Chapter 600: Mirror-of-the-Sky Blood (4)

Lighting a fire wasn’t hard.

A salt kettle is a device for boiling brine—set a heavy cauldron on bricks and stoke a strong fire beneath.

So there was no need to hunt dried dung; plenty of fuel remained. Touch it with a spark and it would whoosh up at once.

“If we light a fire, they’ll—”

“It’s fine. You think I’m just any expert? Right now you two are about to freeze to death—you’ll go before those mutts even show up. Look at your sister. The kid’s already white as a sheet.”

“We shouldn’t...”

Bringing up his sister must have been the right move; the boy’s voice trailed off to a whisper.

I cracked open a fresh-wicked fire-striker, still lively, and lit one blaze, then another beside it, then two more opposite; heat rose from east, west, south, and north, and in a blink the air turned warmly hot.

“Where do you pile the dried dung?”

“Ah, that, I—”

“Ah-ah. No touching. Kids don’t touch fuel. Use your mouth and fingers to point, will you? Mm, that way? Iri, keep an eye on them.”

Primitive, early Middle Kingdom facilities aren’t some complicated contraptions.

Places like this are simpler: spots that need manpower get big doors and good access, and supplies that are used often are stored right by where they’re used, with a wide opening cut for them.

The moment I stepped into the fuel shed, a smoky reek pricked my nose.

The dried yak dung was black—perhaps that yak’s gut health was poor... no—sniff, sniff—they’d kneaded it with coal. No wonder the fire ran hot though not much was left.

Thanks to that, warm air soon flowed through the broad salt works.

I peered a moment at a unique, odd venting structure.

The roof angled to lead the smoke out?

If the smoke goes out, that means it’s visible from outside.

“Hee-mae? You here?”

So of course the others would see the smoke and come running quickly.

The younger of the siblings—yet the brother—was fifteen, name Chama-gyeong; the older—yet the sister—was thirteen, name Chana-mo.

For fifteen, Chama-gyeong was small; for thirteen, Chana-mo was very tall—she might even outgrow me at this rate.

Not typical Zang names.

According to Bungsain, who’s from around here: Tibetans traditionally have no surnames—

except for high monk-leaders.

Instead, they use two given names.

Amukhablap is the example.

His “name” isn’t Amukhablap. It’s Amuk and Hablap—two names.

But Tibetans are people too; calling someone by both names—one syllable short, four syllables long—is a hassle.

So, with Amuk–Hablap as the example, you can call him Amuk or call him Hablap.

Most common, though, is taking the first sounds of both: for Amukhablap, the usual call-name becomes Ahab.

But that tradition is more the wilds out west; the Zang in Qinghai often pick up a surname and use Central Plains style.

Because administration in the Central Plains runs on surname and given name.

So it was with the Cha siblings.

“Our village is Chaka Village? Then let’s just be the Cha family,” and they took it up.

Listening, I recalled the Tibetan Amukhablap and that iron-nippled one trading words—

“Are our Tibetan children now speaking and thinking like those people of the Central Plains?”

Think a little and it’s funny.

If you live in Qinghai, aren’t you just people of the Central Plains?

I don’t know the history, but from what I’ve seen, it’s not like those dregs in my homeland’s Central Plains who persecute everyone.

Just look at Xining—mosques of the Hui, Tibetan temples, Buddhist halls, little and big shrines, and even Daoists seeking Hollow Mountain—they’re all left to live as they will.

Surprisingly, through the dynasties the imperial house hasn’t especially discriminated against “barbarians.”

More precisely, they treat both “barbarians” and Han with equal harshness—as property to squeeze and slaves to command.

Even Red-Haired Devils (whites) and Sea Devils (blacks) aren’t especially expelled; you’ll find a few settled here and there.

In fact, red-hairs get preference; some serve as interpreter officials. Sea devils are famed for fighting and are listed in reserve military rolls.

Of course I—the imperial line, a little princess—don’t think of myself as of the Central Plains; I consider myself an outsider, and I have even less interest in Central Plains history.

So—“isn’t it just like that?”—I only note what my eyes have seen.

The “barbarians” may have another view.

In any case, Chama-gyeong explained his situation in flawless Central speech.

“At first we thought they were Lama Monks. But yappa said we had to hide and not make a peep.”

My uncanny language sense told me yappa was Tibetan for father.

Mm, how does this translation work? I have no idea of the mechanism.

“So we hid, and they shouted, ‘Where did you hide the traitor?’—and then the screams...”

His words shook, wet with tears.

The younger sister gripped her brother’s hand tight.

Chama-gyeong’s eyes were bloodshot; he plainly forced back the tears.

“So, at night, I went out, and—mmf.”

Lama Monks had come to the village; the people received them respectfully and offered alms.

But as the monks took down names to pray merit, their faces twisted more and more like demons; suddenly they cried that the villagers had sold their souls—demanded the traitor that instant.

The siblings’ father sensed the danger and shoved the children into a salt kettle.

In that pitch dark, at first still warm, the siblings hid—and horrible noises echoed.

The kettle cooled; with the leather and provisions their father had pushed in, they endured a full day.

When Chama-gyeong slipped out at night to find his father—the village was strewn with bodies.

The boy’s courage was something: in that freezing night he dragged the villagers’ corpses outside and laid them properly.

“The birds don’t enter the village. We keep driving them off because they spoil the salt, they say. But if the birds don’t eat, you wander the road to the next world without even fare. When Yomma passed, yappa said so.”

Yomma is Tibetan for mother.

Everywhere in the world, “ma” and “pa” sound alike; the first word a child makes and keeps calling is close to that.

So he moved the villagers’ corpses outside for sky burial.

But this winter night was brutal. One child, especially small and slight, dragging a frozen body.

How cold, how hard, how much fear did he have to bear?

He said, thankfully, he never found his father’s body.

With tears streaming, on the verge of sobbing—“I didn’t find him,” and “thankfully.”

To me—and even to my still-young companions—it was an obvious lie.

For the even younger sister at his side.

In that cold, with his running strength, in that fear—he’d have had to drag his father’s body.

My chest froze to a sting.

Why—those who claim to stand for Tibet, for the plateau folk—

“Tru—truly—admirable...! Heavens—uh... ngh—hh. How—worthy.”

Jade-Teardrop Sword Bungsain was pouring tears and, even with a choked voice, heaped praise.

I rubbed the back of the boy’s head, packing down my endless, rotting anger under a layer of comfort.

After feeding them a hearty, nourishing porridge—using what food stores remained in the village—the siblings, worn out from hiding in the kettle, nodded and then fell fast asleep.

A boy drifted off using the imperial-line princess’s thigh as a pillow—the very thing Central Plains men dream of, and insolently so.

The sister sagged against Hee-mae, breathing deep.

Truthfully, I wanted to bed down the sister; but Chama-gyeong blocked me like I carried the plague, refusing to let me near her.

He stuck to Chana-mo’s side, watching, so in the end he got the glory of using my thigh as a pillow.

“More of those Tibetans, right?”

“Tch. I’ve seen that trick—but this is past the line. The village is the village—but to touch the salt works.”

Peng Daesan didn’t mean the works mattered more than the people.

Salt is a state-managed resource; to strike a salt works is to pick a fight with the authorities.

We had already heard mind-rotted talk about a Tibetan Empire and the like.

So—these bastards are fully committed. The severity hit double.

Bungsain’s face was full of sorrow.

“This is no ordinary matter. We don’t know where the Lama Monks went, and they may do the same elsewhere—we must notify the main sect at once and protect the people.”

True enough.

But two days to go, two to come back—and does a sect mobilize just because you shout, “We must go!”?

Even if the stars align and they march at once, it’s at least four days.

“In the meantime those Lama Monks will keep committing atrocities. Bungsain, is there a nearby village they’d likely head for? We didn’t pass them on the road, so we didn’t cross paths.”

“If they came from Tibet, they surely hit the western road; assuming they keep to roads, they must have turned north.”

I swept my gaze over my friends.

They’d been with me long enough to read that look.

“No. It’s dangerous.”

“Iri, you don’t get a vote. How does the world’s weakest dare put ‘danger’ in her mouth? For you, anywhere on earth is dangerous.”

“That’s too mean.”

“Enough. Bungsain, would you take the kids and return to Kunlun first? The news must go. Mm—and the kids...”

“A boy with truly fine chivalry. A boy Kunlun must embrace. And blood ties cannot be cut, so I shall beg them to take the girl with him.”

“Ah. That’s a relief.”

“Lady Ximen, you intend to pursue those Lama Monks?”

“Yes. It seems the right thing to do.”

“Mm. Then I will not gainsay it. I honor your chivalry and wish you fortune.”

Chivalry or whatever—I don’t care. I won’t let those bastards keep breathing easy.

They must not be alive to breathe.

Heaven’s will or not—I’m pissed, and that decides it.

I won’t let them die clean.

One thing I like most in the Central Plains: pounding such dogshit to death is not a problem—people even praise you for it.

And my master, my teacher—if they saw this—they’d do the same.

So the disciple cannot shrink here.

Be an odd disciple if I must, but not a shameful one.

And truly, with me, Hee-mae, and San, we will not be outmatched.

Iri is... mm. Right. Well. She’s Iri.

She wouldn’t go even if I told her to.

Gently, I shifted Chama-gyeong’s head onto the fur beneath and stood.

Who knows where those Lama Monks are wreaking havoc next—wait until morning, and more victims.

It’s near the last day of the twelfth month, so the moon’s poorly shaped, but the skies are clear and bright; not so dark that experts lose their night-eyes.

So if we’re going, the reasonable move is to leave now—right now.