Unable to think of anything to say to that, either, Tai began walking. Sima Zian caught up with him. He showed no evidence of fatigue or the wine he’d drunk. It was unfair. Song walked behind them. Tai heard one of the governor’s men snap a command as they lifted the empty sedan chair and hurried to follow.
Something occurred to him.
Without breaking stride or looking back, he said, “Song, how did those two men get inside?”
She said, “I had the same thought, my lord. I was guarding the back. There is an entrance there. I believed that soldiers of Governor Xu could stop anyone at the front. I have spoken with them about this failure. They know I will mention it to their commander.”
It was difficult to catch her out, Tai thought. As it should be. She was a Kanlin, after all.
“They will not feel kindly towards you,” the poet said. Zian glanced back at Song as they walked.
“I’m certain that is so,” she said. Then, after a pause, she murmured, “I saw the fox-woman again, Master Shen. Near the laneway when you fought the soldiers.”
“A fox-spirit? Inside the city?” The poet looked at her again. His tone had changed.
“Yes,” she said.
There was silence from the other two. Only their footsteps and distant noises from other streets. The city, Tai thought. He was in a city again, at night. By the waters of Kuala Nor the ghosts would be crying, with none to hear their voices.
“Ah. Well. Yes. A fox. I wonder,” the Banished Immortal said thoughtfully, “if it will be possible to find an acceptable wine at this inn. I hope it isn’t far.”
THERE WAS NO MESSAGE from the governor when they reached the inn. Nor was there a room available for the poet. Song spoke to the attendant in the reception pavilion, and Zian was assigned her chamber.
She would sleep outside Tai’s room again. The staff of the inn were embarrassed by the awkwardness, eager to provide a pallet on the covered portico. It wasn’t unusual for guards to sleep outside doorways.
There was little Tai could do about it. The poet invited Song to share his room. She declined, more sweetly than Tai would have expected.
He stared at her as the attendant hurried off to give orders. “This is because of those two men?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Yes, of course. And your friend needs a chamber. It is only proper to—”
“It’s the fox, isn’t it?”
He couldn’t say why that upset him so much. Anger was too easily his portion. He’d gone to Stone Drum Mountain, in part, because of that. He’d left for the same reason, in part.
She met his gaze, eyes defiant. They were still in the reception pavilion, no one else nearby.
“Yes,” she said. “It is also that.”
Kanlins, he recalled, were enjoined not to lie.
What was he going to say? It was unexpected on her part, given how controlled she was, otherwise. An embracing of folk legends, ancient tales, but she certainly wasn’t alone in doing that.
The poet had wandered off through the first courtyard into the nearest pavilion, where music was still playing. As Tai glanced that way, Zian reappeared, grinning, carrying a flask of wine and two cups. He came back up the steps.
“Salmon River wine, if you can believe it! I am very happy.”
Tai lifted a warding hand. “You will undo me. No more tonight.”
The poet’s smile grew wider. He quoted,
Tai shook his head. “Perhaps, but sunrise will also be found soon.”
Sima Zian laughed. “I thought the same, so why go to bed at all?” He turned to Wei Song. “Keep the room, little Kanlin. I’ll be with the musicians. I’m sure someone there will offer a pillow if I need one.”
Song smiled at him again. “The chamber is yours, sir. Maybe the pillow—or the someone—will prove unsatisfactory. I have my place tonight.”
The poet glanced at Tai. He nodded his head. He didn’t look nearly intoxicated enough.
“I will instruct that any message from the governor tonight be brought to me.” Song had the grace to bow to Tai. “If that is acceptable.”
It probably shouldn’t have been, but he was weary. Too much of too many things.
He nodded. “Thank you, yes. You will wake me if you judge it proper.”
“Of course.”
Two servants carrying a rolled-up pallet appeared, moving briskly, managing to bow sideways as they passed. They hurried out to the courtyard, past lanterns, towards a building on the left. Zian went out after them, but turned right again, towards
Tai and Song followed the pallet the other way. It was set down on the covered portico of the first building, outside the closed door of his own chamber. The servants bowed again and hurried away, leaving them alone.
There were torches burning at intervals along the portico. Faintly, from the far side of the courtyard, they could hear the music. Tai looked at the stars. He thought about the last time Song had spent a night outside his room. He wondered if there was a bolt on the door.
He remembered that he’d meant to check on Dynlal before retiring. He could ask Song to do it, and she would, but it didn’t feel right. She’d been awake as long as he had. It was unlikely to be necessary: one of the Iron Gate soldiers, that first one who’d seen Tai approaching, from up on the wall, hardly ever left the horse. Odds were good he was sleeping in the stables.
He didn’t know where the other soldiers were … sharing one of the larger rooms, most likely. They’d be long asleep by now.
In a way, Sima Zian had the right idea. Tai had spent entire nights drinking before, many times. With Spring Rain, with Yan and the other students and their women. He wasn’t up to that tonight.
“You’ll wake the men?” he asked Wei Song.
“I’ll wake all of you before dawn.”
“Just knock, for me,” he said. He managed a smile.
She made no reply, just looked at him a moment, hesitating. When she stood so near, he realized how small she was.
“I’ll go tell the stable hands to have the horses fed and watered before sunrise. We’ll need a horse for Master Sima. And I’ll look in on Dynlal.” She bowed briefly, walked quickly down the three steps to the courtyard. He watched her crossing it.
She didn’t look tired either, he thought.
He went into the room, closed the door. Then he stood, just inside, keeping extremely still.
After a moment he opened the door again. “Wait here,” he said to the empty portico. “Come if I call you.” He left the door ajar, turned back into the chamber.
It was her perfume that had registered.
That, and the amber glow in the room: three lamps were lit, which was extravagant, so late. The servants of the inn would not have done that.
