Under Heaven

you have responded, first minister of my father?”

Wen Zhou’s voice was firm. “I have warned the exalted emperor repeatedly. I warned the Censorate, the Treasury, and the ministers, including those supervising the army. I warned my lovely cousin. Had you expressed the least interest in these affairs before today, my lord prince, I would have warned you! You are, my lord, being unjust. Cousin, I have spoken to all of you about Roshan.”

“But he,” said Jian, smiling gently, “also warned us about you. Where does that leave the Son of Heaven, cousin?”

“He … An Li has spoken to you about me?”

“You think him a fool, cousin?”

“Of course not. He’d not be a danger if he was.”

“That is not always so,” said the prince. “Folly can be dangerous.”

Tai was being forced, moment by moment, word by word, to change everything he’d ever thought he knew about Shinzu.

“Cousin,” said Jian, “until lately, the danger has seemed to be from each of you to the other, not to the empire. But if Kitai is placed in peril because two men hate each other …”

She left the thought unfinished.

“You arrested two of his advisers this spring. For consulting astrologers.” The prince’s eyebrows were level.

Tai’s brother said quickly, “The inquiry established it was true, my lord prince.”

“Did the inquiry also establish it mattered very much?” the prince said, just as swiftly. “Or was this simply provocation? Do tell me, adviser to the first minister.”

Zhou lifted a hand, a small enough gesture, to forestall Liu’s reply.

Wen Zhou bowed then, to the prince, to Jian. With dignity he said, “It is possible I have erred. No servant of the emperor should regard himself as infallible. I desire only to serve Kitai and the throne to the best of my abilities. I am prepared to be counselled.”

“Good,” said Jian.

“Indeed, good,” said Shinzu. “And surely no more need be said about this on a lovely afternoon in Ma-wai. But before we turn to our diversions, will you tell me, first minister, where I may find one of your guards? Feng is his name, I am told.”

“What?” said Zhou. “The honourable … the prince is asking after one of my household?”

“I am,” said the prince affably. He had reclaimed his wine cup. He held it out to be refilled. “I sent some of my own men to your compound to bring him to the Ta-Ming. He appears to have left Xinan. Where might the fellow be?”

Tai looked at his brother. Instinct, again. Liu’s face showed perplexity. Whatever this was about, Liu didn’t know it.

Wen Zhou said, “My guardsman? You want to speak with one of my guards?”

“I did say that,” the prince murmured. “I also said he seems to have disappeared.”

“Not at all,” said Zhou. “He’s been sent to my family. My parents are at greater risk with all these instabilities, and I thought they should have an experienced guard supervising their household retainers.”

“Instabilities,” the prince repeated. “So he’ll be there now?”

“Still on his way, he departed only a few days ago.”

“Actually, no, he’s here in Ma-wai,” said Jian.

Her voice was gentle. The room turned to her. “Perhaps I ought to have informed you both, cousin, my lord prince. I had the man followed and brought back, after receiving certain information.”

“You knew he’d left?” The prince’s expression was admiring.

“It seemed a reasonable expectation he would do that.”

“You stopped my man on his journey?” Zhou’s voice was odd.

“Greatly esteemed lady, please, what … information?” It was Liu.

Tai didn’t know whether to be amused by his brother’s confusion, or to pity it. Liu hated, even more than Tai did, not understanding what was unfolding, anywhere, any time.

“We received a suggestion,” said Jian, still gently, “that the man might have committed a murder before leaving. Dear cousin, this will all be new to you, of course.”

It wouldn’t be, of course. Tai reminded himself: he was among the dancers, and he didn’t know the music.

“Of course it is new!” the first minister exclaimed. “Murder? Who alleges such a thing?”

“The Gold Bird Guards have submitted an account of something they say happened a few nights past. They were alerted that an act of violence might take place and some of them were there when it did. They made no arrest, seeking counsel from the palace first. You will appreciate why they did this: the murderer was your guardsman.”

“I am shocked! Who alerted them to this terrible thing?”

The prime minister did not, Tai noted, ask who had been killed.

Zhou’s demeanour, under the circumstances, was remarkable. Aristocratic breeding did make a difference, Tai thought. The Wen families of the south were not among the very wealthiest in this dynasty, but they had a lineage that went back a long way.

That was, of course, how Jian had become a lesser prince’s wife, before rising beyond that.

“Who alerted us? Roshan did, as it happens,” said Prince Shinzu.

Liu asked the question: “What man is he alleged to have slain?”

“A minor civil servant,” said the prince. “I am told he was a drinking companion of your own brother. His name was Xin. Xin Lun, I am told.”

“And … you say An Li told the Gold Bird Guards that this might be about to happen …?” Liu was struggling.

“Well,” said Jian, sounding regretful, “the fellow, Master Xin, seems to have feared he might be in danger after certain tidings reached the Ta-Ming from the west. He wrote Roshan asking for protection.”

Tai was watching the first minister. Zhou was impressive in that moment, showing nothing of what would have to be extreme agitation.

“And Governor An …?” Liu asked.

“… alerted the Gold Bird Guards, quite properly. They arrived too late, it seems, to prevent a death. It is,” said Jian, “an unfortunate business.”

“Most unfortunate,” the first minister murmured.

“I can imagine how it distresses you, cousin, to have been sending such a violent man to guard your dear parents. My own uncle and aunt. The spirits shield them!” said Jian. “We will, of course, learn more when this Feng is questioned.”

“This … has not yet happened?” Wen Zhou’s voice was a little strained. Tai was suddenly enjoying himself.

That didn’t last long.

“We were waiting for Master Shen Tai,” said Jian, matter-of-factly. “To learn what he might add to the story. I spoke with him earlier, myself.”

“With … you spoke with my brother?” said Liu.

“I did, since this seems to have to do with him.” Jian looked at her cousin, and she wasn’t smiling. “I think I like him. I decided he should have a chance to listen before speaking himself.”

It was Liu who figured it out.

He looked at the two screens, from one to the other. His face was unreadable. Almost. If you knew him well, there were clues. Jian glanced over, as if casually, to where Tai was hidden.

And that was, Tai thought, as clear a signal to join the dance as he was ever going to get.

He stood up, straightened his clothes. Then he stepped around the screen, brushing the rich sandalwood of the wall, and came out to be seen. There was a degree of astonishment that—he supposed—the Precious Consort might find enjoyable. He didn’t.

He had no idea what he was expected to do. He bowed to the heir, to Jian. Not to the first minister or his older brother. Both would have been proper, of course. He managed a brief smile for Sima Zian. The poet was