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my inheritance above everything. Write it down.’
    ‘You are drunk.’
    ‘Write it down, I say!’
    Finally Shih had mixed ink and taken up a brush, not expecting what would follow. Guang hated to judge his only brother harshly, but as an officer he had learned it was dangerous to flinch from painful truths concerning a subordinate’s character.
    And though he found much kindness in his twin brother, there was something irresolute about Shih, some inner weakness Guang could not name, yet distrusted.
    As dawn crept through the silent streets of Nancheng, brushing closed eyelids and paper curtains, slipping through the windows of Dr Shih’s surgery, the letter urging their ancestors to restore the Yun clan’s lost prosperity was completed.
    ‘This is a poor drinking game,’ said Shih, laying aside his brush. ‘We would have done better to compose verses.’
    But the letter had been written. Even when drunk, Shih’s writing was eloquent and precise.
    ‘I will deliver this to Wei Valley personally,’ Guang had vowed. ‘Then they will take notice!’
    ‘Go to bed,’ urged Shih.
    ‘I have given my oath,’ he declared, half-afraid of its enormity. ‘For Father’s sake.’
    Then Shih had shocked him.
    ‘Our letter is addressed to empty air,’ he said, so very sadly and quietly that Guang had not known how to reply. ‘Father wasn’t worth your oath. If you want guidance, step outside and pour a bucket of cold water over your head.’
    Guang’s thoughts swam with wine. How dare Shih tell him what to do? Authority from a younger brother bordered on insolence. If he chose, as family head, he could force his younger brother to kneel before him – that was the law. Yet anger swirled into quite another mood. He felt like weeping.
    All he wanted was that Shih, so long estranged, so stupidly a stranger, should love him and forget the folly that had kept them apart most of their lives.
    So, as a joke, Guang had followed Shih’s advice, pouring not one but ten buckets of water over his head until the occupants of Apricot Corner Court laughed and cheered him on. Even Cao forgave him for keeping her husband awake all night with his rumpus. Yet he had remembered his vow. A reckless desire to prove himself better than other men lent him purpose.
    ‘Do not be so foolish!’ urged Shih, over and over. ‘If the Mongols capture you, they will surely execute you as a spy.
    Father would weep to see his favourite son killed.’
    Guang had ignored the warning. He enjoyed preparing for his journey to the West, devising tools to deceive the enemy, boasting to friends in the taverns of Nancheng of the honour he would win. After so many boasts there could be no turning back.
    Now, in the mausoleum of his ancestors, Guang unrolled the scroll with trembling hands. Suddenly he felt foolish. Surely Shih was right: silence would greet their message to the dead.
    Yet the darkness was full of watchful eyes, he could sense them.
    And they were waiting. Clearing his throat, he peered at the characters on the scroll, illumined by the flickering candlelight.
    ‘I, Yun Guang, head of our clan, bring you most respectful greetings, so that you might report our welfare to the Jade Emperor’s secretary.’
    Nothing stirred. No sign he was heard. He cleared his throat again.
    ‘Although our home has fallen to the barbarians, we still strive to emulate your illustrious example. We beg forgiveness that we have no sons. Did you benefit from our sacrifices for your souls over the last year? We fear that because they took place so far from Wei, they are ineffectual. Did you come to take the offerings we made at morning and evening on the first and fifteenth days of each month? If they displeased you, we beg forgiveness.’
    He paused. Listened. It occurred to him that any enemies on the prowl outside must hear his droning voice.
    ‘Honoured ancestors, I come to the purpose of this letter. We supplicate that you assist your family still alive in the