200 Steps: Nameless
Two hundred steps is as close as the King will let anyone get these days, and easy it is too, what with the palace he's had built for himself now. So this is where he resides, the fabled leader of the Qin, when he's not out in the tent-cities of his vast armies, fertilising the ground with his enemies' blood.
Two hundred steps away should be just on the other side of the portal, just on the edge of the inner sanctum. On the skin of the building. It looks flawless, freshly swept, dark grey. Built for eternity. Not at all like I had imagined it from Broken Sword's description, with all the green draperies filling the air above the polished black floor of some great hall.
The Great Hall. It is cavernous, featureless, at least until my eyes have got used to the dimness. A bright stripe of small flickering fires at the other end. Two hundred steps in one hell of a distance. But I am not here to remain two hundred steps away, like all the common mortals approaching the King. No, I am here to advance. Victoriously. Treacherously. And the weapons of my deceit are bundled together on my back, in their carved boxes and leather scabbards and in all the scarred shining glory that their owners have wielded them in. Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword.
Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword. Sounds almost like a fate. Like a hero's demise. Well that is what these weapons are supposed to speak of – the demise of three assassin heroes at the hands of one. That they are still alive matters little. Their weapons are here with me, two hundred steps from my goal. Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword. They gave their weapons to enable me to make the journey across these two hundred steps, to deceive the King into allowing me closer.
Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword. Had either of you been in my place, you would have rejoiced in the kill.
Two hundred steps from my quarry, I doubt I will.
200 Steps: Ying Zheng
The story that precedes this one is barely believable. Three of the kingdom's best fighters, bested by a single one, and one without a name at that? I cannot help but imagine a whiff of ghost stench in my nose. This is the stuff of fairy tales. Broken Sword – I remember Broken Sword, remember the strength of his slashes that made both our swords sing like bronze bells. To overcome him would require supernatural skills.
My officials tell me the nameless stranger has a broken sword with him, which he intends to present as that of the assassin of the same name. Add to that the axe-spear wielded by that outlander Sky, and the ivory-handled sword known as Falling Snow, the name absorbed by its bearer, and the martial gallery becomes legend, imaginary almost. Still, if he be an impostor, he has death-defying courage to appear before me, knowing full well that the penalty for deceit before the King is a long line of bloodstains along this marvellous floor.
If his boasts turn out to be true, that very floor will become his, step by step, until he is close enough to grasp his own defencelessness and the futility of his mission. Nobody approaches the King armed. And nobody even gets to the far end of the Great Hall without a thorough search. I have my men unbraid any stranger's hair to be sure. It instils in them the proper sense of humility.
Oh, be sure, this would-be ghost deserves a reward if his boasts turn out to be true. His reward will be material. Immaterial to me, but nevertheless impressive to a mere nobody. Possibly immaterial to him as well, once he has approached close enough to read his own powerlessness from my eyes.
Through the bright rectangle of light that is the Great Gate approaches a slender shadow. Ah, a man after all, not a ghost.
Let the games begin.
100 Steps: Nameless
He barely wears colours, the minion shuffling away from me, backwards, his bowed head always facing the barely-discernible figure at the other end of the hall. So this is it? This is him? This is what being one hundred steps away from the King of Qin feels like?
I am a rich man now, the small bench at my side piled with black and grey tokens of dominion over a few dozen hapless peasants, promises of a house, a robe, a title. All of this purely because I am carrying Sky's spear. What if it were a replica, an exact copy of the famous silver-plated weapon, weathered and beaten to years of use in a pot of egg white and rocks? What if it were the genuine spear, but given freely? What would I give to see the King's face now, to read the expression on his features as he holds that spear, examines it.
He will not find fault. At one hundred steps away, he is equal parts statue and man, clad in armour and grey cloth. He looks like one of the fired- earth soldiers that he is commissioning for his royal tomb, hundreds and hundreds of them, and army below ground. Everyone speaks of them, although they who have seen them are sworn to secrecy and live in holy fear. Everyone, all of Qin lives in holy fear of him, this grey-armoured general in the distance. Is his hair still black? Greying, maybe?
His voice has not aged one whit.
100 Steps: Ying Zheng
He walks tall, the little assassin. Bears himself like royalty, head held high as if he wanted me to read his face at this distance. I don't need to come closer to sense the pride in him, bordering on insult. From a T'ing, this would be unpardonable. This one, however, sees himself as far more than his rank would allow. It is indeed Sky's spear he has brought me, and he walks tall, all the way to the middle of the Great Hall, one hundred steps closer.
The walk of an assassin, stealthy and soundless, gliding like a shadow, the economy of movement almost beautiful to behold. He stands still now, head defiantly high. The rising air from the bank of candles between me and the hall makes his silhouette dance, lends a disgusting softness to the clean lines of the man's body. He stands there like a word, like a single masterly brushstroke of black against the grey walls.
He thinks he will go far. Well, one hundred steps away from the King is quite a way for a commoner like him. Would I could see his face – would there be avarice in the eyes, as with all those who come slithering along the polished floor, prostrating themselves next to the little benches of accolades? Would there be pride, thoughtless warrior pride that makes his chest swell and his head go light with his kills? Or would there be that delightful helplessness already, one hundred steps away from me and yet without hope of achieving his goal? A little assassin, clad in black, one hundred steps away – closer than most mortals, and further from me than anyone has ever been.
The Great Hall of Qin is swallowing him – it is designed to. He stands forlorn, but he stands tall. For all I can see from here, he is looking at me. It is hard to tell through the flickering candle-air. Swallow them, and make them small, show them how tiny they are, how tiny we are when seen against the whole. The whole of Qin, the whole of the lands under the sun – the vast labour of rule, of binding together even such a small part of the world. It is I that am made for this task, and that is why I oversee the Great Hall from where I stand. From the other side of the little fires, from the smaller space that oversees the larger one. From the Kingdom that is I, body and soul given to the holding of the reins.
Body and soul. Years ago I dismissed the last of the concubines, sent away the soft companions that sought to imbue me with their vulnerability. The last of the concubines had sealed his own end by falling in love with me, by filling my time with idleness and senseless circuitous pleasure, seeking to hold sway over my mind as he had doubtless done over my body. It was akin to waking in disgust, feeling the words "I love you" threatening to spill over my lips like so much stale semen. I held them in, and threw him out, and proceeded to grow up.
I cringe at the memory every time, be it fifteen, seventeen, twenty years ago now. How little did I know then, of life, of death, of the duties of a King. Of the labours and achievements of a King. Of the absolute necessity of keeping a firm grip on the reins, lest the chariot veer off track and run itself to splinters. Of the necessity of remaining steadfast, and remaining in power. The power has replaced the courtesans, easily.
There is an assassin one hundred steps away, an assassin whose very presence in my Great Hall makes his endeavour pointless. The weapons he has brought are here with me, on my side of the fires. He may come close, as close as he likes, if only for me to read the futility on his face, write it on there if needs be.
And his bare hands cannot pierce my armour.
10 Steps: Nameless
His voice has not aged. And his features are youthful still, the skin smooth and tanned. Years in the field, I suppose. There are lines around his eyes, and I bet there are lines between his nose and the corners of his mouth, concealed so artfully behind the short moustache and beard. He was always a vain man, much though he always tried to deny it. The way his hair is tied up at the top of his head, braided close to his skull, and oiled a matte black, the top-knot of a general and the bearing of a god of war.
Ying Zheng, that is his name. Named after the constellations he was born under. It took me quite a while to find out at the time – idle chatter was never a priority of his, his mind always on greater things, his mouth always closed, even under the most skilful of kisses.
He never asked me my name, not once in two months. I sometimes wonder what he would have said if he had found out I don't have one. Even in those last two days he never asked me my name... those last two days that were the best, and the hardest, of my life. What a delight it had been to watch him liquefy, break open like an egg, golden and glistening beyond the hard shell, moaning, pliant and warm under my hands, the most gorgeous creature ever made. For two days only, he was my everything.
Then, I became his nothing. Thrown out, discarded like kitchen refuse. Under orders never to return.
Well, I have returned. I want my revenge. To pierce that shell again, to cut through that armour. I have a choice of three blades, the weapons of the best assassins of Qin. I will not need them, will not need to defile them further.
The weapon I intend to use is Ying Zheng's own.
10 Steps: Ying Zheng
No amount of firelight can deny what my eyes are telling me. It is he.
He who came without a story and left without a word, hardened maybe by contact with me. It was a good thing, at the time, and made those silly regrets easier to forget. And there has been so much to do, so much hard work for nobodies like him, for the mindless common brood of mankind. It is almost endearing, is it not – I have laboured for the greater good of his kind, and he comes back to take his just revenge and assassinate me? I should be smiling at that, shouldn't I, to see him standing here without a weapon, the determination on his face so out of place. What is he hoping to achieve? He does not look like he has come back to profess his undying love...
He has come to kill me. Pity that all he has to achieve that with is a withering stare tempered by firelight and a tongue a tad too slow for conversation. That tongue was a talented one, odd how I still remember that, and now he stands here with nothing but a temper and a veiled mission to kill me. Kill me, will he not?
I tear my eyes away from his face, glance at the swords. I feel like giving him his chance, letting him have his try at assassinating me, having him dance the dance of swords with me one last time. Well, it would be the last time for him – the courtesan playing at being a hero. How he came by these swords I will never know, not when one of them will have embedded itself in his stubborn flesh. Oh yes – flesh. Blood. To run him aground one last time, cover him with my body, force the life out of him in the ecstasy of my embrace.
Without looking him in the eye, I throw him my sword, my other hand hovering over the array of famous weapons at my knees. Which one would you eat, boy?
The Last Step: Ying Zheng
The decision is taken out of my hands, and they feel light, those hands, ready to fly up and... well, what? Touch him?
I feel the sword pressing into my stomach, prepare to bleed. He is upon me, he is warm.
It is a good end, in the end.
The Last Step: Nameless
Was it really during that final leap that the blade turned in my hand? Less than a step away, and all of a sudden it is me who has the power? What happened I can't read from where I am, but it's clear as water in his eyes, and I feel like all I have to do is lean back a little and savour the expression on his face. But I don't want to lean back.
Here I stand, pressing the hilt of his own sword against his body, crushing him against the rough stone wall, the calligraphed word for "sword" bleeding above him in man-size red ink, the polished blade of his own weapon, of my deceitful heroism, pointing away from him. Away from us.
He smells of sandalwood.
He is warm.
He is crying.
Two hundred steps is as close as the King will let anyone get these days, and easy it is too, what with the palace he's had built for himself now. So this is where he resides, the fabled leader of the Qin, when he's not out in the tent-cities of his vast armies, fertilising the ground with his enemies' blood.
Two hundred steps away should be just on the other side of the portal, just on the edge of the inner sanctum. On the skin of the building. It looks flawless, freshly swept, dark grey. Built for eternity. Not at all like I had imagined it from Broken Sword's description, with all the green draperies filling the air above the polished black floor of some great hall.
The Great Hall. It is cavernous, featureless, at least until my eyes have got used to the dimness. A bright stripe of small flickering fires at the other end. Two hundred steps in one hell of a distance. But I am not here to remain two hundred steps away, like all the common mortals approaching the King. No, I am here to advance. Victoriously. Treacherously. And the weapons of my deceit are bundled together on my back, in their carved boxes and leather scabbards and in all the scarred shining glory that their owners have wielded them in. Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword.
Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword. Sounds almost like a fate. Like a hero's demise. Well that is what these weapons are supposed to speak of – the demise of three assassin heroes at the hands of one. That they are still alive matters little. Their weapons are here with me, two hundred steps from my goal. Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword. They gave their weapons to enable me to make the journey across these two hundred steps, to deceive the King into allowing me closer.
Sky, Falling Snow, Broken Sword. Had either of you been in my place, you would have rejoiced in the kill.
Two hundred steps from my quarry, I doubt I will.
200 Steps: Ying Zheng
The story that precedes this one is barely believable. Three of the kingdom's best fighters, bested by a single one, and one without a name at that? I cannot help but imagine a whiff of ghost stench in my nose. This is the stuff of fairy tales. Broken Sword – I remember Broken Sword, remember the strength of his slashes that made both our swords sing like bronze bells. To overcome him would require supernatural skills.
My officials tell me the nameless stranger has a broken sword with him, which he intends to present as that of the assassin of the same name. Add to that the axe-spear wielded by that outlander Sky, and the ivory-handled sword known as Falling Snow, the name absorbed by its bearer, and the martial gallery becomes legend, imaginary almost. Still, if he be an impostor, he has death-defying courage to appear before me, knowing full well that the penalty for deceit before the King is a long line of bloodstains along this marvellous floor.
If his boasts turn out to be true, that very floor will become his, step by step, until he is close enough to grasp his own defencelessness and the futility of his mission. Nobody approaches the King armed. And nobody even gets to the far end of the Great Hall without a thorough search. I have my men unbraid any stranger's hair to be sure. It instils in them the proper sense of humility.
Oh, be sure, this would-be ghost deserves a reward if his boasts turn out to be true. His reward will be material. Immaterial to me, but nevertheless impressive to a mere nobody. Possibly immaterial to him as well, once he has approached close enough to read his own powerlessness from my eyes.
Through the bright rectangle of light that is the Great Gate approaches a slender shadow. Ah, a man after all, not a ghost.
Let the games begin.
100 Steps: Nameless
He barely wears colours, the minion shuffling away from me, backwards, his bowed head always facing the barely-discernible figure at the other end of the hall. So this is it? This is him? This is what being one hundred steps away from the King of Qin feels like?
I am a rich man now, the small bench at my side piled with black and grey tokens of dominion over a few dozen hapless peasants, promises of a house, a robe, a title. All of this purely because I am carrying Sky's spear. What if it were a replica, an exact copy of the famous silver-plated weapon, weathered and beaten to years of use in a pot of egg white and rocks? What if it were the genuine spear, but given freely? What would I give to see the King's face now, to read the expression on his features as he holds that spear, examines it.
He will not find fault. At one hundred steps away, he is equal parts statue and man, clad in armour and grey cloth. He looks like one of the fired- earth soldiers that he is commissioning for his royal tomb, hundreds and hundreds of them, and army below ground. Everyone speaks of them, although they who have seen them are sworn to secrecy and live in holy fear. Everyone, all of Qin lives in holy fear of him, this grey-armoured general in the distance. Is his hair still black? Greying, maybe?
His voice has not aged one whit.
100 Steps: Ying Zheng
He walks tall, the little assassin. Bears himself like royalty, head held high as if he wanted me to read his face at this distance. I don't need to come closer to sense the pride in him, bordering on insult. From a T'ing, this would be unpardonable. This one, however, sees himself as far more than his rank would allow. It is indeed Sky's spear he has brought me, and he walks tall, all the way to the middle of the Great Hall, one hundred steps closer.
The walk of an assassin, stealthy and soundless, gliding like a shadow, the economy of movement almost beautiful to behold. He stands still now, head defiantly high. The rising air from the bank of candles between me and the hall makes his silhouette dance, lends a disgusting softness to the clean lines of the man's body. He stands there like a word, like a single masterly brushstroke of black against the grey walls.
He thinks he will go far. Well, one hundred steps away from the King is quite a way for a commoner like him. Would I could see his face – would there be avarice in the eyes, as with all those who come slithering along the polished floor, prostrating themselves next to the little benches of accolades? Would there be pride, thoughtless warrior pride that makes his chest swell and his head go light with his kills? Or would there be that delightful helplessness already, one hundred steps away from me and yet without hope of achieving his goal? A little assassin, clad in black, one hundred steps away – closer than most mortals, and further from me than anyone has ever been.
The Great Hall of Qin is swallowing him – it is designed to. He stands forlorn, but he stands tall. For all I can see from here, he is looking at me. It is hard to tell through the flickering candle-air. Swallow them, and make them small, show them how tiny they are, how tiny we are when seen against the whole. The whole of Qin, the whole of the lands under the sun – the vast labour of rule, of binding together even such a small part of the world. It is I that am made for this task, and that is why I oversee the Great Hall from where I stand. From the other side of the little fires, from the smaller space that oversees the larger one. From the Kingdom that is I, body and soul given to the holding of the reins.
Body and soul. Years ago I dismissed the last of the concubines, sent away the soft companions that sought to imbue me with their vulnerability. The last of the concubines had sealed his own end by falling in love with me, by filling my time with idleness and senseless circuitous pleasure, seeking to hold sway over my mind as he had doubtless done over my body. It was akin to waking in disgust, feeling the words "I love you" threatening to spill over my lips like so much stale semen. I held them in, and threw him out, and proceeded to grow up.
I cringe at the memory every time, be it fifteen, seventeen, twenty years ago now. How little did I know then, of life, of death, of the duties of a King. Of the labours and achievements of a King. Of the absolute necessity of keeping a firm grip on the reins, lest the chariot veer off track and run itself to splinters. Of the necessity of remaining steadfast, and remaining in power. The power has replaced the courtesans, easily.
There is an assassin one hundred steps away, an assassin whose very presence in my Great Hall makes his endeavour pointless. The weapons he has brought are here with me, on my side of the fires. He may come close, as close as he likes, if only for me to read the futility on his face, write it on there if needs be.
And his bare hands cannot pierce my armour.
10 Steps: Nameless
His voice has not aged. And his features are youthful still, the skin smooth and tanned. Years in the field, I suppose. There are lines around his eyes, and I bet there are lines between his nose and the corners of his mouth, concealed so artfully behind the short moustache and beard. He was always a vain man, much though he always tried to deny it. The way his hair is tied up at the top of his head, braided close to his skull, and oiled a matte black, the top-knot of a general and the bearing of a god of war.
Ying Zheng, that is his name. Named after the constellations he was born under. It took me quite a while to find out at the time – idle chatter was never a priority of his, his mind always on greater things, his mouth always closed, even under the most skilful of kisses.
He never asked me my name, not once in two months. I sometimes wonder what he would have said if he had found out I don't have one. Even in those last two days he never asked me my name... those last two days that were the best, and the hardest, of my life. What a delight it had been to watch him liquefy, break open like an egg, golden and glistening beyond the hard shell, moaning, pliant and warm under my hands, the most gorgeous creature ever made. For two days only, he was my everything.
Then, I became his nothing. Thrown out, discarded like kitchen refuse. Under orders never to return.
Well, I have returned. I want my revenge. To pierce that shell again, to cut through that armour. I have a choice of three blades, the weapons of the best assassins of Qin. I will not need them, will not need to defile them further.
The weapon I intend to use is Ying Zheng's own.
10 Steps: Ying Zheng
No amount of firelight can deny what my eyes are telling me. It is he.
He who came without a story and left without a word, hardened maybe by contact with me. It was a good thing, at the time, and made those silly regrets easier to forget. And there has been so much to do, so much hard work for nobodies like him, for the mindless common brood of mankind. It is almost endearing, is it not – I have laboured for the greater good of his kind, and he comes back to take his just revenge and assassinate me? I should be smiling at that, shouldn't I, to see him standing here without a weapon, the determination on his face so out of place. What is he hoping to achieve? He does not look like he has come back to profess his undying love...
He has come to kill me. Pity that all he has to achieve that with is a withering stare tempered by firelight and a tongue a tad too slow for conversation. That tongue was a talented one, odd how I still remember that, and now he stands here with nothing but a temper and a veiled mission to kill me. Kill me, will he not?
I tear my eyes away from his face, glance at the swords. I feel like giving him his chance, letting him have his try at assassinating me, having him dance the dance of swords with me one last time. Well, it would be the last time for him – the courtesan playing at being a hero. How he came by these swords I will never know, not when one of them will have embedded itself in his stubborn flesh. Oh yes – flesh. Blood. To run him aground one last time, cover him with my body, force the life out of him in the ecstasy of my embrace.
Without looking him in the eye, I throw him my sword, my other hand hovering over the array of famous weapons at my knees. Which one would you eat, boy?
The Last Step: Ying Zheng
The decision is taken out of my hands, and they feel light, those hands, ready to fly up and... well, what? Touch him?
I feel the sword pressing into my stomach, prepare to bleed. He is upon me, he is warm.
It is a good end, in the end.
The Last Step: Nameless
Was it really during that final leap that the blade turned in my hand? Less than a step away, and all of a sudden it is me who has the power? What happened I can't read from where I am, but it's clear as water in his eyes, and I feel like all I have to do is lean back a little and savour the expression on his face. But I don't want to lean back.
Here I stand, pressing the hilt of his own sword against his body, crushing him against the rough stone wall, the calligraphed word for "sword" bleeding above him in man-size red ink, the polished blade of his own weapon, of my deceitful heroism, pointing away from him. Away from us.
He smells of sandalwood.
He is warm.
He is crying.