been a matter of no consequence. Whether he did it because of a woman, or to prevent you from threatening his adviser, your brother. No one here would have blinked if you’d died at Kuala Nor or on the road. The horses have changed that. But I think today was about Roshan. Your presence was that warning to Zhou. He’s at risk. They were telling him that.” He poured another cup. He smiled again. “I very much liked ‘cold stars shine on white bones.’”
“Thank you,” said Tai.
There were two pre-eminent writers among thousands in Ninth Dynasty Kitai. This man was one of them. You could go happily to your ancestors carrying praise from Sima Zian for lines you’d written.
Tai said, “You just gave me guidance, after all.”
“Treat it with caution,” said the poet. “I claim no wisdom.”
Zian hesitated. “Shen Tai, I am not a humble man. I am only being honest. I keep returning to this jade- and-gold, it draws me. Sandalwood and ivory, the murmur and scent of women. But to visit, to taste. It is no home. I need to be here, and when I come, I need to be gone. A man must see it as his home to understand the court.”
Tai opened his mouth to reply, but realized he didn’t know what he wanted to say.
Zian said, “There is more beauty in the Ta-Ming, or here at Ma-wai, than anywhere else where men have built palaces and gardens. It may be that there is more beauty here, right now, than there has
“Or fear that it might end?” Tai asked.
“That is … one fear, yes. Sometimes I am happy I am no longer young.” Zian put his cup down. “I am awaited, friend. There are two women who promised me flute music and saffron wine when the sun went down.”
Tai smiled. “No man should keep another from that.”
“Truly. Will you come?”
Tai shook his head. “I need to think. I imagine there will be a banquet tonight? I have no idea how to conduct myself.”
“Because of Wen Zhou?”
“Yes. No. Because of my brother.”
The poet looked at him. “He should not have done what he did.”
Tai shrugged. “He is head of our family. He will say Li-Mei brings us honour, stature in the world.”
The poet looked at him. “He is correct in that.” His eyes were bright again, a trick of the light. “Still, I could understand if you killed him for it. But I am not a clever man in these ways.”
Tai said, “I’m not certain I am, either.”
Zian smiled, a wintry look. You were made to remember that he’d been a warrior in his time. “Perhaps. But you must be clever now, Tai. For a little while, or for longer than that. You have importance now.”
The poet’s expression changed. “I don’t know that. Who wrote it?”
“My brother,” said Tai quietly.
“Ah,” said Sima Zian. “I see.”
Tai was thinking of summer thunderstorms watched from a shared-bedroom window.
He was walking towards the door to open it for the poet when the knocking came. It didn’t come from the hallway outside.
Both men froze where they were. A moment later the tapping came again. Tai turned to look at the wall beyond the handsome bed.
As he watched, a door-shaped panel swung away into shadow, and then a second panel did. Double doors, hidden in the wall. No one appeared. From where Tai stood he couldn’t see within the recess. A corridor? An adjacent room?
The two men looked at each other. “This is not a time for me to be here,” said Zian quietly. The poet’s expression was grave. Close to Tai’s ear, he murmured, “Be clever, friend. Be slow to act. This will not play out in a day and night.”
He opened the door to the hallway himself. Tai’s escorts were still there, one against the windows, the other across from her. The corridor was now lit by lanterns all the way down, in anticipation of sunset.
They smiled at the two men. Zian went out. Tai closed the door behind him, turned back into the room.
Six soldiers came in quickly, almost running.
They took positions, paired, by the two windows and the door, moving past Tai, ignoring him, their expressions impassive. They had swords and helmets and leather armour. The four at the windows looked out, carefully, but did not close them. The light coming in was beautiful, this time of day.
One of the soldiers knelt and looked under the bed. He stood up and nodded towards the recessed passage.
Wen Jian entered the room.
She didn’t look at Tai, either. She walked across to the window opposite, then turned back to face the double doors, her expression sober. She was still wearing the green silk with pale-yellow phoenixes decorating it.
Tai’s heart was pounding. He was afraid now.
Through the doors in the wall came six more soldiers carrying a curtained palace chair on poles. The curtains hid the figure they were carrying. You knew, however. You knew who this was.
The chair was set down in the middle of the room.
Tai dropped to his knees, forehead to the floor, hands stretched before him. He didn’t look up. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to tremble. He remained that way, prostrate.
That was what you
“You have permission to stand, son of Shen Gao.” It was Jian who spoke.
Tai scrambled to his feet. He bowed, three times, towards the curtained chair. And then twice to the woman by the window. She inclined her head but did not smile. The soldiers who’d carried in the chair took positions along the walls, heads high, eyes staring directly ahead.
The curtains enclosing the chair were red, decorated with yellow suns. There were nine on this side, Tai saw, and there would be nine on the opposite, for the legend. Too much brightness for mortal men. That was the meaning here.
He had seen the Emperor Taizu three times in his life, from a distance.
The emperor had stood on a high balcony of the Ta-Ming overlooking a throng in the square before the palace on three festival days. The imperial party had been so far away and so far above that one of the students had said they might easily have been people hired to pose in imperial colours, under banners, while the real court were hunting or at ease in the Deer Park beyond.
“The august shepherd of our people wishes you to answer a question,” Jian murmured.
Tai bowed to the curtains again. He was sweating. “Your servant is honoured beyond deserving,” he stammered.
From behind the red curtain a voice came, stronger than Tai had expected. “Did you truly hear the voices of the dead at Kuala Nor?”
Tai dropped to his knees again, forehead to floor.
“You have permission to stand,” said Jian a second time.
Tai stood. He had no idea what to do with his hands. He clasped them in front of his waist, then let them fall to his sides. His palms were damp.
“Your servant did, gracious and exalted lord,” he said.
“Did they speak to you?” There was vivid interest in the voice. You couldn’t miss hearing it.
Tai refrained, with an effort, from kneeling again. He was still trembling, trying to control that. He said,
