Under Heaven

“It is possible,” Tai said carefully. He felt his heart beginning to hammer. Kept his gaze on the poet’s.

“Even with that message you sent ahead? The loss of the horses should you die? Of course, they might be here for me.”

“Truly?”

The poet shrugged. He was deceptively broad-shouldered; the softness hid it. “Unlikely. I offended the prime minister and the chief eunuch in the same room, which is difficult, but I don’t believe it was a deadly insult for either. Remind me to tell you the story later.”

“I will,” said Tai. Later. That meant something, didn’t it?

He cleared his throat. It took some effort not to look around. He made a decision. He would acknowledge, after, that some of it had to do with the sense of the person that came through in the poetry, and that this might not be a sound basis for judging a man. Nonetheless: “There was an assassin sent west for me, before the gift of the horses was known.”

Sima Zian’s expression changed again. Watching him, Tai saw curiosity and then—unexpectedly—a hint of pleasure.

“You killed him?”

It was widely reported that the poet had been an itinerant warrior in his youth, two horses, two swords and a bow, sleeping in caves or under stars, defending peasants against landlords and tax collectors like one of the hero-bandits of folk tales. There were stories—legends, really—about his deeds along the Great River in the wild country by the gorges.

“It was a woman,” Tai said. “But, no, I didn’t. She was killed by the Tagurans and … and the ghosts.”

You had to trust some people in life.

The poet considered this, then: “Look now! Near the door. Do you know them?”

Tai turned. There were two men to the left of the entranceway. They were in profile, engaged by three girls. Neither man was dressed for an evening in the pleasure district, let alone the best house there. Their boots and clothing were dusty and stained. They carried two swords each. One of them glanced over his shoulder just then—directly at Tai. Their gazes met, the man flicked his eyes away. It was enough, however. They were here for him.

He looked back at the poet. “I don’t know them.”

Sima Zian said, “They know you.” The poet gestured to the girl whose turn it was with their wine. “Sweet joy, are those two often here?” he asked, indicating with his chin. “Are they ever here?”

She was a composed young woman. Would have stature among the girls, to have been chosen to serve the poet. Her glance towards the door was brief, appraising. She poured the wine and murmured, “I have never seen them.” She made a disapproving face. “They are not dressed suitably.”

“Not at all,” Zian agreed cheerfully. He looked at Tai, a brightness in those eyes now. He stretched, like a big cat. “I wouldn’t mind a fight. Shall we kill them together?”

“I could ask the mistress to have them escorted out,” said the girl, quickly, “if they distress you, my lord.”

The proper thing to say. Fights were bad for a pleasure house. Killing was, obviously, worse. The poet made a face, but nodded reluctantly, was in the process of agreeing, when Tai spoke.

He heard the anger in his own voice, sharp, like the spikes of an assault ram breaking through a gate. He was tired of being acted upon: threatened, attacked, treated as an object of malice—or even apparent benevolence—with no resources of his own. No chance to shape his own course. He did have resources in Chenyao tonight, and not just his sword.

“No,” he said. “Be so good as to go out to the governor’s sedan chair in front. Advise the soldiers there that two men are inside with ill intent towards me, and that this threatens the Second Military District, the governor’s authority, and the security of the empire. I would like them detained and questioned. I wish to know who sent them. I will await the governor’s answer later tonight at my inn. Can you do that?”

The girl smiled. It was a slightly cruel smile. She set down the wine flask on a low table. “Of course I can, my lord,” she murmured. She bowed to him, withdrawing. “Please excuse a brief absence.”

She walked down the two steps and crossed to the entrance. They watched her go. Her movements were graceful, unhurried.

“I believe,” said Sima Zian thoughtfully, “that one would make a memorable companion.”

Tai found himself nodding.

“Do you know the military governor yet? Xu Bihai will not be gentle with them,” said the poet.

“I met him tonight,” Tai said. “Not by my own choice. And so I believe you. I need to know these things, however.” He hesitated.

“The assassin who came to the lake? She killed the friend of mine she guided west under the pretext of serving him. I buried him at Kuala Nor.”

“A soldier?” asked Sima Zian.

Anger still, sorrow returning.

“Nothing like. A scholar taking the examinations with me. A man without harm in him.”

The poet shook his head. “I am sorry to learn of it. We live in troubled times.”

Tai said, “He was coming to tell me something. Came all that way to do it. She killed him before he could.”

A clattering from near the doorway. They turned. Six soldiers entered the White Phoenix.

There was a stir, but not an unduly disruptive one. The room was crowded and large. Men came in and went out all the time. The girl, who had come back with the soldiers, pointed to the two men Zian had noted.

They were approached. A brief, intense conversation ensued. One of the two went—foolishly—for his sword.

He was carried out a moment later, unconscious. The other man was hustled through the doorway between soldiers. It had only taken a moment. The music and laughter from the other side of the room hadn’t even paused. Two girls were dancing, a flute was being played.

This, Tai thought grimly, was the way of life in cities. An assault could occur in a public place and not even be noticed. He needed to remember this, relearn it. Xinan would be more of the same, and infinitely worse. The dust of the world.

Sima Zian had turned back to look at him.

“I’d have enjoyed a fight,” the poet said.

“I believe you.” Tai forced a smile.

“It is unlikely those two can tell them anything. You do know that?”

“Because?”

“If this is from Xinan, from power, there will be many people between the order and those sent to execute it.”

Tai shook his head. He was still angry. Too much wine, too much helplessness, and the memory, the image, of Chou Yan.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not so many people, if this is being kept quiet for whatever reason.”

Zian grinned happily. “For someone without any rank and two years away from the world, you know more about such things than you should.”

Tai shrugged. “My father. And my older brother advises the prime minister, as you noted.”

“He does do that, doesn’t he?” said the poet thoughtfully. “An honour for your family.”

“A great honour.”

He knew his voice didn’t match the words, and that the other man would hear it.

Sima Zian said, softly, “If these two are in Chenyao looking for you, they’ll have been given their orders some time ago. To watch for you coming back east. Probably in the event the assassin by the lake should have failed.”

The voice of his own thought.

He stared at the other man. “I still don’t know why anyone would have wanted me dead. Before the horses.”

The poet did not smile. “I do,” he said.

In the dense, canopied forests along the Great River, gibbons swung and shrieked at the boats bobbing and