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throughout the Empire though sixty years dead.
    After him little glory had been added to the Yun family name.
    He remembered Grandfather as a shrewd but kindly man, well-respected by the peasants.
    As for Father. . . Lord Yun had been woven from a coarser yarn. For all the old man’s failings, it still sickened Guang to think he did not sleep among their ancestors. No one knew where the old man’s bones lay.
    After the first exhilaration of arrival he examined the shrine.
    Grass grew high round the walls and the door hung askew on its hinges. Broad leaves from the pawlonia trees and old pine needles littered the flat roof. Something glinted in the starlight and he stooped. A sliver of carved jade, broken but recognisable: the tablet of Great-grandfather’s daughter, Little Peony, who had died long ago in infancy. The Mongols had defiled her spirit’s eternal resting place for a little sport. Unaccustomed tears clouded his eyes. How low his family had fallen! They had been debased. Anger confused shame and guilt. Yet he had a remedy.
    Pushing aside the broken door to the shrine he bowed and entered.
    The darkness was absolute. Here past and future met. He could not bear such darkness. Fumbling in his pack, he found a candle and lit it from the fire-pot at his belt. He leant his staff against the wall, well away from the flame. The low room danced with uncertain light.
    A survey of the Yun clan’s mausoleum made Guang’s breath hiss. The heart of all he was, all he might ever be, had been despoiled! The tablets of the dead lay in shards on the damp earth. Beside them lay dried-out human excrement.
    The candle flickered. Trembling, he extracted the scroll from his pouch and unrolled it in the dim light. Here was why he had undertaken this terrible journey, the weeks of fear as he travelled on foot from town to town through lands still stricken by war. Once he had been forced to hide amidst the submerged shoots of a paddy field, only his nose and mouth above water while a Mongol patrol searched for him, prodding the water with lances and sticks.
    Guang lifted the candle and closed his eyes, remembering far away Nancheng.
    Four months earlier a different candle had flickered in his twin brother’s medicine shop. It revealed two unusually tall men, almost identical in appearance except that one was slim and delicate, the other swollen with muscle. One possessed an officer’s tufty beard and extravagant long hair while his counter part was clean-shaven. This slim man wore a doctor’s robes.
    The other’s faded silks were cut in a military style.
    It had been midnight. Empty flasks of cheap wine stood on the table between them, arranged into a neat lotus pattern by Shih. They were wild with wine, beyond all sense. At least, one of them had been.
    ‘We should deliver a letter to our ancestors, asking for guidance!’ Guang had roared at Shih. ‘Everyone is doing it!
    Now Father is dead we have no one to intercede on our behalf with Heaven. They say such a letter should be read aloud to the tablets of one’s ancestors. Ensign Liu did it last month. He was promoted within days!’
    Shih sipped his wine.
    ‘Of course that is impossible for us,’ he had replied, patiently. ‘Our ancestral shrine lies deep within lands held by the enemy.’
    ‘Impossible? Nothing is impossible for a man of spirit! I’ll do it myself. My present commission is ended. Why shouldn’t I?’
    Shih had smiled.
    ‘Because a hundred thousand Mongols stand between you and Wei Valley.’
    ‘By my honour, Shih, write this letter and I’ll deliver it! That is my oath. I will prove to Father’s ghost that I am worthy.’
    ‘We should sleep and hope the Jade Emperor forgets your rash words.’
    ‘No, I swear! What should such a letter say?’
    Then his brother had laughed as though at a bitter joke and declared: ‘Let us ask Heaven why it chose to deny Father’s heir his inheritance.’
    ‘Fetch paper!’ cried Guang. ‘As Eldest Son I desire