14 Noble Enough

~ZHA YAO~

Won could have squeezed the trigger a touch slower to convince Zha Yao that his bullet was faster, but he was not sure he could take Zha Yao for more than the pistols were worth. Some noblemen only acted rich, and Zha Yao knew far more about the pistols than Won did. Really, he was lucky to lead the man on for as long as he had done. Besides, it was very satisfying to see the nobleman die just as he was about to curse Won out.

"Wanted to call me a fool, did you? Well, you are not the first, and you won't be the last," Won told the corpse while relieving it of its fine clothes and its empty purse.

"My parents, my brothers, my sisters, they all called me names, because I was so scrawny. They called me Weakling. They called me Won the Muck. They called me Cow Dung too and put me to soaking the cow patties in urine for the chemist. You know what? They are still there, breaking their strong backs and popping out strong babies. Meanwhile, I've learned to make saltpeter so well that Master Vasoun took me to Xichon City to work for him."

Won bundled up Zha Yao's possessions, but his hand would not let go the pistol's smooth handle. It felt just right. Moving as in a dream, Won reloaded the gun.

"I am the great Zha Yao!" The bravado came easier after he called himself Zha Yao. "Zha Yao, the noble outlaw! I challenge you, O Clay Pot of Magnificence, to an honorable duel!"

The jar burst into a shower of shards. It felt glorious. The morning sun was more pleasant than the dimness of the shop he was used to. Ancestors, but he loved this name, 'Zha Yao'!

Life is glorious, he thought. Everything, absolutely everything pleased and amused him right now, even the sight of his victim's naked corpse, his only audience. "Do you think I should have said 'I challenge you in this the Bamboo Grove of Honor?' Ah, well. Some other time."

Wait. What other time?! Won gingerly let go of the pistol. It dropped on the grass next to the corpse, both dead objects watching him. The muzzle's opening was uncannily similar to the blank, staring eyes. They did not accuse him, the dead man and his pistol, he just had their attention. Even if they did accuse him, he had no regrets, no guilt, no fear of retribution.

Deliberately and slowly, Won turned his back on the pistol and rolled the body under the overhang of a creek's bank, hoping that the body would never be found. The pistol Won buried inside the bundle.

There would be no stele for Zha Yao, no incenses, no flowers, but he could spare a moment for a eulogy, "Zha Yao, my Lord Fool, I am glad you've come along, to provide good life in the fabled Port of Sutao for me, the poor boy born to shovel dung. The humble are rewarded in the Boundless Empire."

When he spoke loudly like this, in the open air, his voice sounded mighty. Too bad he'd have to keep a low profile for a while. He did not really want to, beset with dangerous dreams as he hastened down the road to Sutao.

The accursed pistols made him, Won the Muck, an instant equal to a battle mage, or a burly swordsman. The rapture of killing the fool filled his chest with glee, but there was more. A throb kept forming in his throat, compelling him to risk it and to win it all.

With the pistol in hand, he would no longer be Won the Muck, a rat seeking a hidey-hole for its ill-gained loot.

He would become Zha Yao, the Noble Outlaw, who took lives and riches from the hated noblemen. There had to be someone like that. Someone who cared about the downtrodden. Someone the storytellers would go on and on about, free of charge.

His dreams filled up with the deeds of valor, each one more daring than the next, but he woke up in the cheap inns by the Imperial Highway to wipe off cold sweat. The vengeful spirit of the murdered nobleman drove him to self-destruction, he thought. Or was the compulsion always there, in the accursed pistol, and the nobleman had felt it too?

As he traveled west to Sutao, so did Wo Jia's tax collectors. They went about their hated business everywhere, filling his heart with rage, pushing out the fears. Somehow he found himself at the front of the crowd in a village square, the commoners lined up to pay their taxes. They studied their sandals and paid up, the sheep to be sheared. He used to bow his head just like that, but no more. It was too late to fear ghosts. He had to act or suffocate.

He straightened his hunched shoulders with an effort. He stepped forward from the crowd, and...

...and the fat tax collector's guards took notice of him immediately. He stood too straight, looked too proud.

Zha Yao, the Noble Outlaw, stepped right back, and hunched his shoulders, staring at his sandals just like everyone else. His entire body shook with the excitement of his non-deed. He clasped his hands together, squeezing numbed fingers as if to rub away the winter chill. The shivers wouldn't go away, he came too close to being hacked to pieces because of wanting to do it the foolish way. He had to go about it his own, not so noble, way. The storytellers did not have to hear all the details.

Thankfully, he still had enough silver saved up to buy the guards a few rounds of drink in the village inn. And the next one... and the one more after that.

In every village, the same story repeated itself.

The fat tax collector, whose name was Li Tzao, sat in his chair under the embroidered umbrella of his office.

He listened to the pleas of poor harvest and poorer health, and the increase in the war tax and eldest sons drafted to Wo Jia's army. He looked bored with the entire proceedings and he did not relent.

What's more, he liked paying his guards' wages about as much as he liked showing generosity to the peasants. The guards confided in that fine and friendly gentleman, Zha Yao, over a cup of rice wine...

By the fifth village, he was ready to speak, "Li Tzao, I challenge you!"

The fat tax collector could not hide his disdain and his fear. He has a guilty conscience, alright. And which nobleman does not? Parasites, the lot of them!

Zha Yao waved the second pistol in the air, for both the peasants and Li's guards to see.

He was precisely twenty-five paces away from his target. He measured it out so many times in solitude that he could now tell the pistols' range on any terrain and in any light.

"Will you accept this pistol and defend your honor, Tax Collector Li Tzao?

I, Zha Yao, accuse you of failing in your duty to the Empire!

You tarnish the Celebrated Emperor's name with your greed!"

He had no use for the long, flowery sentences. He'd only forget half the words, got all mixed up and started mumbling. Mumbling would get him killed. He wanted to give rhythm to his fury. He wanted to be different. He wanted his words to be fast and aggressive. Simple people would like that because he liked it.

He scowled, and made a step forward, hoping to precipitate the action. The distance to his mark was twenty-four paces.

The tax collector screamed on cue: "Guards! Arrest the malefactor!"

Zha Yao screamed, "The dishonorable swine refused the challenge from a gentleman!"

The pistol went off with a deafening noise and a good amount of smoke. He chose to add red pigment, the color of fire, the Emperor's own color. The color of demons too, one did not mention that while the Red Dynasty, the Dynasty of Clear Foresight was in power.

His bullet dropped the hated tax collector dead as if he were stricken by the Heavenly Mandate's decree. Zha Yao gave a barely perceptible nod to the guards, thanking them for staying put.

He seized his opening:

"My countryman! Li Tzao refused the challenge!

He was not righteous!

He wronged you."

Their silence enveloped him, reverent, not accusatory. Even the guards he did not buy with silver and promises remained motionless, saving him a bullet.

It was time to reap what was sown.

"Half the silver goes back to you.

I will give the Celebrated Emperor his rightful due.

What's left.... "

A pause to keep them guessing. Hold it. Hold it. Now!

"...I will share with the able men willing to stand with me!

Stand against the corruption and greed!

Help me right the wrongs!"

He looked straight at the guards, and they chanted his stolen name, while he counted out and distributed the silver to the villagers.

In the moment of triumph, guilt started to gnaw at him. The place reminded him of his home village too much. The fools were too drunk on his words to think, but they would be held collectively responsible for the murder of the official on their land.

Zha Yao stood up again.

"The Imperials will come.

They will ask you to give up men for execution for the murder of the Tax Collector Li Tzao.

Point them to the West and tell them...

Tell them that's where Zha Yao went.

And that he fights the corruption in the Evershining Empire!"

To his surprise, the crowd cheered, tentatively at first, then louder and louder.

Some even promised to die rather than give him up. He hoped they would sober up, and just do what he told them to. There ought to be a few troublemakers and drunkards to spare.

ZHA YAO! ZHA YAO! ZHA YAO!

The name echoed in his ears, and he had to yell over it: "Move out!"

His volunteers have followed him as one man. His head spun: this was not a dream any longer, this was real, and it was glorious.