Under Heaven

His father entirely and unreservedly disapproved of the royal gift. He thought it was an act of decadent folly. But since it was impossible in Tagur, even for a high-ranking officer, to say anything like that, Fortress Commander Nespo discharged his ire on his own worthless son, who happened to be serving under him now, and who had evidently proposed amendments to the gift, making it more likely to happen.

The horses were here at Dosmad, in large pens outside the walls. They needed to be fed and watered, ridden regularly, monitored for health. To send defective horses east would reflect badly upon Tagur, Commander Nespo had been caused to understand, and this, in turn, might have implications for him, nearing retirement.

A small army of men had arrived with the horses to discharge these duties, adding to the burdens of a fortress commander. He’d placed his son in charge of them. It was beneath Bytsan’s new rank, but the Sardians were the only reason for his son’s promotion, so he could make sure their hooves and diet were tended to and the shit and mud brushed off them when they rolled in it. He could do it himself, for all Nespo cared. In fact, he’d have preferred it that way. He’d said that to Bytsan.

It was easy to blame his son for all of this: Bytsan had been the one to propose to the court that they hold the horses here.

As far as Nespo sri Mgar was concerned, it was a foolish idea added to a foolish gift. The thing to do, if you had to go through with this, would have been to dump all two hundred and fifty of them on the Kitan at Kuala Nor and let him do what he could to get them back to wherever he wanted them. If the horses were stolen or scattered, grew sick, or died on the way, so much the better for Tagur, in Nespo’s view.

You didn’t give Sardian cavalry horses to a once enemy who might be a future enemy. You didn’t do that. And he wasn’t going to listen to anyone, especially his hopeless son, going on about the treaty signed after Kuala Nor, or honouring the wishes of the so-lovely princess they’d been so kindly granted by the eternally untrustworthy Kitans.

In fact, Nespo had declared to his son one evening earlier in the summer, this whole business of the princess and the horses might be part of Kitai’s intricate plotting.

Bytsan, who was far too modern in his thinking and too inclined to disagree if his father said the sun was shining at noon on a blue-sky day, had said, “After twenty years? Long time to hatch a plot. I think you’re too much afraid of them.”

Nespo had thrown him out of his chambers for that.

He did that often, throwing Bytsan out. He’d call him back the next night, or the one after if he’d been really angered, because … well, because this was his son, wasn’t it? And because not every last thing he said was foolish.

It was possible, just, for an old army officer in Tagur to accept that the world was changing. He didn’t have to like it, mind you.

And he wasn’t sure how he felt when messengers came from across the border in late summer, two riders under a banner of peace, to say that the Kitan from Kuala Nor had come for his horses—which meant his clever son had been proven right.

THEY MET, with half a dozen attendants each, on open ground near a stand of elm trees. The hilly country between Dosmad Fortress and the prefecture town of Hsien was one of the places of relatively open land between Kitai and the Taguran Plateau.

Shen Tai, he saw, riding up to where the other man was already waiting, had Kanlin Warriors as his escort. It surprised Bytsan a little, how pleased he was to see the other man.

Nespo had wanted his son to wear armour—he was enormously proud of Taguran linked-mail, better than anything in Kitai—but Bytsan had declined. It was a hot, humid day, they weren’t going into battle, and he’d be embarrassed if the Kitan decided he was wearing the armour for show.

Shen Tai dismounted first, from Dynlal. It affected Bytsan to see his own horse again, looking well cared for.

The Kitan walked forward. He stopped and bowed, hand over fist. Bytsan remembered this about him. He swung down from the saddle and did the same thing, not caring what his own soldiers thought. Shen Tai had done it first, hadn’t he? And the two of them had shared a night in a cabin among the dead.

He said, in Kitan, “You haven’t had your fill of Kanlins?” He grinned.

The other man smiled a little. “That one was false, these aren’t. I am pleased to see you again.”

“I am pleased you survived.”

“Thank you.”

They walked together, a little apart from their escorts. It was a heavy day, a chance of rain, which was needed.

Shen Tai said, “Dynlal is beyond magnificent. Would you like him back?”

They could do that to you, the Kitan—or some of them could. Bytsan shook his head. “He was a gift. I am honoured that he pleases you.”

“You have chosen three horses from the herd?”

Bytsan had done so, of course. Hadn’t been shy, either.

He said, “I’m afraid I took three of the best.”

Shen Tai smiled again, though there was an odd feeling that smiling came hard for him. Bytsan looked more closely, and wondered.

The other man registered the gaze.

He made a jest, too deliberately. “Ah, well, how would a Taguran know a good horse?”

Bytsan allowed himself to smile back. But now that he’d noticed it, it was obvious that even with the Kitan skill at hiding their thoughts, Shen Tai had changed since he’d left the lake.

Well, why shouldn’t he have?

“Did you find out who tried to kill you?” he asked.

He saw the other man stiffen, hesitate.

“You were there,” said Shen Tai, too lightly. “The false Kanlin did.”

It was a rebuff. Bytsan felt himself flushing, humiliated. He turned away, to hide it.

TAI REGRETTED HIS WORDS as soon as he spoke them. He hesitated again, this was difficult. The other man was Taguran, and Kitai was in the midst of a rebellion.

He took a breath. He had decided to trust this man, back by the lake. He said, “Forgive me. That was a shameful answer. But I have not talked of this with anyone.”

“Don’t force yourself to—”

“It was Wen Zhou, the first minister, who sent that assassin. And there were others on the road. As you thought there might be.”

He saw the Taguran, broad-shouldered, tanned by the summer sun, turn to look at him. There was no one nearby, which was good. Tai heard a distant roll of thunder. There would be rain.

“The first minister of Kitai hates you that much?”

“He hated me that much,” Tai said.

“He doesn’t, any more?”

“He’s dead.”

And if that told the Tagurans something they hadn’t yet learned, so be it. They were going to learn it, and it might as well be this man, his … well, his friend, who relayed the news.

Bytsan was staring. “This may be known in Rygyal, but I’m not certain it is.”

“There was an uprising in the northeast,” Tai said. “First Minister Wen Zhou accepted the blame for allowing it.”

That was enough for now, he thought.

“And he was killed?”

Tai nodded.

“So … you aren’t in danger?”

“No more than any man in difficult days.”