woman, refusing to yield her rights, came forward this time.
The poet’s eyes, pale and brilliant in the lamplight, finally turned to look at Tai.
“Join me,” Sima Zian said, “if your mourning time is over. It must be, since you are among us. We can drink together.”
Tai opened his mouth, realized he had no idea what to say.
The girl beside him pressed her head briefly against his shoulder, a reminder of her presence, a promise, and withdrew. Tai stepped up to the platform, bowed, and slipped off his own sheathed sword, laying it near the poet’s. He sat opposite the other man, cross-legged. A cup was handed to him, wine was poured. He lifted the cup in salute. He decided to be careful how much he drank.
He had no idea how Sima Zian knew who he was.
The poet, seen close, was a bigger man than Tai had imagined. His long hair was mostly grey, tied at the back with a nondescript blue strip of cloth, no hairpins. His robe was stained. His face was remarkably unlined, round, flushed, and benign. The bright eyes were unsettling, however. His hands were steady, large, the fingers long.
He said, “I knew of your father, of course. His death was a loss. It has always seemed to me that the best military leaders are gentle in their souls, aware of what war means. I thought this might be true of Shen Gao.”
He lifted his cup and drank. Tai did the same, cautiously.
Tai cleared his throat. It was necessary to speak, or be thought simple-minded. The two girls had withdrawn down the two steps, leaving them a space of privacy on this platform. The evening activities of the chamber had resumed. He heard
Tai wished he were sober. He said, “Our family is honoured, of course, that you even know who he was. Or … who I am.”
The pale eyes were briefly sharp, then amusement returned. “You
Tai said, “Judged, but not admired?”
Sima Zian grinned again. A smile seemed to be his natural expression. “Not by all. The same is true, of course, of the first minister himself. We live in challenging times. Assessments are going to be made.”
Tai looked quickly around. Only the two girls with their wine were in possible range of hearing this.
The poet laughed. “You are concerned for me? What would Wen Zhou do? Exile me from Xinan again? He would like to, I suspect. So would others. It was decided by friends who care for me that this might be a good summer to absent myself from the capital. That’s why I’m drinking in a pleasure house in the west. In part.”
A deliberate pause, an obvious invitation. Taking it, Tai murmured, “In part?”
That laughter again, uninhibited, infectious—though Tai was not in a state to share amusement. “The prefect was kind enough to tell me of your arrival, over dinner this evening. He mentioned that you’d inquired about where the best courtesan house in town might be. A sensible query. I wanted to meet you.”
“I am … I am humbled …” Tai heard himself stammering.
“No,” said Sima Zian. “Not after that lake beyond borders. What you did there.” His wide gaze was suddenly direct.
Tai nodded, a single awkward bob of the head. He felt flushed. Wine and the room’s warmth, the intensity of the eyes holding his.
The poet murmured:
The lines were well known. Zian had written them himself for a friend, years ago. Another poet, older, now gone.
Tai lowered his eyes. “You do me too much honour.”
Sima Zian shook his head. “No,” he said again. “I do not.” Then, quietly, “Do you see ghosts here tonight?”
It was a real question. Tai was startled, looked at the other man and then away. Zian held up his cup and one of the women came forward. She gestured at Tai’s and he shook his head. The poet made a face.
Tai tried to ignore that. He said, “I never
“Heard?”
Tai nodded, more slowly. “Every night. Once … once only, by day.” Last afternoon, sun going down. A wind that was not wind.
“Are they angry?”
The girl had stepped back down again, with the wine.
This was difficult. “Some of them. Others are lost. Or in pain.”
The poet looked away this time. At length, he shook his head. “Did you ever write about it?”
“How did you know that I …?”
The smile again, more gently. “You were studying for the examinations, I understand, when your father died. All of you write poetry, son of Shen Gao.”
“Or we try,” Tai amended. “I had paper and ink. Wrote little I judged worth keeping. I am not equal to their story.”
“Perhaps none of us are.”
Tai drew a breath. “What else did the prefect tell you?”
He wanted, he badly wanted, a man he could trust. He wanted it to be this man.
Sima Zian hesitated for the first time. Then, “He did inform me about your Sardians, the Heavenly Horses. The princess’s gift.”
“I see,” said Tai.
It was too large a tale to keep, he thought. Every man who heard it would tell.
“They will probably know in Xinan soon,” the poet added.
“I hope so. I sent word ahead.”
The eyes were thoughtful. “Because?”
“The horses are being held for me at the border. The gift is revoked if I do not claim them myself.”
“Clever,” the other man said, after a moment. “It might save your life.” He didn’t smile now.
“A Taguran captain thought of it.”
Tai wasn’t sure why he’d said that.
“A friend, clearly.”
“I think so. While we’re at peace.”
“Ah. You believe we might not be?”
Tai shook his head, suddenly uneasy. “I’ve been away two years. I have no information. What should I know?”
Abruptly, he lifted his cup. It seemed he did want another drink. The poet waited until a girl had come with wine and withdrawn, slender and young, in wine-coloured silk that rustled as she moved.
Sima Zian’s gaze drifted across the crowded, lamplit room, came back to Tai. “As to saving your life,” he murmured, under the music, “don’t look away from me, but is there a chance uncivilized men would be here with ill intent towards you?”
His voice was relaxed, almost lazy, as if they were discussing poetry or world affairs.
