We will consult the auspices and act wisely in accordance with their wishes.”
Prince Tuan gives a roar of anger and brandishes the sword. “No more delay! Heaven has made its will clear! If you don’t issue the edicts, I’ll do it myself!”
There is a moment of horrified silence. The Emperor’s face turns stony as he looks at Prince Tuan. Sweat pops onto his brow with the effort to control his tongue.
“W-w-why,” he stammers, “don’t you go k-k-k-kill yourself?”
There is another moment of silence. Prince Tuan coldly forces a smile onto his face.
“The Son of Heaven makes a very amusing witticism,” he says.
And then, at swordpoint, he commands the Imperial Seal Eunuch to bring out the heavy seal that will confirm his edicts.
Watching, the Dowager Empress’s heart floods with sorrow.
It is the Hour of the Tiger, two days after Prince Tuan seized control. A red dawn provides a scarlet blush to the yellow hangings. Tuan and his allies confer before the Dragon Throne. Tuan has brought his son, the imperial heir Pu Chun, to watch his father as he commands the fate of China. The boy spends most of his time practicing martial arts, pretending to skewer Foreign Devils with his sword.
The Emperor, disgusted, smokes a cigarette behind a wall hanging. No one bothers to ask his opinion of the edicts that are going out under his seal.
The Righteous Harmony Fists have all been drafted into the army and sent to reinforce General Nieh standing between Tientsin and the capital. Governors have been ordered to defend their provinces against attack. Jung Lu’s army has been ordered to wipe out the foreigners in the legation quarter, but so far he has found reason to delay.
Can China fight the whole world? the Dowager Empress wonders.
But she sits on her yellow cushion, and smokes her water pipe, and plays with her little lion dogs while she pretends unconcern. It is all she can do.
A messenger arrives and hands to Jung Lu a pair of messages from the office of Telegraph Sheng, and Jung Lu reads them with a puzzled expression. He approaches the Empress, leans close, and speaks in a low tone.
“The Foreign Devils off Tientsin have ordered our troops to evacuate the Taku Forts by midnight—that is midnight yesterday, so the ultimatum has already expired.”
Anxiety grips the Empress’s heart. “Can our troops hold the forts?”
Jung Lu frowns. “Their record is not good.”
If the Taku Forts fall, the Empress knows, Tientsin will fall. And once Tientsin falls, it is but a short march from there to Peking. It has all happened before.
Sick at heart, the Empress remembers the headlong flight from the capital during the Second Opium War, how her happy, innocent little lion dogs had been thrown down wells rather than let the Foreign Devils capture them.
It is going to happen again, she thinks.
Prince Tuan marches toward them. Hearing his steps, Jung Lu’s face turns to a mask. He hides the first message in his sleeve.
“This unworthy servant hopes the mighty commander of the Military Guards Army will share his news,” Tuan says.
Jung Lu hands Tuan the second of the two messages. “Confused news of fighting south of Tientsin. Some towns have been destroyed—the message says by monsters that rode to earth on meteors, but obviously the message was confused. Perhaps he meant to say that meteors have landed on some towns.”
“Were they Christian towns?” Tuan asks. “Perhaps Heaven’s vengeance is falling on the Secondary Foreign Devils. There are many Christians around Tientsin.”
“The message does not say.”
Prince Tuan looks at the message and spits into his pocket spittoon. “It probably doesn’t matter,” he says.
It is the Hour of the Snake. Bright morning sun blazes on the room’s yellow hangings. A lengthy dispatch has arrived from the office of Telegraph Sheng. Prince Tuan reads it, then laughs and swaggers toward the captive Emperor.
“This miserable one regrets to report to the Throne that last night an allied force of Foreign Devils captured the forts at Taku,” he says.
Then why are you smiling? the Empress wonders, and takes a slow, deliberate puff of smoke from her water pipe while she strives to control her alarm.
“Are steps being taken to rectify the situation?” asks the Emperor.
Tuan’s smile broadens. “Heaven, which is just, has acted on behalf of the Son of Heaven. The Foreign Devils, their armies, and their fleets have been destroyed!”
The Empress exchanges glances with her nephew. The Emperor gives a puzzled frown as he absorbs the information. “Please tell us what has occurred,” he says.
“The armies of the Foreign Devils were preparing to advance on Tientsin from Taku,” Prince Tuan says, “when a force of metal giants appeared from the south. The Foreign Devils were obliterated! Their armies were destroyed by a blast of fire, and then their warships!”
“I fail to understand …” the Empress begins.
“It’s obvious!” Prince Tuan says. “The metal giants rode from heaven to earth on meteors! The Jade Emperor must have sent them expressly to destroy the Foreign Devils.”
“Perhaps our information is incomplete,” Jung Lu says cautiously.
Prince Tuan laughs. “Read the dispatch yourself,” he says, and carelessly shoves the long telegram into the older man’s hands.
The Emperor looks from one to the other, suspicion plain on his face. He clearly does not know whether to believe the news, or whether he wants to believe.
“We will wait for confirmation,” he says.
More dispatches arrive over the course of the day. The destruction of the foreign armies and fleets is confirmed. Confused news of fighting comes from other areas where meteors are known to have landed. Giants are mentioned, as are bronze tripods. Prince Tuan and other members of his Iron Hat Faction swagger in triumph, boasting of the destruction of all the Foreign Devils. Pu Chun, the imperial heir, skips about the room in delight, pretending he is a giant and kicking imaginary armies out of his path.
It is the Hour of the Monkey. Supper dishes have been brought into the audience chamber, and the council members eat as they view the dispatches.
“The report from Tientsin says that the city is on fire,” Jung Lu reports. “The message is unfinished. Apparently something happened to the telegraph office, or perhaps the wires were cut.”
Kuang Hsu scowls. His face is etched with tension, and he speaks only with difficulty. “Tientsin is a city filled with our loyal subjects. If they are on our side, how is it that the Falling Star Giants are destroying a Chinese city?”
“There are many Foreign Devils in Tientsin,” Prince Tuan says. “Perhaps it was necessary to destroy the entire city in order to eradicate the foreign influence.”
A look of disgust passes across the Emperor’s face at this casual attitude toward his subjects. He opens his mouth to speak, but then a spasm crosses his face. He flushes in shame.
The others in the room politely turn their gaze to the wall hangings while the Emperor has an orgasm.
Afterward he cannot speak at all. He fumbles with his soiled dragon robes as he walks behind the hangings in order to smoke a cigarette.
Watching his attempt to regain his dignity, the Dowager Empress feels her heart flood with sorrow.
Over the next two days, messages continue to arrive. Telegraph offices in the major cities are destroyed, and soon the only available information comes from horsemen galloping to the capital from local commanders and provincial governors.
General Nieh’s army, stationed between Peking and Tientsin, has been wiped out by Falling Star Giants, along with most of the Righteous Harmony Fists that had been sent as reinforcements. Their spirit magic has proved inadequate to the occasion. From the information available it would seem that Shanghai, Tsingtao, and Canton have been attacked and very possibly destroyed. Just south of Peking, in Hopeh, three Falling Star Giants have been causing unimaginable destruction in one of China’s richest provinces, and Hopeh’s governor has committed suicide after admitting to the Throne his inability to control the situation.
The Dowager Empress notes that the Iron Hats’ swaggering is noticeably reduced.
“Perhaps it is time,” says Jung Lu, “to examine the possibility that the Falling Star Giants are just another kind of Foreign Devil, as rapacious as the first, and more powerful.”
“Nonsense,” says Prince Tuan automatically. “Heaven has sent the Falling Star Giants to aid us.” But he looks uncertain as he says it.
It is the Hour of the Sheep. The midday sun beats down on the capital, turning even the shady gardens of the Forbidden City into broiling ovens.
The Emperor struggles with his tongue. “W-we desire that the august prince Jung Lu continue.”
Jung Lu is happy to oblige. “This unworthy servant begs the Throne to recall that General Nieh and the Righteous Harmony Fists were neither Foreign Devils nor Christians, and they were destroyed. There are few Foreign Devils or Secondary Foreign Devils in Hopeh, but the massacres there have been terrible. And everywhere the Falling Star Giants appear, many more Chinese than Foreign Devils have been killed.” Jung Lu looks solemn. “I regret the necessity to alert the Throne to a dangerous possibility. If the Falling Star Giants advance west up the railway line from Tientsin, and simultaneously march north from Hopeh, Peking will be caught between two forces. I must sadly recommend that we consider the defense of the capital.”
The Dowager Empress glances at Prince Tuan, expecting him to contradict this suggestion, but instead the prince only gnaws his lip and looks uncertain.
A little flame of hope kindles in the Empress’s heart.
The Emperor also sees Tuan’s uncertainty and presses his advantage while he can. “Has the commander of the Military Guards Army any suggestions to make?” he asks.
“From the reports available,” Jung Lu says, “it would seem that the Falling Star Giants have two weapons. The first is a beam of heat that incinerates all that it touches. This we call the Fire of the Meteor, from the flame of a falling star, and it is used to defeat armies and fleets. The second weapon is a poison black smoke that is fired from rockets. This we call the Tail of the Meteor, from a falling star’s smoky tail, and it is used against cities, smothering the entire population.”
“These weapons are not new,” says a new voice. It is old Kang I, the Grand Councillor.
Kang I is a relic of a former age. In his many years he has served four emperors, and in his rigid adherence to tradition and hatred of foreigners has joined the Iron Hats from pure conviction.
Kang I spits into his pocket spittoon and speaks in a loud voice. “This worthless one begs the Throne to recall the Heng Ha Erh Chiang, the Door Gods.” At the famous Battle of Mu between the Yin and the Chou, Marshal Cheng Lung was known as Heng the Snorter, because when he snorted, two beams of light shot from his nostrils and incinerated the enemy.
Likewise, Marshal Ch’en Chi was known as Ha the Blower, because he was able to blow out clouds of poisonous yellow gas that smothered his foe.
“Thus it is clear,” he concludes, “that these weapons were invented centuries ago in China, and must subsequently have been stolen by the Falling Star Giants, who are obviously a worthless and imitative people, like all foreigners.” He falls silent, a superior smile ghosting across his face.
The Empress finds herself intrigued by this anecdote. “Does the esteemed councillor know if the historical records offer a method of defeating these weapons?”
“Indeed. Heng the Snorter was killed by a spear, and Ha the Blower by a magic bezoar spat at him by an ox-spirit.”
“We have many spears,” Jung Lu says softly. “But this ignorant one confesses his bafflement concerning where a suitable ox-spirit may be obtained. Perhaps the esteemed Grand Councillor has a suggestion?”
The smile vanishes from Kang I’s face. “All answers may be found in the annals,” he says stonily.
The Emperor, admirably controlling any impulse to smile at the Iron Hat’s discomfort, turns again to Jung Lu. “Does the illustrious prince have any suggestions?”
“We have only three forces near Peking,” Jung Lu says. “Of these, my Military Guards Army is fully occupied in blockading the foreign legations here in Peking. General Tung’s horsemen are already in a position to move eastward to Tientsin. This leaves our most modern and best-equipped force, the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen, admirably suited to march south to stand between the capital and the Falling Star Giants of Hopeh. May this unworthy one suggest that the Dragon Throne issue orders to the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen and to General Tung at once?”
The Empress, careful to keep her face impassive, watches Prince Tuan as Jung Lu makes his recommendations. The ten thousand Tiger-Hunt Marksmen and General Tung’s Muslim cavalry are Prince Tuan’s personal armies. All his political power derives from his military strength. To risk his forces in battle is to endanger his own standing.
“What of the Throne?” Tuan asks. “If the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen march south, who will guard His Majesty? The Imperial Guard are only a few hundred men—surely their numbers are inadequate.”
“The Throne may best be guarded by defeating the Falling Star Giants,” Jung Lu says.
“I must insist that half the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen be left in the capital to guard the person of the Son of Heaven,” Tuan says.
The Empress and Emperor look at one another. Best to act now, the Empress thinks, before Prince Tuan regains his confidence. Half the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen are better than all.
Kuang Hsu turns back to the princes. “We leave it to you,” he says.
In the still night the tramp of boots echoes from the high walls of the Forbidden City. Columns of Tiger-Hunt Marksmen, under the command of Tuan’s brother Duke Lan, are marching off to meet the enemy. In the Hour of the Dog, after nightfall, one of the Empress’s blue-gowned maidens escorts Prince Jung Lu into her presence. He had avoided the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen by using the tunnels beneath the Forbidden City—they were designed to help servants move unobtrusively about their duties, but over the years they have been used for less licit purposes.
“We are pleased to express our gratitude,” the Empress says, and takes from around her neck a necklace in which each pearl has been carved into the likeness of a stork. She places the necklace into the hands of her delighted maid.
Sad, she thinks, that it is necessary to bribe her own servants to encourage them to do what they should do unquestioningly, which is to obey and keep silent.
The darkness of the Empress’s pavilion is broken only by starlight reflected from the yellow hangings. The odor of Nine-Buddha incense floats in the air.
“My friend,” she tells Jung Lu, and reaches to touch his sleeve. “You must survive this upcoming battle. You and your army must live to rescue the Emperor from the Iron Hats.”
“My life is in the hands of Fate,” Jung Lu murmurs. “I must fight alongside my army.”
“I order you to survive!” the Empress demands. “His Majesty cannot spare you.”
There is a moment of silence, and then the old man sighs.
“This unworthy one will obey Her Majesty,” he says.
Irrational though it may be, the Empress begins to glimpse a tiny, feeble ray of hope.
Hot western winds buffet the city, and the sky turns yellow with loess, dust blown hundreds of li from the Gobi Desert. It falls in the courtyards of the Forbidden City, on the shoulders of the black-clad eunuchs as they scurry madly through the courtyards with arms full of valuables or documents. Hundreds of carts jam the byways. The Imperial Guard, in full armor, stand in disciplined lines about the litters of the royal family. Prince Tuan stands in the yard, waving the Shangfang Sword and shouting orders. Nobody obeys him, least of all his own son, Pu Chun, the imperial heir who crouches in terror beneath a cart.
The court is fleeing the city. Yesterday, the Falling Star Giants finally made their advance on Peking. At first the news was all bad, horsemen riding into the city with stories of entire regiments being incinerated by the Fire of the Meteor.
After that it was worse, because there was no news at all.
In the early hours of the morning an order arrived from Jung Lu to evacuate the court to the Summer Palace north of the city. Since then, all has been madness.
It is the Hour of the Hare, early in the morning. The Empress’s blue-clad maidservants huddle in knots, weeping. The Empress, however, is made of sterner stuff. She has been through this once before. She picks up one of her little lion dogs and thrusts it into the arms of one of her maids.
“Save my dogs!” she orders. She can’t stand the idea of losing them again.
“Falling Star Giants seen from the city walls!” someone cries. There is no telling whether or not the report is true. Servingwomen dash heedlessly about the court, their gowns whipped by the strong west wind.
“Flee at once!” Prince Tuan shrieks. “The capital is lost!” He runs for his horse and gallops away. His son, screaming in terror, follows on foot, waving his arms.
The Emperor appears, a plain traveling cloak thrown over his shoulders. “Mother,” he says, “it is time to go.”
The Empress carries two of her favorite dogs to the litter. Her eunuchs hoist her to their shoulders, and the column begins to march for the Chienmen Gate. The western wind rattles the banners of the guard, but over the sound of the wind the Empress can hear a strange wailing sound, like a demon calling out to its mate. And then a wail from another direction as the mate answers.
“Faster!” someone calls, and the litter begins to jounce. The guardsmen’s armor rattles as they begin to jog. The Empress braces herself against the sides of the litter.
“Black smoke!” Another cry. “The Tail of the Meteor!”
Women scream as the escort breaks into a run. The Empress’s lion dogs whimper in fear. She clutches the curtains and peers anxiously past the curtains. The black smoke is plain to see, a tall column billowing out over the walls. As she watches, another rocket falls, trailing black.
But the strong west wind catches the top of the dark, billowing column and tears the smoke away, bearing it to the east.
As the column flees to safety, loess covers the city in a soft blanket of imperial yellow.
Much of the disorganized column, including most of the wagon train with its documents and treasure, is caught in the black smoke and never escapes the capital. Half the Tiger-Hunt Marksmen are dead or missing.
The terror and confusion make the Empress Dowager breathless, but it is the missing lion dogs that make her weep.
The column pauses north of the city at the Summer Palace only for a few hours, to beat some order into the chaos, then sets out into the teeth of the gale to Jehol on the Great Wall. In the distance the strange wailings of the Falling Star Giants are sometimes heard, but streamers of yellow dust conceal them.
By this time Prince Tuan has found his courage, his son, and his troops, the few thousand Tiger-Hunt Marksmen to have survived the fall of the capital. He calls a family conference in a requisitioned mansion, and issues edicts under the Imperial Seal calling for the extermination of all foreigners and Chinese Christians.
“Who will obey you?” the Emperor shouts at him. His hopelessness has made him fearless, has caused his stammer to disappear. “You have lost all China!”
“Heaven will not permit us to fail,” Tuan says.
“I command you to kill yourself!” cries the Emperor.
Tuan turns to the Emperor and laughs aloud. “Once again His Majesty makes a witticism!”
But as news trickles in over the next few days, Tuan’s belligerence turns sullen. A few survivors from a Peking suburb tell of the city’s being inundated by black smoke after a second attack. Tuan’s ally Prince Chuang is believed dead in the city, and old Kang I was found stone dead in his cart in Jehol, apparently having died unnoticed in the evacuation. Tuan’s great ally General Tung has been killed along with his entire army. And his brother Duke Lan, after losing his entire division of Tiger-Hunt Marksmen to the Fire of the Meteor, committed suicide by drinking poison. There is no word from any of the great cities where meteors were known to have landed. No messages have come from Jung Lu, and he is believed dead.
“West!” Prince Tuan orders. His son Pu Chun stands by his side. “We will go west!”
“Kill yourself!” cries the Emperor. Pu Chun laughs.
“Somebody just farted,” he sneers.
It is the Hour of the Horse, and the hot noon sun shortens tempers. The Dowager Empress holds her favorite lion dog for comfort. The dog whimpers, sensing the tension in the room.
“We will move tomorrow,” Tuan says, and casts a cold look over his shoulder as he marches away from the imperial presence.
Kuang Hsu slumps defeated in his chair. The old lady rises, the lion dog still in her arms, and slowly walks to her nephew’s side. Tears spill from her eyes onto his brocade sleeve.
“Please forgive me,” she says.
“Don’t cry, Mother,” he says. “It isn’t your fault that Foreign Devils have learned to ride meteors.”
“I don’t mean that,” the Empress says. “I mean two years ago, during the Hundred Days’ Reform.”
“Ahh,” the Emperor sighs. He turns away. “Let us not speak of it.”
“They frightened me, Prince Tuan and the others. They said your reforms were destroying the country. They said the Japanese were using you. They said the dwarf-bandits were plotting to kill us all. They said if I didn’t come out of retirement, we would be destroyed.”
“The Japanese modernized their country.” Kuang Hsu speaks unwillingly. His eyes rise to gaze into the past, at his own dead hopes. “I asked for advice from Ito, who had written their constitution. That was all. There was no danger to anyone.”
“The Japanese had just killed the Korean Empress! I was afraid they would kill me next!” The old woman clutches at the Emperor’s hand. “I was old and afraid!” she says. “I betrayed you. Please forgive me for everything.”
He turns to her and raises a hand to her cheek. His own eyes glitter with tears. “I understand, Mother,” he says. “Please don’t cry.”
“What can we do?”
He sighs again and turns away. “Ito told me that I could accomplish nothing as long as I was in the Forbidden City. That I could never truly be an emperor with the eunuchs and the princes and the court in the way. Well—now the Forbidden City is no more. The eunuchs’ power is gone, and there is no court. There are only a few of the princes left, and only one of those is important.”
He wipes tears from his eyes with his sleeve, and the Empress sees cold determination cross his face. “I will wait,” he says. “But when the opportunity comes, I will act. I must act.”
The royal column continues its flight. There seems no purpose in its peregrinations, and the Empress of the West cannot tell if they are running away from something, or toward something else. Possibly they are doing both at once.
Apparently the Falling Star Giants have better things to do than pursue. Exhausted and with nowhere else to go, the royal family ends up in the governor’s mansion in the provincial capital of T’ai-yiian. The courtyard is spattered with blood because the governor, Yu Hsien, had dozens of Christian missionaries killed here, along with their wives and children. Their eyeless heads now decorate the city walls.
One afternoon the Empress looks out the window and sees Pu Chun practicing martial arts in the court. In his hands is a bloodstained beheading sword given him by Governor Yu.
She never looks out the window again.
All messages from the east are of death and unimaginable suffering. Cities destroyed, armies wiped out, entire populations fleeing before the attackers in routes as directionless as that of the court.
There is no news whatever from the rest of the world. Apparently all the Foreign Devils have been afflicted by Foreign Devils of their own.
And then, in the Hour of the Rooster, word comes that Prince Jung Lu has arrived and requests an audience, and the Empress feels her heart leap. She had never permitted herself to hope, not once she heard of the total destruction of Peking.
At once she convenes a family council.
The horrors of war have clearly affected Jung Lu. He walks into the imperial presence with a weary tread and painfully gets on his knees to perform the required kowtows.
“This worthless old man begs to report to the Throne that the Falling Star Giants are all dead.”
There is a long, stunned silence. The Emperor, flushed with sudden excitement, tries to speak but trips over his own tongue.
Joy floods Tzu Hsi’s heart. “How did this occur?” she asks. “Did we defeat them in battle?”
“They were not defeated,” Jung Lu says. “I do not know how they died. Perhaps it was a disease. I stayed only to confirm the reports personally, and then I rode here at once with all the soldiers I could raise. Five thousand Manchu bannermen await the imperial command outside the city walls.”
The Empress strokes one of her lion dogs while she makes a careful calculation. Jung Lu’s five thousand bannermen considerably outnumber Prince Tuan’s remaining Tiger-Hunt Marksmen, but Tuan’s men have modern weapons and the bannermen do not. And these bannermen are not likely to be brave, as they probably survived the Falling Star Giants only by fleeing at the very rumor of their arrival.
She sees the relieved smile on Prince Tuan’s face. “Heaven is just!” he says.
All turn at a noise from the Emperor. Kuang Hsu’s hands clutch the arms of his chair, and his face twists with the effort to speak. Then he gasps and has an orgasm.
An hour ago he was a ghost-emperor, nothing he did mattered, and he spoke freely. Now that he is the Son of Heaven again, his stammer and his nervous condition have returned.
A few moments later he speaks, his head turned away in embarrassment.
“Tonight we will thank Heaven for its mercy and benevolence. Tomorrow, at the Hour of the Dragon, we will assemble again in celebration.” He looks at Pu Chun, who stands near Prince Tuan. “I have observed the Heir practice wushu in the courtyard. I hope the Heir will favor us with a demonstration of his martial prowess.”
Prince Tuan flushes with pleasure. He and his son fall to their knees and kowtow.
“We will obey the imperial command with pleasure,” Tuan says.
The Emperor turns his head away as he dismisses the company. At first the Empress thinks it is because he is shamed by his public orgasm, but then she sees the tight, merciless smile of triumph on the Emperor’s lips, and a cold finger touches the back of her neck.
In the next hours the Empress of the West tries to smuggle a message to Jung Lu in hopes of seeing him privately, but the situation is so confusing that the messenger cannot find him. She decides to wait for a better time.
With the morning the Hour of the Dragon arrives, and the family council convenes. The remaining Iron Hats cluster together in pride and triumph. It is clearly their hour—the Falling Star Giants have abdicated, as it were, and left the nation to the mercies of the Iron Hats. As if in recognition of this fact, the Emperor awards Prince Tuan the office of Grand Councillor in place of the late Kang I.
Then Pu Chun is brought forward to perform wushu, and the Emperor calls the Imperial Guard into the room to watch. The imperial heir leaps about the room, shouting and waving the blood-encrusted sword given him by Governor Yu as he decapitates one imaginary Foreign Devil after another. The Empress has seen much better martial art in her time, but at the end of the performance, all are loud in their praise of the young heir, and the Emperor descends from his chair to congratulate him.
Fighting his tongue—the Emperor seems unusually tense today—he turns to the heir and says, “I wonder if the Heir has learned a sword technique called The Dragon in Flight from Low to High?”
Pu Chun is reluctant to admit that he is not a complete master of the sword, but with a bit of paternal prodding he admits that this technique seems to have escaped him.
Kuang Hsu’s stammer is so bad he can barely get the words out. “Will the Heir permit me to teach?”
“Your Majesty honors us beyond all description,” Prince Tuan says. Despite his lifelong ill health, the Emperor, like every Manchu prince, practiced wushu since he was a boy, and always received praise from his instructors.
The Emperor turns to Prince Tuan, his face red with the struggle to speak. “May … I … have the honor … to use … the Shangfang Sword?”
“The Son of Heaven does his unworthy servant too much honor!” Prince Tuan eagerly strips the long blade from its sheath and presents it on his knees to the Emperor.
The Emperor strikes a martial pose, sword cocked, and Pu Chun imitates him. Watching from her chair, the Empress feels her heart stop. Terror fills her. She knows what is about to happen.
The movement is too swift to follow, but the Shangfang Sword whistles as it hurtles through air, and its blade is sharp and true. Suddenly Prince Tuan’s head rolls across the floor. Blood fountains from the headless trunk.
Fury blazes from Kuang Hsu’s eyes, and his body, unlike his tongue, has no stammer. His second strike crushes the skull of Tuan’s ally, Governor Yu. His third kills the president of the Board of Punishments. And his fourth—the Empress cries out to stop, but is too late—the fourth blow strikes the neck of the boy heir, Pu Chun, who is so stunned by the unexpected death of his father that he doesn’t think to protect himself from the blade that kills him.
“Protect the Emperor!” Jung Lu cries to his guardsmen. “Kill the traitors!”
Those Iron Hats still breathing are finished off by the Imperial Guard. And then the Guard rounds up the Iron Hats’ subordinate officers, and within minutes their heads are struck off.
The Emperor dictates an order to open the city gates, and the order is signed with the Imperial Seal. Jung Lu’s loyal bannermen pour into the city and surround the Throne with a wall of guns, swords, and spears.
Only then does the Emperor notice the old woman, still frozen in fear, who sits on her throne clutching her whimpering lion dogs.
Kuang Hsu approaches, and the Empress shrinks from the blood that soaks his dragon-embroidered robes.
“I am sorry, Mother, that you had to watch this,” he says.
The Empress manages to find words within the cloud of terror that fills her mind.
“It was necessary,” she says.
“The Foreign Devils have been destroyed,” the Emperor says, “and so have the Falling Star Giants. The Righteous Harmony Fists are no more, and neither are the Iron Hats. Now there is much suffering and loss of life, but China has survived such catastrophes before.”
The Empress looks at the blood-spattered dragons on the Emperor’s robes. “The Dragon has flown from Low to High,” she says.
“Yes.” The Emperor looks at the Shangfang Sword, still in his hand. “The Falling Star Giants have landed all over the world,” he says. “For many years the Foreign Devils will be busy with their own affairs. While they are thus occupied we will take control of our own ports, our own laws, the railroads, industries, and telegraphs. By the time they are ready to deal with us again, the Middle Kingdom will be strong and united, and on its way to being as modern as any nation in the world.”
Kuang Hsu looks up at the Empress of the West.
“Will you help me, Mother?” he asks. “There will be need of reform—not just for a Hundred Days, but for all time. And I promise you—” His eyes harden, and for a moment she sees a dragon there, the animal that according to legend lives in every emperor, and which has slumbered in Kuang Hsu till now. “I promise you that you will be safe. No one will be in a position to harm you.”
“I am old,” the Empress says, “but I will help however I can.” She strokes the head of her lion dog. Her heart overflows. Tears of relief sting her eyes. “May the Hour of the Dragon last ten thousand years,” she says.
“Ten thousand years!” the guards chorus, and to the cheers the Emperor walks across the bloodstained floor to the throne that awaits him.