The Willow Pattern

He winced as Ma Joong pasted an oil plaster on the wound in his back. The iron rings of the coat of mail had of course prevented the arrow from entering his body, but they had penetrated deep into the flesh.

'Lucky it was only an ordinary wooden arrow,' Ma Joong remarked. 'If it had been one of those new-type iron-shafted ones, its sheer force would've pushed in your carcass. Told Supply a hundred times that now that those new crossbows are used the coats of mail should have iron breast and back-plates. But they say you can't sacrifice mobility to safety, the stubborn bastards!'

All dressed up again, they ate a quick noonmeal with the lieutenant. Then they left the inn, and went back into the slums. Apparently the word had got round that there had been trouble. Here and there people had opened their windows, and were anxiously looking up and down the sordid street. By dint of much asking, they finally found their way to a large house in a narrow but fairly clean alley. The rickety front door was standing ajar.

The front hall was completely bare, and the plaster hung down in large patches. But the floor had been swept clean of rubbish and dust. They surveyed the door openings of the small rooms on the left and right. The doors had apparently been taken down long ago to serve as firewood.

'No one about!' Chiao Tai muttered.

'Hush!' Ma Joong had raised his hand. In the rear of the compound someone was playing a flute.

They crossed the hall and threw the double doors at the end wide open. They gave access to a spacious but ill-kept garden. Peach and orange trees stood among the tall grass. An open corridor ran all along on the right and the left, leading to a higher building in the back. This was indeed the square compound they had seen from the top of the pagoda. Now they could hear the flute better. It was played by an expert, a lively tune with a marked rhythm and an attractive lilt.

'Found them!' Chiao Tai said. He pointed up at the small brown monkey that was hanging by its tail from a branch overhead, keenly observing them with its round brown eyes. Chiao Tai made a purring sound, trying to coax it down. Ma Joong had run straight to the corridor on the left. The red lacquer was peeling off the low balustrades. Evidently the place had stood empty for a long time.

When Chiao Tai had overtaken him, he said dryly:

'I hope that wench of yours is at home. I am prepared to keep her father and sister busy, so that you can cuddle her in a corner. You deserve it. For once!’

Ma Joong grinned broadly. Coming from his taciturn blood brother, this was high praise indeed.

Arrived at the high building, they halted in their steps. Through the arched door opening a charming scene met their eyes. Yuan was playing a long flute, on a tabouret in the centre of a spacious, high-ceilinged hall, empty but for a rustic wooden bench and a bamboo tea table in the corner. Coral, dressed in a long, flowing robe, was dancing on the tips of her diminutive embroidered shoes, gracefully waving her long sleeves. In the wall behind her was a moon door that gave onto an attractive miniature garden, where slender bamboos grew among a few quaintly shaped rocks. After the brutal violence of the encounter they had behind them, this peaceful scene seemed out of another world. They watched it, spellbound.