would get worse with every falling head, and all it would take to miss would be a bite of a bug or a slip in a puddle of blood, and anyone who thinks it’s easy to hit a stationary target in the exact same spot again and again with a heavy blade is advised to try chopping down a tree.) That meant every pickpocket and confidence man in Peking was on hand, and with the audience in an unusually festive mood it was to be expected that every vender who could cram his wares into the square would do so, and the result was the shattering of uncounted eardrums. Like this:

“Sha la jen la!”

“Hao! Hao! Hao!”

“Hao tao!”

“Boinngg-boinngg-boinngg-boinngg-boinngg!”

“My purse! Where is my silver necklace!”

Meaning Devil’s Hand roared the ritual, “I’ve got my man!” and the mob howled, “Good! Good! Good!” and connoisseurs spread credit where it was due by screaming “Good sword!” and a dealer in household sundries crept up behind me and took aim at my left ear and unleashed the traditional sound that advertised his wares: wooden balls at the ends of strings smacking viciously against brass gongs. The last agonized wail speaks for itself, and it was really very interesting to look down from my vantage point and see the victim being divested of his valuables by Fu-po the Ferret.

I was seated beside Master Li on the dignitaries’ platform, sweating in the uncomfortable junior nobleman’s uniform he makes me wear on such occasions and which will land me in boiling oil one of these days since I am scarcely entitled to the badges of rank. Master Li was letting an underling handle the honors until it came time for Sixth Degree Hosteler Tu to receive the sword, and was passing the time by catching up on his correspondence. He leaned over and yelled in my ear, trying to shout above the ghastly din.

“Something for you, Ox!”

He was waving a missive that seemed to consist of tracks made by a chicken after gobbling fermented mash.