He went to the door. Just before opening it, a thought occurred.
“Wei Song, please report.”
Silence. Tai drew a breath. He truly didn’t want a confrontation here, but …
“Steward, where is my Kanlin guard?”
On the other side of the door, the steward cleared his throat. His voice was as smooth as before, however. “The Shining and Exalted Companion is not always enamoured of Kanlin Warriors, my lord.”
“Not everyone is. What does that have to do with the present circumstance?”
“Your guard was assertive in trying to prevent us from knocking at your door.”
“As was her duty, since I was asleep. Once more: where is she?”
A hesitation. “She is here, of course.”
“Then why is she not answering me?”
“I … do not know, my lord.”
Tai knew. “Steward, unless Wei Song is released by those holding her, and until she speaks to me, I am not opening my door to you. I have no doubt you can break it down, but you did speak of respect, and of courtesy. I expect both.”
This was not the mildest way to begin a day. He heard quick, low speech outside. He waited.
“Master Shen,” he heard her say, finally. “I am shamed. I could not prevent them from disturbing your rest.” They would have been holding her. She would have refused to speak until she was free.
He opened the door.
He took in the scene before him. The steward was bowing. There were a dozen soldiers in the courtyard’s morning light. Two of them had wounds: one was on the ground, being attended to, another was upright but holding a hand to a bleeding side. Both, he saw with relief, looked as if they would be all right. Song stood among them with her own swords removed from her. They lay beside her. Her head was lowered.
She had, evidently, fought imperial soldiers for him. He saw his other two guards of the night. They were kneeling to one side, unharmed.
Tai’s soldiers, far outnumbering these new arrivals, were standing in the middle of the courtyard. But the difference in numbers was meaningless. This steward was leading men of the imperial guard of the Emperor Taizu, might he rule a thousand years in joy upon the Phoenix Throne. These were elite soldiers of the Ta-Ming Palace. You didn’t fight them, or deny them anything, unless you were keen to have your head on a spear at the city gates.
Tai saw the poet among his own soldiers. Zian didn’t seem amused or curious this morning. He looked concerned and alert, though rumpled as ever: hair untied, belt askew.
There was a crowd in the courtyard beyond all of these. Gathered, early of a morning to see what was happening, why a company from the court was here. Who it was they had come to seize, or summon, or honour.
The second son of General Shen Gao, once Left Side Commander of the Pacified West, said, carefully, “Steward, you do me too much honour.”
The man straightened from his bow, a practised movement. He was older than Tai, had little hair, just fringes at the sides. He affected a thin moustache, likely a fashion. No sword. The black robe of a civil servant, red belt of rank, key of office dangling at his waist.
The steward bowed again, fist in palm this time, in response to Tai’s words. They were doing this very formally, Tai thought. It made him nervous.
He had a sudden image in his mind, vivid as a master-painting, of the mountains ringing Kuala Nor in springtime, rising up, and up. No men to be seen, just birds, mountain goats and sheep on the slopes, and the lake below.
He shook his head. He looked to his left, and saw a sedan chair waiting for him. He blinked. It was dazzling. It gleamed in the sunlight. It made Roshan’s carriage yesterday look like a farmer’s market cart.
There was gold adorning the four pillars. The rods the bearers would hold were banded in ivory and onyx, and he was fairly certain, even from here, that the wood was sandalwood. The curtains were heavy, worked silk, with the phoenix symbol, and they were yellow, which only the emperor’s household could use. Kingfisher feathers were everywhere, iridescent, shimmering. Too many of them; an opulence that was almost an assault if you knew how rare they were, brought from how far, what they would have cost.
He saw jade decorations at the cross pieces, top and bottom, of the curtained cabin on the rods. White jade and pale-green and dark-green. The rods were long enough for eight bearers, not four, or six, and there were eight men standing by, expressionless, to carry him to Ma-wai.
He had tried, vainly in the event, to keep some control, some distance yesterday when An Li had summoned him beside the road. He tried again.
“Wei Song, reclaim your weapons and make arrangements for Dynlal to be saddled.” He glanced at the steward. “I prefer to ride. I will be grateful for your escort, however.”
The steward looked utterly composed, his expression formally regretful. “I fear your Kanlin cannot be permitted arms. She drew upon the imperial household guard. She must, of course, be punished.”
Tai shook his head. “That is not acceptable. She was under orders that my night not be disturbed. There have been—I imagine your mistress knows this—attempts upon my life. If I die, the empire suffers a great loss. And I am
The slightest hint of unease in the man’s smooth face, adjustments being made. “Even so, my lord, it remains that she—”
“She did exactly what she was ordered to do in the interests of Kitai and her current master. I am curious, second steward, did your soldiers explain their purpose? Did they invite her to knock at the door and address me?”
A silence. He turned to Song.
“Wei Song, report: were these things done?”
Her head was high now. “I regret it was not so, my lord. They came up on the portico, ignored requests to stop. Ignored requests for an explanation. This one, the steward, went straight to your door.”
“Surely you saw their imperial livery?”
“My lord, livery can be a disguise. It is a known device. Men have been slain through that artifice. And the sedan chair did not arrive until after I had engaged the soldiers. I am shamed and sorry to have caused you distress. I will, of course, accept any punishment due to me.”
“None is due,” Tai said flatly. “Steward, I will make answer to your mistress for my servant, but I will not accompany you willingly if she is in any way harmed, or impeded from guarding me.”
“Soldiers have been injured,” the steward repeated.
“So was she,” Tai said.
It was true. He saw blood on Song’s shoulder, a rip in her tunic. She would be, he thought, more distressed at being defeated (by a dozen of the best-trained soldiers in the Ta-Ming) than anything else. He let his voice grow cold. “If there is anyone who can confirm the report she has offered, I daresay the fault—and the punishment— does not lie with my guard, and I will say as much at Ma-wai.” He lifted his voice. “Sima Zian, will you be good enough to assist?”
It was useful sometimes to have a celebrated name to bring into a conversation, and see what ensued. In a different time and place, he might have been amused.
The steward wheeled, stumbling, as if caught in a swirl of wind. He spied the poet, who had obligingly stepped forward to be spied. The steward achieved two bows with speed, but his composure was clearly shaken.
Zian smiled genially. “I do not believe, to my great distress, that the Lady Wen Jian is fond of me this spring. I would be honoured and grateful to have the chance to express my respect for her, should the opportunity arise.”
He’d hinted to this effect, Tai remembered, in their first conversation. A reason he’d left Xinan.
“Master Sima,” the steward spluttered. “This is unexpected! To find you in the … in the company of Master Shen Gao, er, Shen Tai.”
“Poets turn up in strange places. I was here this morning to see your soldiers refuse a request to explain themselves at Master Shen’s doorway. I believe a Kanlin must respond to that refusal, by the code of their order.
