Taming Poison Dragons by Tim Murgatroyd Read Free Book Online Page B

Son must not hear of my dealings with the Imperial cavalry. I must remember to warn Wudi of this.
    ‘He is not even angry with me ,’ I protest, gently. ‘So this is my advice. Act like a simple-minded country lord’s son.
    Talk only of the harvest and how lazy the peasants are and your favourite places to fish. Let his officers make fun of you as a simple type, and if they laugh at your expense, laugh with them. Above all, keep Youngest Son talking about himself without offering any opinions of your own.’
    Eldest Son blinks at me stupidly. Will he recall any of this when it matters?
    ‘Remember, our best defence lies in being agreeable,’ I add. ‘Personally, I am prepared to act the fool if it keeps us safe. You should do the same.’
    He giggles hysterically.
    ‘Everyone likes to feel superior,’ I say. ‘Why shouldn’t we bumpkins oblige?’
    ‘Father is wise,’ he mumbles, though he doesn’t sound sure.
    ‘Go to your room,’ I say. ‘Remember you are my heir.
    And no more wine!’
    ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Father.’
    I’m left to examine shadows in the room. Finally, I take my own advice and lie down on the couch. Images of angry faces and Eldest Son’s panic shimmer across my mind. But I am old and cannot help dozing, exhausted by my trial with Youngest Son. I listen to a cricket chirping insistently outside. A thin, clear, rhythmic sound. Then the past awakens, half-dream, half-memory. They say an old man’s past is more real than his present. If the Lord Buddha is to be believed, both are illusions.
    The cricket’s chirp opens the door to this house, as it was, when I was a boy.
    At that age I had many interests, but my great passion was crickets. The noble art of cricket-fighting was revered just as highly in our village as in the capital. Though I could not have guessed it then, those restless insects set in motion my long journey to the Imperial examinations –and all the fear and exhilaration which later haunted my ambitions.
    Three-Step-House nourished many kinds of cricket, as a city sustains all sorts of people. I recall a sunny morning in the seventh or eighth month. Waking soon after dawn to birdsong and the chirrup of insects. My tiny bedroom lay in the corner of the highest building. Its window faced mountains capped with snow even in summer. A stand of bamboo nestled in the terraced field at the side of the house. I heard servants chattering in the courtyard below and cockerels crowing up and down the valley. Sweet scents in the air: dew drying, wood smoke, the summer pungency of plants.
    I dressed quickly and padded down the central corridor, eyes and ears sharp for the slightest rustle of papery wings. By the front entrance I found Little Wudi, the bailiff’s son, waiting for our daily hunt. In his hands a clay pot with a wooden lid and rope handle.
    We skipped down the brick-lined stairs to the lowest building, for it was there we always began. The kitchen maids bowed, but I ignored them, my business more pressing than a palace eunuch’s. At the faintest chirp or click we froze, searching like famished cats after mice.
    In the courtyard dwelt a type of cricket which, though unattractive, was dogged and resilient. Because it fed upon household waste and chicken droppings it was often mean-spirited. The villagers called this plain, ordinary type Straight-Backbone-Wings.
    Then Little Wudi and I made our way to the pigsty. It was built, as in most houses, beneath the privy so the pigs might benefit from their masters’ waste. I was afraid of the pigsty, though I tried hard not to let Little Wudi see, on account of a story Mother had told me about the First Wife of the Emperor Goazu.
    Empress Lu struggled for many years with her husband’s favourite concubine, Lady Qi. Both women wished to have their sons proclaimed heir to the throne and for a long time the succession hung in the balance. Then came Goazu’s sudden death – some whispered his First Wife had a hand in