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48
Emissary
It was mid-day on the road west of Charchan. Rana had given orders that the whole of his heavy infantry contingent was
to march with him, along with all of the mounted horsemen. These, along with his personal guard, amounted to some 350 men. They were arrayed in steel-gray ranks on either side of the road, standing tall and silent.
In their center, mounted at the head of the cavalry, Rana sat with Keemah and Artuk at his side. Ten Khur Kan leaders sat on dark horses just behind them, and the rest of the horsemen were sent out to either flank in groups of fifty men each. It was not a large force, but still more than three times the size of the delegation that now faced them, ambling up the road in a long red column. Rana had chosen a spot where the road mounted a low ripple in the earth, so he would stand higher than the advancing T'ang. Behind him, the road wound down to the Charchan River, and the town beyond. But from this point, the Chinese would not be able to lay eyes on Charchan itself. He stood on the forward slope of the road to insure this.
Now Rana waited while the T'ang column came up, marching slowly to the beat of a drum. Horsemen were in the lead,
perhaps no more than ten men, but they carried long spears capped by silvered axe blades and streamed with pennants. A stretcher-like palanquin came next, and a cluster of common peasants hovered about it, some with
brooms sweeping rocks and fragments of wood branches from the road ahead while others wafted incense into the air about the palanquin. A chair was mounted there, and a thin man, heavily robed in jade green and gold,
sat tall in the seat. His head was crowned with a burgundy cap with a tasseled bronze finial post in the center. An embroidered mark of rank was sewn on his outer pufu surcoat. It bore the emblem of a white crane, indicating a man of high official rank in the Chinese system of civil authority. He held a golden scepter in his right hand, and a rolled scroll in his left. As the palanquin drew near, Rana saw that his face was drawn, nose pinched above a thin long twirl of whiskers, eyes mere slits in the carved mask of his face. His beard was long and white, and combed smooth, and he was adorned lavishly with gold and jadestones that gathered at the end of a pendant about his thin neck.
The palanquin came on, and the horsemen peeled away to either side as it came to a stop, still borne on the shoulders of
the eight peasant servants who carried it. Behind this a column of men in dark burgundy surcoats fanned out in a line to either side. They carried black round shields and Chinese spears, and stood facing off against
the men of Rana’s contingent, though they could not measure it, and seemed much overshadowed by the long ranks of the Tibetan heavy infantry, which was just as Rana desired.
No one spoke, and Rana knew that the Chinese emissary had already begun the subtle game of power, unwilling to announce himself to one he perceived beneath him. They waited in silence, a stirring of wind catching thin coils of incense smoke and wafting the scent of jasmine on the air. See how he waits, thought Rana, a patient spider this one. He lights incense so as not to sully himself with the scent of his enemy. He will not give leave that his stretcher be laid down, for he already sits beneath me, and reaches for every advantage he may gain. Well then, let him wait here a day and a night if he chooses, but he will speak first.
Time passed. The emissary regarded Rana with growing impatience. Then one of his ministers, gray robed with a hem of
silver, came up from behind, whispering near the man on the chair. There was a subtle nod of the emissary’s head, and the minister stepped forward, raising a long brass horn and blowing hard. The strident note
fled into the vacant trackless landscape about them, lost on the swelling wind.
“Zhi Shi! Shen zhi zhao!” The man spoke in Chinese, and Rana considered how to respond. Should he wait for the T'ang to produce an interpreter who spoke his native language of Tibet? If the T'ang could not do as much, then he would be forced to speak Chinese, and lose face here. That would be very easy for the emissary to manipulate. He could simply fawn and fritter until he heard his own melodious tongue spoken to him. But how to reverse the issue? He decided and whispered to Keemah, who nodded and rode forward.
“I am commanded to tell you that you may not address us in the language of our homeland. The words of our fathers
are as far above you as the mountains. You do not merit them. Instead, will we conduct this discourse in words you may better understand.”
The gray robed man, smiled, his thin lips pressed in a sneer. “Who are you?” he asked in Chinese.
“There is only one language under heaven that matters here. Do you understand that?” The man was not speaking of his own mind, but repeating phrases whispered to him by the emissary, who sat on
his palanquin chair beneath a fluttering embroidered sun screen, feigning boredom and impatience.
Now Rana whispered in turn to Keemah, who repeated his master’s words in the language of the T'ang.
“Good, you hear us, as is our wish in this matter. Who comes to ask favor here?”
“What? Who are you? Are you nomads seeking water and grasses? Where do you come from? Why to you stand here
astride this road and bar the way?”
“We do not wander. It is you who present yourself here without leave, and we do not know you.”
Keemah’s voice was clear and bright.
“Ah! Then you must be strangers if you do not read the sign of the T'ang upon these banners. We have ruled
over these lands for centuries. If you do not know this, then you must be vagrants, nomads, or tenders of sheep; unconcerned with such matters as we now carry.”
Rana noted that the emissary had cleverly announced his authority in the shape of a veiled insult. He smiled inwardly,
enjoying the battle of wills here. He had conceded a point by deciding to speak Chinese, but now he would even the score. He whispered to Keemah again, content to wait the Chinese out for as long at it would take
before he announced himself here.
“We read well the banners of the T'ang, but we do not know who dares to raise them here. So the way is closed.
You will wait until you give answer.”
“Is there no one among you qualified to speak then? Send for such, and we will brew cha to chase the thirst of the
day.” The emissary tried to circumvent the challenge.
“Do you wish wood or coals for your fire?” Rana’s reply indicated that he was willing to wait the man
out. He noted how the emissary pursed his lips when Keemah repeated it, clearly unhappy, though the man controlled his face at once, settling his features back to a well practiced arrogance. There was a long pause
before the emissary whispered again, his voice a rasp on the wind.
“The Imperial T'ang Emissary to the Kingdom of Khotan does not need your wood or coals. He has need of haste,
however, for he seeks one qualified to speak! If you are not drifters and nomads, then who are you that gathers wood for the fires? We have seen smoke rising from our city of Chü mo yonder, and we are concerned for the well-being of our citizens there.”
Rana permitted himself a smile, savoring the face he had gained by forcing the other man to state his title and rank
first. Again, the information came in a veiled insult, but he gave it no mind.
“You address here the Chief of the army you see before you,” he said through Keemah. “We are not
beholden to the T'ang. You know us well by the make of our armor. You have seen such before, and trembled at our approach. We have long been absent from these lands, being busy with other matters. Now we have
returned. So, as to the matter of that which you call Chü mo, it is of no concern to you. The city is no longer under your domain, being fast in the hand of the Emperor of Tibet. State your purpose here, or
be gone!” The dance of civility was over and Rana pressed the emissary to reveal himself.
“The army of Tibet? That was long ago, yes, I recall it now. We had dealings with such in the past. Brigands and
thieves! Our general, the Lord of the Mountains of the Sky, Kao Hsien-chih, set them to rout. They have not troubled us for many years. Surely you do not now boast of yourselves as an army?”
“Your general, Kao Hsien-chih, is neither lord of mountains, nor sky, nor yet any man. He is dead.” Rana let
the message sink in, watching the emissary’s face closely and noting how his eyes registered surprise, a glimmer of fear that was quickly veiled again.
“Dead? Surely you jest. You reach too high on the tree if you would claim victory over such as Kao Hsien-chih! His
shadow is great, and lowers over all these realms.” The gray robed mouthpiece swayed this way and that, extending his arms in exaggerated movement. “What you see here before you is but the barest tip of
one hair on the head of his armies. Be not so brash, or he may come this way and strike you down!”
Rana smiled, grateful now for the information he had gleaned from Tando. Did the man not know, or was he merely bluffing
here, measuring? He whispered a reply for Keemah.
“Kao Hsien-chih treads upon nothing in this world, though he may yet command demons in the Eight Hells. It was his
to fight and fail, years ago, in the valley of the Talas River. Have you not heard, or do you forget? It was his to go limping back to China to set your Emperor’s house in order. He failed there as well! So
now he is dead—not by the hand of an enemy, but by order of your own illustrious Emperor. Kao Hsien-chih is dead.”
“Why should we believe this? Would not the same be said by any barbarian—out of jealousy or fear? Who are
you that you dare say such a thing?” The emissary was trying, once more, to win the tug of wars and extract Rana’s name before revealing his own. Thus far they had only exchanged titles, and little face
was lost in this, or so Rana read the man’s intentions.
“Who am I? I am the master of Chü mo; master of Charchan and all lands between this place and
Bash-Kurghan. No man passes here but by my leave. Who are you, emissary?” Rana was revealing the extent of his incursion north of the mountains. The emissary wrung his hands together, fidgeting with the
jade amulet that hung from his neck.
“You claim mastery of all these lands with such as that?” The minister pointed at the lines of Rana’s
infantry. Surely now we are certain of your jest. And so your slur upon the name of Kao Hsien-chih is empty to us, and we do not hear it.”
“You may satisfy yourself, if that is your wish,” Rana was unconcerned. “You will hear enough in due
time. That I have in abundance.”
“Then be so kind as to lend me some, and stand aside. I have an errand in Chang’an that will not keep.”
“Then you must forsake it.”
“Who says this?” Again the emissary fished for a name, but Rana would not oblige him. The gray robed
minister spoke again. “This is a matter for ministers of court and rank, not common soldiers. Is there no other with whom I may speak?” The minister craned his neck, as if straining to see beyond the
ranks of Rana’s men.
“You may shout if you wish,” Rana gave answer. “But I do not think your voice will be heard
inChang’an. If you have nothing to say to me here, then turn and go back to Khotan.”
The emissary was clearly annoyed, overly so, thought Rana. His anger seemed a show, and his rasping whispers to the gray
robed minister were punctuated by jabbing pokes at the air with his scepter of gold.
“How dare you say this! It is clear that you have no manners. Do you realize who you are speaking with here? Are
you so unschooled that you do not read the signs and badges we so clearly display. The White Crane of the Han is visible for all to see. Do you not know it? Then be educated, for you are speaking with Wan Han Lo,
Imperial Emissary, late sent of Hsüan-tsung, the Son of Heaven, who now holds court in Chang’an. But of course, how can a simple soldier be expected to have such a keen eye? Therefore, we are gracious. We
forgive your ill manners, but do not hinder us further. The road is long before us. We seek discourse with our ministers in Chü mo before we journey on to the Emperor’s court in Chang’an.
Rana smiled, seeing how cleverly the man had worked his name into a lecture of reproach. He was claiming lineage back to
the time of the Han, a family line that would span some seven hundred years or more.
“Wan Han Lo?” Rana whispered that Keemah should repeat the name loudly, picking it out of the man’s
reply and waving it before his face like something he had dropped in error. “Well, if any here are in need of education, then hear this! It seems you have been long away from your Emperor’s court in
Chang’an. Years in fact. The Emperor you speak of no longer holds sway there. He is fled from that city, like a mongrel dog, and now he whines and frets and calls back his ministers for his comfort. Have you
not heard the name of An Lu Shan? It is he who sits on the Imperial throne now. Yes, you have heard such—As have I. So you will also know that Kao Hsien-chih is nowhere to be found in this quarter, though you deny it. But we are here, and not to bandy words with the White Crane on your chest. The time of the T'ang is passing now. You are speaking with Du P’ong Rana Tenpai, the new master of all these lands you once claimed as your own—Not for myself, for I am not so arrogant. I come here now in the name of Trisong Detsen, Emperor of Tibet. I too am an emissary, Wan Han Lo. In that you may take your only comfort.”
The emissary’s face was suddenly red with anger, and this time Rana could see that it was genuine. He gestured
harshly, brandishing his scepter like a weapon as he spoke. Rana could hear his reply long before the gray robed minister turned to speak it.
“Your tongue may be wrapped in silk but yet it bears the barb of a lie! Where are our ministers of Chü mo. Only then may we learn the truth in this.”
“Perhaps those long accustomed to deception do not recognize the truth when they hear it,” Rana gave answer
directly now. Keemah bowed on cue, withdrawing behind his master now that he had spoken his mind. “I do not think you will wish to speak with your ministers in Chü mo on any account. They are food for the flies now, and speak no more.”
The emissary’s face blanched with the realization that he might be in great danger here. Nonetheless, he allowed
himself the hint of scorn in his voice, and he too spoke directly to Rana for the first time. “Rana Tenpai? I have not heard of it. What, were you late born of the sheep herders of yonder mountains? Go back to
them! You do not measure me here, though yes, I can see you are three to my one if heads are to be counted. Such is your only advantage. But know this: the armies of the T'ang will soon march this way and change
that count. Then we will see how brash you may be, and we will see how eager you are to gather wood and coals for my tea fire.”
“The armies of the T'ang? Where are they? I have been seeking them, but it seems that all your southern
garrisons are called back to vie with An Lu Shan.” This was the lure that Rana had been angling, and he was pleased when the emissary snapped back an answer, without thinking about the information he now
conveyed.
“Not all, young boy! Chang-Wu-Chi still sits fast behind the walls of Khotan. We are masters of Old Domoko,
Niya, Yarkand and all the lands as far as Kashgar. You nibble here at the rind of the bread, but the strength that lies beyond is yet unfought. No doubt you have made sport with peasants and farmers, or put the
sword to helpless civil servants. Now you think yourself a great conqueror? Think again! When first I set eyes upon Tu Fan riders, three days ago, I gave orders that a part of the garrison of Khotan should be set to the march. They are coming, boy general. Then we will see who is master of Chü mo,
and who will speak first at parley. If you are wise, you will flee now to your high mountains! Go and slurp at your butter tea and wallow in a trough of barley!”
It was clear that the emissary was not one to forgive the slight that Rana had forced upon him, but Rana was not
concerned. He had uncovered the emissary’s purpose at last. Now he would send him on his way, but not without tugging on the hook he had barbed the man with, and drawing his head out of water for a time.
“So, you come to boast and give warning here? You threaten force of arms, as is always the way of the T'ang.
Well look closely, Wan Han Lo,” he leaned on the name again, twisting the barb. “Yes, I may wear the silken robes of a minister on the surface, but beneath them there is the iron of strong armor.
Look also on the ranks of these men who stand here with me, for it may be the last thing you see if you do not turn about, and quickly. You are now ordered to return to your western domains. Tell them what you have heard here. Now go! My men are restless, and there are many here who would think your words just cause for death. Go! Before I lose all restraint with you, old man Han.”
The emissary’s jaw slackened with the sting of Rana’s words. His face was soon pressed with fear when Rana
raised his right arm and all the ranks of his infantry shouted in unison, their long lances thrust out before them as they did so. The emissary’s hand shook with both anger and fear now. He cursed in Chinese
before speaking one last time.
“So, it is as I have thought. Your last argument is force of arms. Would you raise your hand against a banner of
emissary? I do not come here to war on you, though others may if you tarry. You have been warned, so I will leave this place. Come west, boy general, if you dare. Then we will see who shouts the loudest.” He
spoke sharply to his minister, and at once the porters turned about, hastening the palanquin back down the long road and safely behind his hundred men at arms. Rana watched them shuffle away, a smile dressing his
face, gloating and content. The ten horsemen turned and rode back to take up position near the palanquin. Then the maroon clad spearmen turned about and began to form up their column, though some cast wary glances
back over their shoulders as they went.
“Shall we prick them a bit?” Keemah asked. “Shall we call for the Tark and have him hurry them on
their way?”
“No,” said Rana. “Let them go. After all, we are not brigands and thieves!” They smiled together
watching the long, dusty retreat of Wan Han Lo.
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