Under Heaven

Han Chung of the Seventh Dynasty has a verse on the subject, praising their dedication. The poem was a favourite of the glorious emperor’s illustrious father, now with the gods and his ancestors. Perhaps he is even listening to Han Chung recite in one of the nine heavens.” Zian lifted a hand piously. “We can only hope, amid the dust and noise of the world, that it might be so.”

Tai felt an impulse to laugh, so befuddled did the steward look.

He schooled his features. He said, as gravely as he could, “Steward, I am accompanied by the illustrious Master Sima, by a Kanlin guard, and by a company of soldiers personally assigned to my command by Governor Xu Bihai. I will ride among them. I am humbled by your mistress’s invitation to attend upon her and will make my way to Ma-wai immediately. Would you do me the honour of riding with us?”

He said it loudly, he wanted people to hear.

From this point forward, he thought, a great deal of what happened would be for display—positions, and posturing. He knew that much about the court.

The steward of Wen Jian knew more, of course. But the man seemed acutely uncomfortable now. He cleared his throat again, shifted his feet. An awkward silence descended. He seemed to be waiting. For what, Tai didn’t know.

“Ride with me,” Tai repeated. “There has been a minor embarrassment here, nothing of consequence. I will happily tell your mistress that you were properly zealous in her cause.”

“Master Shen, your entirely unworthy servant begs forgiveness. It was not considered that you might decline the sedan chair. It is known that you are attached to your horse and we wished to ensure it came safely with us. Some of our soldiers took it already this morning, from the stables here. They are to meet us at Ma-wai. Of course no harm will come to—”

“You took my horse?”

Tai felt a hard pulsing at his temples. He was aware that Wei Song had reclaimed her weapons, just below him in the courtyard. The imperial soldiers made no movement to stop her. Zian stepped forward to stand beside her. The poet’s face was cold now, the wide eyes watchful.

Tai said, to Song, “Dynlal was guarded?”

“As always, my lord,” she replied.

The steward cleared his throat again. This morning’s encounter had not, quite evidently, unfolded as he had expected it to. “Two of the three men by the horse, I understand, were prompt to stand aside, as was proper, given who we are.”

“And the third?” said Tai.

“The third, I greatly regret, also elected to draw blade upon officers of the imperial palace guard.”

“Defending my Sardian horse—a gift from the Princess Cheng-wan! As he’d been instructed to do. Steward, where is he?”

Another silence.

“I am informed that he unfortunately succumbed to wounds incurred, my lord. May I offer my regrets? And the hope that the passing of a nameless soldier will not—”

Tai threw up both hands, fingers spread, palms outward, compelling silence. It was a gesture of force, arrogance, a superior stilling an underling—in public. Even as he did it he was trying to sort through if he did carry rank against this man. Tai was a middle-level, purely symbolic military officer, but also an honoured general’s son and—importantly—younger brother to the prime minister’s principal adviser.

But this steward, in the red-belted black robe of a mandarin of the eighth degree, high in the household of the Beloved Companion, outranked him by any and all possible—

No. He didn’t. And that was why the man bowed yet again, instead of snarling in outrage at Tai’s gesture. The steward knew.

Tai was, over and above all other possible truths and alignments and ranks, brother to royalty now. To Li- Mei. Princess Li-Mei, elevated into the imperial family before being sent north in marriage.

In Kitai, in the Ninth Dynasty of the Emperor Taizu, that relationship mattered. It mattered so much. It was why Liu had done what he’d done, sacrificing a sister to his ambition.

And it was why Tai could stand here, hands thrust forward to silence another man, and see a Ta-Ming Palace mandarin stand abashed before him.

Through clenched teeth, fighting anger (rage could undo him here, he needed to think), Tai said, “He is not nameless. His name was Wujen Ning. A soldier of the Second District army posted to Iron Gate Fortress, assigned by his commander to guard me and my horse, serving the emperor by obeying the orders of his officers, including myself.”

He was trying, even as he spoke, to remember the man, his features, words. But Wujen Ning had never said anything Tai could recall. He’d simply been there, always near Dynlal. A worried- looking, gap-toothed expression came to mind, thinning hair exposing a high forehead. Sloped shoulders, or maybe not … Tai was relieved he’d remembered the name. Had been able to offer it to this courtyard assembly, to the gods.

He said, “Steward, I await the formal response of office to the killing of a soldier and the theft of my horse.”

Theft was a strong word. He was too angry. He saw Zian glance at him, lips pursed together, as if urging caution.

Then—a small motion in a crowded courtyard—he saw something else. Discreet as the movement was, it seemed as if every man and woman (girls from the music pavilion had come out by now) in that open space in morning light saw the same thing, and responded to it as if a dancing master had trained them all.

A hand appeared through the silk curtain of the sedan chair.

It gestured to the steward, two slowly curled fingers.

There were rings on those fingers, Tai saw, and the fingernails were painted red. Then he was on his knees, head to the ground. So was everyone in the courtyard except her guards, and the steward.

Tai allowed himself to glance cautiously up and look, heart pounding, mind askew. The steward bowed three times then walked slowly across to the curtained chair as if towards his own beheading.

Tai watched the man listen to whatever was being said to him from within. The steward stepped aside, bowed again, expressionless. The hand reappeared through yellow silk and beckoned a second time, exactly the same way, two fingers, but this time to Tai.

Everything had changed. She was here herself, after all.

Tai stood. Offered the same triple bow the steward had. He said, quietly, to Song and Zian, “Stay with me if you possibly can. We won’t be going quickly in that. I’ll do my best to ensure your safety, and the soldiers’.”

“We aren’t in danger,” Sima Zian said, still kneeling. “We’ll be at Ma-wai, one way or another.”

“Master Shen,” he heard his Kanlin say. Her expression was odd, looking up at him. “Be careful. She is more dangerous than a fox-woman.”

He knew she was. Tai took the steps down from the portico, crossed the dusty courtyard through a crowd of kneeling people, and found himself beside the curtained sedan chair.

He said loudly, looking at the steward, and at the captain of the imperial escort beside him, “I give my companions into your protection. If my horse is missing or harmed I lay that upon you both.” The officer nodded, standing straight as a banner pole. The steward was pale.

Tai looked at the closed curtain. His mouth was dry. The captain gestured at Tai’s swords and boots. He removed them. The steward pulled the curtain back, just enough. Tai entered. The curtain of the sedan chair fell closed with a rustling sound. He found himself enveloped by scent in a softened, silk-filtered light that seemed to not be entirely of the world he’d just left.

It wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t the same world in here.

He looked at her. At Wen Jian.

He had known lovely women in his life, some of them very recently. The false Kanlin who’d come to kill him by the lake had been icily beautiful, cold as Kuala Nor. The daughters of Xu Bihai were exquisite, the older one even more than that. Spring Rain was golden and glorious, celebrated for it. The preferred courtesans in the best houses in the North District were lovely as flowers: the students wrote poems for them, listened to their singing,