Taming Poison Dragons by Tim Murgatroyd

or so cavalry, mainly mounted archers. Every day they spend devouring our hard-won stores increases the likeli-hood of famine. Wei Village and the surrounding valleys sustain hundreds of peasants, yet soon we shall be stripped bare. We have four, perhaps five days at most.
    As dusk gathers, a small procession leaves the village, bound for Three-Step-House. At their head, men bearing General An-Shu’s dragon banner, followed by drummers, and finally our honoured guests: Youngest Son and his three principal officers. Swallows dart above their heads, oblivious to the drumbeat echoing hollowly round the hills. It says much that my son feels such a show is necessary to dine in his family home. Eldest Son bobs uncertainly.
    ‘Remember,’ I say. ‘It is important they feel obliged to us.’
    An anxious evening lies ahead. I hope to placate Youngest Son, drown his past grievances in wine and food. Then I might extract assurances from him concerning the villagers’ safety, so binding that he dare not go back on his word without great loss of face.
    Up the hill they come. I raise a smile of welcome. Eldest Son’s is more like a leer. Still, I have a few tricks up my official’s sleeve. The first is deployed as Youngest Son approaches the gatehouse. I clap my hands and a servant rushes forward with bowls of flower-heads soaked in wine.
    ‘Youngest Son,’ I say, opening my arms. ‘Welcome!
    Please make this offering to the gate-gods. I have no doubt they greet your return, and the presence of your esteemed officers, as I do.’
    He seems surprised and tugs at his whiskers. He can hardly refuse. A period of bowing before the gate-gods follows, all forced into the role of dutiful, civilised men. Youngest Son pours the libation with every sign of reverence.
    In this pious mood, we proceed to the Middle House, where a banquet has been prepared. Youngest Son nods stiffly to his brother but no words are exchanged. The household servants line the way on their knees. At the entrance, I pause.
    ‘My honoured guests must make allowances for the dishes a poor, unworthy house can offer. As the venerable Lao-Tzu remarked. . .’
    To my amazement Youngest Son interrupts me.
    ‘Come Father,’ he says. ‘Let us not stand on ceremony.
    My men are hungry and I am eager to sit.’
    Even the officers seem embarrassed by his rudeness. I understand his intention. He wishes to establish himself as host, not guest. I counter by pretending not to hear, and address the officers.
    ‘You will notice, as gentlemen of distinction, the unusual shape of the rocks on the opposite hillside. They have often been admired by visitors.’
    They peer obediently across the valley.
    ‘Very unusual,’ says one, older than the rest, with a sad, lined face. ‘Very interesting.’
    Youngest Son’s eyes narrow.
    ‘Please enter!’ I cry. ‘All are welcome.’
    We kneel before the tables in our old-fashioned country way and the banquet begins. Youngest Son looks around, touched by predictable emotions. He has dined in this room a thousand times, knows its shadows and shapes, the feel of the mat beneath his knees. This was the last room he stayed in, on the night I dismissed him. Only fools deny the circular swirl of life. Perhaps he remembers his mother’s presence here.
    For the first few courses, little conversation. This suits me. When they are drunk I shall raise the village’s safety, paying particular attention to the welfare of virgins.
    Servants bring in bowl after bowl on lacquer trays. Snails broiled in vinegar, little frog and noodle soup, then roasted quail and partridge, dry dishes followed by wet, each washed down by cups of wine. The officers are on their best behaviour, and even Youngest Son is restrained.
    It is only after the fifteenth dish that trouble begins.
    Appropriately, considering my guests, it is peppery pork.
    The servants light the lanterns, at once attracting a single, pale moth. Its fluttering wings change the atmosphere in the