Under Heaven

used a stick, a heavy one, to support himself.

And that made it certain. A city I control.

Tai bowed. It was necessary, whatever anger he felt. He cleared his throat. “Sir, I told your officers outside the walls that I would be honoured to call upon you in the morning.”

“And I have no doubt you would have done so. But I am an impatient man, and disinclined to follow the prefect in a matter such as this. You would have had to attend upon him first.”

A matter such as this.

It would always be the horses now, Tai thought.

Governor Xu Bihai, commanding both the Second and the Third Military Districts, smiled at him. It was a cold smile.

Tai sheathed his sword.

“The Kanlin,” the governor said, in a paper-thin voice. “She is retained by you?”

No time wasted. Tai nodded. “She is, my lord.”

“And was assigned to guard you tonight?”

“Assigned to do so always.” He knew what this was about. He was afraid again, suddenly.

“She was not walking with you.”

“Kanlin are conspicuous, sir. I chose to remain otherwise. She was not far away. As you see.”

The cold smile again. The military governor had to be sixty years old, his long chin-beard and hair were white, but his posture and manner were commanding, notwithstanding the stick he held.

“In that case, she will be permitted to live. You do not object if she is beaten? Twenty strokes?”

“I do object. I would take it as an insult and an injury to me.”

A raised eyebrow. The torches flickered in a flare of wind. “She drew weapons on soldiers in my city, Master Shen.”

“She drew blades on men in darkness who appeared to be attacking me, Governor Xu. I say this with respect. I would have had cause to dismiss her, or worse, had she not done so.”

A silence.

“I will indulge you in this,” Xu Bihai said finally. “In memory of your father, whom I knew. I served under him in the west.”

“I know that. He spoke of you often,” Tai said. Not quite a lie. He did know how the governor’s leg had been injured. “Thank you,” he added. He bowed again.

It was entirely the governor’s right, even a duty, to have Song executed or beaten to crippled incapacity. This was a market town, thronged with drunken foreigners and transients. Hard men from the long roads. The soldiers were charged with keeping order. Certain rules followed upon that.

“Wei Song, sheathe weapons, please,” Tai called. He didn’t look back. He heard, with relief, the doubled snick as she obeyed.

“Thank you,” he said again, to her this time. She was Kanlin. They weren’t servants, to be ordered about as such.

Neither was he. He said, “I am honoured, of course, beyond my worth, that the governor has taken himself abroad in the night to hold converse with me. I had been greatly looking forward to your counsel and tidings in the morning. I still am. What hour would be convenient?”

“This one,” said Xu Bihai. “You weren’t listening. I said I was disinclined to see you after the prefect.”

“I was listening, sir. I do not decree the protocols of our glorious Ninth Dynasty, governor. And I am disinclined to have my appointments for a day—or a night—decided by others, however greatly I honour them.”

The white-bearded governor appeared to be considering this. Distant sounds drifted, music and laughter, one voice briefly lifted in anger, but they were alone in this square with the soldiers and Wei Song.

“I don’t see that you have a choice,” Xu Bihai said, at length, “though I note your disinclination. I will not apologize for protecting the interests of this military district, but I can offer you mare’s teat grape wine at my residence and an escort to the entertainment district afterwards.”

Tai drew a breath. He needed to decide, swiftly, how far he would take this—and how far the governor would.

He was still angry. His father had liked this man. Elements to be balanced. Inwardly, he shrugged. A princess in Rygyal had changed his life. A moment such as this was part of that change. It was unlikely to be the last.

“I have not tasted mare’s teat wine in more than two years,” he said. “I should be honoured to be your guest. Shall we invite the prefect to join us?”

For a moment, the governor’s lean face betrayed astonishment, then he threw back his head and laughed. Tai allowed himself to smile.

“I think not,” said Xu Bihai.

IN THE EVENT, Tai came to understand, the governor wished to say only one thing to him, but he wanted quite urgently to say it. And to do so before anyone else spoke to the young man who now controlled enough Sardian horses to play a role in the balance of power towards the end of a long reign.

The wine was luxuriously good. It was spiced with saffron. Tai honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted that.

The two young women who served them were Xu’s daughters, unmarried. Each wore flawless silk, one in pale green, the other in blue, low-cut in a fashion that had evidently emerged, so to speak, since Tai had left Xinan.

Their perfume was intoxicating, each different from the other’s. They both had painted moth-eyebrows, tinted blue-green, and a side-falling hairstyle with extravagant hairpins. They wore jewelled, closed-toe slippers, gold rings and jade earrings, and had amused, confident eyes.

It was, he thought, unfair.

The governor, cross-legged on a platform couch opposite, clad in doubled black robes, with a black hat and a red belt, seemed oblivious to the effect his daughters were having on his guest, but Tai was entirely certain that the wine and lamplit room, and the two exquisite, scented women had been carefully orchestrated.

Wei Song was in the courtyard with the soldiers. The two men Tai had wounded were expected to live. He’d asked, on arrival here. This was good, of course, but reminded him that his skills were not what they’d once been: he had been trying to kill.

They ate five-spice dried river-fish in three sauces, and early fruits served in ivory bowls by the daughters, not servants. They drank the saffron wine, cups steadily refilled. Talked of spring crops outside the city walls and along the river, of thunderstorms and a tail-star apparently seen in the east earlier that month, what it might presage. The two women brought water and hand cloths for them to wash and dry their fingers as they ate. Curving towards Tai, offering a lacquered bowl of scented water, the one in green allowed her hair (in strategic disarray to one side) to brush his hands. This was the “waterfall” hairstyle made popular by the Precious Consort, Wen Jian herself, in Xinan.

It was unfair.

Xu’s daughter smiled very slightly as she straightened, as if sensing, and enjoying, his response. Her father said, briskly, “Commander Lin writes that he proposed to you a position of high rank in the cavalry of the Second Army, a number of the Sardian horses to remain as yours, and your selection of officers to serve under you.”

So much for polite discussion of stars, or millet and its ripening time and best-suited soil.

Tai set down his cup. “Fortress Commander Lin was generous beyond my merits, and behaved with impeccable courtesy to his guest, on behalf of his military district.”

“He’s ambitious, and clever enough. He would,” said Xu Bihai. “I imagine he will serve the district well if promoted.” Tai thought he owed the commander that much.

“Perhaps,” said Xu indifferently. “He isn’t well liked and he isn’t feared. Makes it harder for him to rise. Your father would have agreed.”

“Indeed,” said Tai noncommittally.

He received a glance from the other couch. The two daughters had withdrawn to the door, either side of it, decorative beyond words. He very much liked the one in green. Her eyes, that knowing half-smile.