Under Heaven

task.”

The other man considered that, then said:

Why sir, it is true: on the shores of Kuala Nor
White bones have lain for many years.
No one has gathered them. The new ghosts
Are bitter and angry, the old ghosts weep.
Under the rain and within the circle of mountains
The air is full of their cries.

“You thought it was a poet’s imagery? About the ghosts?”

Tai nodded. “I imagine everyone does. If they haven’t been there.”

A short silence, and then the poet asked, “Son of Shen Gao, what is it you need to do when we arrive? How may I help you?”

Tai rode a little. Then said, very simply, “I do not know. I am eager to be counselled. What should I do?”

But Sima Zian only repeated back to him, “I do not know.”

They rode on, the light very rich now, nearing day’s end, the wind behind them. Tai felt it stir his hair. He reached forward and patted the mane of his horse. He loved the horse already, he thought. Sometimes it took no time at all.

The poet said, “You told me you wanted to kill someone.”

Tai remembered. Late night in the White Phoenix Pleasure House. “I did say that. I am still angry, but trying not to be unwise. What would you do, in my place?”

A quick answer this time. “Take care to stay alive, first. You are a danger to many people. And they know you are coming.”

Of course they did. He’d sent messages, the commander of Iron Gate had, Governor Xu would have sent letters, using all-night riders.

But Tai took the point, or what might have been part of a subtle man’s point: it truly would not be wise to ride alone through the walls, to do whatever it was he wanted to do, if he decided what he wanted to do.

He realized that Zian was reining up beside him. Slowing Dynlal, Tai looked ahead, towards the side of the road, at a grassy space across the ditch. He realized, doing so, that it had become more than just foolish, any notion of slipping quietly into the city as darkness fell.

He stopped his horse. Lifted a hand so the others would do the same. Wei Song came up beside them and so, a little behind her, did the gap-toothed soldier whose name he could never remember. The one who always took care of Dynlal.

“Who is it?” Song asked quietly.

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked the poet.

“Not to me!” she snapped.

“Look at the carriage,” said Zian. There was an edge to his voice. The sun from behind them lit the road, the grass, and the carriage he was eyeing. “There are kingfisher feathers on it.”

“That isn’t the emperor!” Song said. “Stop being obscure. I need to know, to decide what—”

“Kanlin, look at the soldiers!” said Sima Zian. “Their uniforms.”

A silence.

“Oh,” said Song. And then she said it again.

The poet was looking at Tai. “Are you prepared for this?” A real question, the large eyes grave. “You may not have any more time to decide what you wish. He cannot be ignored, my friend.”

Tai managed a thin smile. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that,” he said.

He urged Dynlal forward, towards a tight cluster of forty or fifty soldiers surrounding an enormous, sumptuously extravagant carriage. A carriage so big he wondered how they’d got it across the small bridge that carried the roadside ditch. Maybe, he thought, one of the bridges was larger, farther east? At a crossroads?

It didn’t matter. The mind, he decided, could be peculiar at times like this with what it chose to dwell upon or ponder.

He heard hoofbeats. Looked back. He wasn’t alone, after all: rumpled poet, small, fierce, black-clad Kanlin.

He reined up, looked across the ditch at the carriage. Kingfisher feathers decorating it, as the poet had pointed out. In the strict code of such things, these were reserved for the imperial household, but some, near enough to the throne, in high favour, might display that favour by using them.

He reminded himself that those in the palace—in all the different factions—would be wanting to enlist him to their cause if they could, not end his life.

He moved Dynlal across the roadway to the grass beside the ditch.

The door of the carriage was opened from the inside. A voice, unexpectedly light, slightly foreign, used to commanding, said bluntly, “Master Shen Tai? We will talk in here. Come now.”

Tai drew another breath. Let it out. He bowed.

He said, “I will be honoured to converse with you, illustrious lord. Shall we speak at the posting station east of us? Your servant must attend to the needs of his soldiers and friends. They have been riding all day.”

“No,” said the man in the carriage.

Flat, absolute. Tai still couldn’t see the speaker, not from where he was beside the road astride Dynlal. The voice added, “I wish not to be seen and known.”

Tai cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said, “there can be no one on this road who matters who does not know who is in this carriage. I will meet you at the posting inn. Perhaps we can dine together. It would be a great honour for me.”

A face appeared in the window of the carriage. Enormous, round as a moon, under a black hat.

“No,” repeated An Li, usually called Roshan, governor of three districts, adopted son of the Precious Consort. “Get in or I will have your soldiers killed and your friend decapitated and have you brought in here anyway.”

It was surprising, given how crowded the road had been, but a space seemed to have somehow been shaped where they were, in both directions, east and west. Tai looked ahead, then over his shoulder, saw that other travellers were holding back. It was quiet, suddenly.

It matters, he told himself. It matters what I do now.

So he said, speaking very clearly, “Sima Zian, it is a grief to me, as it will surely be to the empire, that our friendship may end your illustrious life, but I must trust you to understand why this is so.”

“Of course I do,” said the poet. “What is friendship if it comes only when the wine cups are readily filled?”

Tai nodded. He turned to the Kanlin. “Wei Song, be good enough to ride back and advise Governor Xu’s escort that they must prepare to be attacked by cavalry of the—” he glanced over at the horsemen by the carriage—“is it your Eighth or Ninth Army, honourable governor?”

From within the carriage there came no reply.

The man would be thinking hard. Tai had just said something, perhaps two things, that would register. He was pleased to note that his voice had remained level, as if he did this sort of thing every day.

“I believe it is the Ninth,” said the poet.

“I obey, my lord,” said Song, in the same moment.

He heard her galloping back to their cavalry. He didn’t turn to watch. He looked at the carriage, at the round, silent moon-face within, just visible.

He said, quietly, “My lord, I am—honorary though the commission may be—an officer of the Second Military District, commanding cavalry, some of them assigned to me by Governor Xu himself. Regulations must shape my