Under Heaven

tingling at his fingertips, imagined he heard a different sound: a far-off temple bell among pines.

He said slowly, “No one in Xinan knew where I was. Who told you?”

“Your mother, and your younger brother.”

“Not Liu?”

“He wasn’t there,” she said.

The bell seemed to have become a clear sound in his head; he wondered if she could hear it. A childish thought.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said.

He thought of his older brother. It was time to begin doing that.

“It can’t be Liu,” he said, a little desperately. “If he was behind this, he knew where I’d gone. He could have had the assassin and Yan go straight to Kuala Nor.”

“Not if he didn’t want it known he was behind this.” She’d had more time to sort this through, he realized. “And in any case …” She hesitated.

“Yes?” His voice really did sound strange now.

“I am to tell you that it isn’t certain your brother hired the assassin. He may have only given information, others acting upon it.”

I am to tell you.

“Very well. Who hired you, then? I am asking. Who told you all of this?”

And so, speaking formally now, almost invisible in the room, a voice in blackness, she said, “I was instructed to convey to you the respect and the humble greetings of the newest concubine in the household of the illustrious Wen Zhou, first minister of Kitai.”

He closed his eyes. Spring Rain.

It had happened. She had thought it might. She had talked to him about it. If Zhou offered the demanded price to her owner, whatever it was, Rain would have had essentially no choice. A courtesan could refuse to be bought by someone privately, but her life in the North District would be ruined if she cost an owner that much money, and this was the first minister.

The sum offered, Tai was quite certain, would have been more than Rain could have earned from years of nights spent playing music for or slipping upstairs with candidates for the examinations.

Or slipping towards loving them.

He was breathing carefully. It still didn’t make sense. Neither his brother nor the first minister had had any reason to want—let alone need—Tai dead. He didn’t matter enough. You could dislike a man, a brother, see him as a rival—in various ways—but murder was extreme, and a risk.

There had to be something more.

“There is more,” she said.

He waited. He saw only an outline, the shape of her as she bowed again.

“Your brother is in Xinan. Has been since autumn.”

Tai shook his head, as if to clear it.

“He can’t be. Our mourning isn’t over yet.”

Liu was a civil servant at court, high-ranking, but he would still be whipped with the heavy rod and exiled from the capital if anyone reported him for breaching ancestor worship, and his rivals would do that.

“For army officers mourning is only ninety days. You know it.”

“My brother isn’t …”

Tai stopped. He drew a breath.

Was all of this his own fault? Going away for two years, sending no word back, receiving no tidings. Concentrating on mourning and solitude and private action shaped to his father’s long grief.

Or perhaps he’d really been concentrating on avoiding a too-complex world in Xinan, of court, and of men and women, dust and noise, where he hadn’t been ready to decide what he was or would be.

Autumn? She’d said autumn. What had happened in the fall? He had just been told today that …

There it was. It fit. Slid into place like the rhyme in a couplet.

“He’s advising Wen Zhou,” he said flatly. “He’s with the first minister.”

He could see her only as a form in the dark. “Yes. Your brother is his principal adviser. First Minister Wen appointed Shen Liu as a commander of one thousand in the Flying Dragon Army in Xinan.”

Symbolic rank, symbolic soldiers. An honorary palace guard, sons of aristocrats or senior mandarins, or their cousins. On display, gorgeously dressed, at parades and polo matches, ceremonies and festivals, famously inept in real combat. But as a way to shorten mourning with military rank, to bring a man you wanted to the capital …

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

Tai realized he’d been silent a long time.

He shook his head. He said, “It is a great honour for our family. I am still not worth killing. Wen Zhou has power, and Spring Rain is his now. My brother has his position with him, and his rank, whatever it is. There’s nothing I could do—or would do—about any of this. There is another piece here. There has to be. Do you … did Rain know anything more?”

Carefully, she said, “Lady Lin Chang said you would ask me that. I was to tell you that she agrees, but did not know what this might be when she learned of the plot to have you killed, and sent for a Kanlin.”

Lin Chang?

She wouldn’t have a North District name any more. Not as a concubine in the city mansion of the first minister of the empire. You weren’t called Spring Rain there. He wondered how many women there were. What her life was like.

She’d taken a tremendous risk for him. Hiring her own Kanlin: he had no idea how she’d done it. It wouldn’t be difficult for them to figure out who might have sent this woman after the other if …

“Perhaps it is best you didn’t reach me in time,” he said. “There’s no easy way to trace you back to her now. I found and hired you on the road. The assassin was killed by Taguran soldiers.”

“I thought that, as well,” she said. “Although it is a mark against my name that I failed.”

“You didn’t fail,” he said impatiently.

“I could have somehow found out, come straight here.”

“And given her away? You just said that. Kanlin honour is one thing, foolishness is another.”

He heard her shift her feet. “I see. And you will decide which is which? Your friend might be alive if I’d been quicker.”

It was true. It was unhappily true. But then Rain’s life would be at risk.

“I don’t think you are meant to talk to me that way.”

“My most humble apologies,” she said, in a tone that belied them.

“Accepted,” Tai murmured, ignoring the voice. It was suddenly enough. “I have much to think about. You may go.”

She didn’t move for a moment. He could almost feel her looking towards him.

“We will be in Chenyao in four or five days. You will be able to have a woman there. That will help, I’m sure.”

The tone was too knowing for words, a Kanlin trait he remembered. Wei Song bowed—he saw that much —and went out, a creaking of the floorboards.

He heard the door shut behind her. He was still holding the bed linens to cover his nakedness. He realized that his mouth was open. He closed it.

The ghosts, he thought, a little desperately, had been simpler.

CHAPTER V