Chapter 579: Let’s Kill the Bandits (1)

Frontier backcountry—Hainan.

Nothing here to brag about in the annals.

It hasn’t even been three hundred years since this land became part of the realm.

Before that, any “notables” were merely barbarians—not proud worthies of the Central Plains.

Geographically it holds no great advantage; a so-called dung plot. Its only rise is as a triangular gate linking the Central Plains to Gansu and Sichuan—that is the present flourish. But—

“Hmph! Those with full bellies are limited to the Central Plains—filthy hell-hungry ghost piglets, the lot. The precious people of the plateau go hungry instead.”

That’s the local—Amukhablap’s—take.

Development’s profit gets sucked away by Central Plains folk, leaving the plateau folk nothing, and worse—

“Young whelps these days have lost their minds. Drenched in Central Plains fashion, calling the world’s greatest plateau culture inconvenient, shabby, ‘primitive’—a bumper crop of tantrums. I should yank out every last sniveling yellow sprout’s mouth.”

There it is: “Young people these days.”

Regardless of age, this is a public declaration that one’s spirit has grown old.

Of course, cave men three thousand years ago said the same; it’s human instinct, a natural process of aging—no need to hate it or judge it wrong.

Anyway, I’d heard the public mood was bad before we came, and indeed the passersby wear sullen, lifeless faces.

Look at the plateau folk seated since morning on bright wool rugs and bold, multicolored carpets—eyes on our party.

Their jaws hang—fair; even Jiangnan would guarantee you don’t shut your mouth upon seeing the world’s foremost beauty—but their eyes are slack, a shade subversive.

Once they see us talking to Amukhablap in his lama robes, they turn respectful quick—but in that flash I catch the sparks of hostility.

Still, there is a proper high-end inn standing smartly, called the Fang Inn.

“Because they rely on my alms, they wait for you. Eat lunch; we meet at the Hour of the Goat.”

“Eh? Monk, not eating breakfast with us?”

“Worthy one—you are admirable, but a chance to offer to the great me cannot be hoarded by you alone—it’s gold itself. The beings of Hainan are pitiful; this is a perfect karmic link for them to find joy by feeding me.”

He talks as if offering him food is an obvious joy. Maybe that truly is plateau culture.

Turning down fine inn cuisine to make rounds for alms—bizarre to hear, yet monk-like, perhaps.

“Uh... sure. As you like.”

“You stayed awake all night; therefore you must sleep. Restore yourselves with care. I will kill the brigands.”

Having marched through the night, we should close our eyes and recover.

Amukhablap shows great zeal for the brigand purge.

He peels off, and we part the inn’s distinctive bead curtain and step inside.

But—why so quiet?

When guests enter, the attendant should sing out at once.

Greetings feel good and, more, they’re the basics of trade.

After being greeted, even if the place doesn’t suit you, you buy at least a cup of tea—an unspoken social compact.

So Qing glances around.

What—are they running a nerve business?

No other inn on this level nearby, so they don’t care whether we come or go?

Then a man who had been curled asleep at an empty first-floor table lifts his head; our eyes meet.

“Ah! Welcome!!”

Qing trades looks with her party.

Is this place all right?

Not a single customer?

“Honored guests?”

“We’ll eat breakfast and rest. Do you have baths?”

“But of course! You’ve come to the right place! We’ve laid up plenty of clean river water—so as a special, I’ll only raise the water charge half.”

“Then let’s start with a simple breakfast.”

“Ah—will you dine? Vegetable dishes? Meat dishes? Rice, porridge, noodles, dumplings—say the word.”

“Oh. Mm. Then... bring everything.”

“Pardon?”

“Everything—and choose five quick dishes with no overlap.”

The attendant blinks, owlish—

like he wonders what he just heard.

****

However comfortable a bivouac is, the wear accumulates in the body—especially in the cold.

Add a hard night march.

We eat our fill, then soak; I drowse off right there in the hot pool, glurk—gulp a whole bowl of water up my nose and cough–hack–hurk torture myself awake.

After that, a languid, best-kind-of sleep descends; I lie down and don’t get past ten—breathing turns wheezy and I’m out.

Seol Iri seizes the moment, burrows deep into my arms; before she can count to five—prrrt—cute little snores.

Gyeon Pohee smiles, drapes a thick quilt, then worms in herself.

The sun climbs to mid-sky; we’d told them to prepare food and wake us just before the Hour of the Horse, so we gather bleary around the table.

We slept like honey, but woke in between—everyone’s puffy. If an orthodox elder saw the “future pillars of the righteous way,” they’d click their tongue at the sight.

We’re groggy and wobbling, but once we start picking at dishes, our minds snap clear.

Brigands, brigands.

Qing calls the attendant hovering in the corridor to ask around.

“Excuse me—attendant. I hear brigands are raging lately?”

“Ahh, it’s a disaster. This season should be the final rush of the year—bustling with trade.”

With snow about to close the passes, the last crowds should be hurrying down.

But everyone’s diverting north through Xining; since late summer there’s been no one—everyone’s about to be put out on the street.

Qing recalls the first floor she saw coming down from the private room.

So quiet—of four tables, one occupied; a barren sprawl.

And even that table—no cooked dishes out; looks like they pawn off rice as a mess hall because there are no guests.

Thus, a guest as rare as a few times a year—like a god of wealth sprinkling silver—gets a dedicated attendant stuck to their side.

The food is good—the cook skilled; the rooms are neat; the beds are high-end; the daytime sun-screening curtains are the finest.

The baths hold their heat; the private tubs are large—generous. Compared to high-end inns in the northern Central Plains, this might be superior.

As a high-end inn, the Fang Inn lacks nothing—and yet it sits empty. How wretched is that.

“Those madmen demand not just goods but people, raising hell—so travelers cut Hainan off entirely. Those Tibetan savages—barbarian brats. We Han raised this place up with our grace, and they don’t even know gratitude—beasts.”

By “Tibetans” he means the plateau folk—distinct from the Zhuang of Guangxi; even the characters are different.

“The plateau folk? The brigands are plateau folk?”

“Of course. I heard they wear plateau dress.”

Then the attendant lowers his voice to a whisper.

“Truth is, I’d wager there are plateau rats in this very town in league with them.”

“Hm? Why’s that?”

“How do brigands that many feed themselves? Obviously they source grain somewhere. None of our Han Association members have reported such volumes missing—so clearly the plateau rats must be provisioning them.”

“Han Association” leaves me with a strange taste.

From the sound of it, the Hainan merchant world is gripped tight by this association.

If we’re bound for Xining, he adds, since we’re all Han, he can “introduce us at a good rate.”

As for the plateau brats, they always set out to gouge any Han to the bone.

“Mm, if we need that later. As for the brigands—any famed masters among them? Late summer to now is a long time. Even if the officials sat on their hands, haven’t the merchants hired experts?”

“What master would come to such a back-of-beyond? And you don’t even make margin with wagons on this line—how hire a master? Even courier guilds don’t run this road.”

If there were money, couriers would be entrenched and making big on logistics already.

In a rural lane district so poor even small couriers won’t touch it—who hires a master?

Better to skip the route than spend that money.

“Good, then. The master is right here.”

“Mercy, my lord!”

The attendant drops to his knees with a thump and makes a grand prostration.

He must have been under strain for a while.

At a glance we’re much too young, yet he starts with a full kowtow.

“So—share what you know, please?”

“It isn’t certain, but likely seventy li east—Extreme Crest Gorge. In the barbarians’ tongue I’ve heard it as ‘Gay-ho’—their speech is all bent—but that’s the only position that fits a brigand hold.”

They strike like ghosts on the single eastern road where goods pass; they must have planted themselves before the road forks north–south.

And places with a clear downward view of the road to let them drop early and set up—there are only two.

The highest and closest is that Extreme Crest—obvious place to fort up.

Otherwise Seltache Gorge on the southern spine—too rough; even brigands avoid going up and down there.

“Do you know how many?”

“Not sure. Since they’ve taken people, could be a fair number. Thirty, forty—stories differ. I reckon about fifty.”

“Mm. Give us a moment.”

We dismiss the attendant.

“San, what do you think? Fifty?”

“If they’re only bodies holding blades, fifty is no problem.”

“Right—”

“The problem is we don’t know what master might be among them.”

Peng shuts Qing down.

Otherwise she’ll say, “mere super-transcendent trinkets” again—useless nutrition.

Indeed, that’s exactly what she was about to say.

“The attendant said it—this is a mountain backwater without a single courier line. What master would be skimming coins out here? And with the mad monk around, what’s the issue? Even if a real master shows, two-on-one and it’s a clean win. Oh—right, you might not understand unless I spell it out—by ‘real master’ I mean—mmph.”

Peng Daesan crams a fried triangle dumpling stuffed with minced lamb into Qing’s mouth.

“Thif iff relly good—veg’bles go in this side—haa—so good.”

With a little room left, she purses her lips so the chewing doesn’t show—words mashed around the food.

The dumpling isn’t big enough to plug the mouth completely, it seems.

Qing swallows hard, then smooths Seol Iri’s nape with slow presses.

“What are we to do with our delicate Iri—only at Pinnacle, ah. Iri, hand over the chopsticks; chopsticks are too heavy for a Pinnacle.”

Seol Iri’s brows pinch—should she protest, or hand them over and get fed? She wavers.

Peng exhales a deep sigh.

Then—thunk!

The door of the private room swings open wide mid-meal—meaning a middle-aged man who cheerfully eats etiquette as well strides in.

His downy hair has a bluish cast; in the Central Plains, a monk’s “baldness” takes enormous care and labor.

It is not mere shine from the lack of hair.

“Still eating? Central Plains children are terribly lazy.”

“Ah—Fishcake Three-Combo, you’re back? Lunch? Shall I order something?”

“You are admirable, but I accept only the heart. I have already dispensed countless merits, gifting joy to many beings of the plateau. My belly is full without eating—like Śākyamuni’s heart.”

Then he drops and starts munching the—no, Qing never leaves food—so the yet-unfinished dishes on our table.

What? Didn’t he say he was full?

“You ignorant sluggards are not like me. The great me has already identified the brigands.”

“We were just talking about that.”

“Admirable one—take refuge without the delay of a blink. But you are slow as a grub; open your ears and listen. The brigands are—”

He shoves in a triangle dumpling, chews.

What—is this I’ll tell you after the break?

We all watch him chew until the shaveling gulps and continues.

“Vile Central Plains scum! Their base nature is sleazy, filthy, beastlike—they only seek to torment the great people of the plateau! The brigands are all Central Plains brats!”

Our faces say, of course they are.