“A Kitan can’t deceive?”
Tai shook his head again. “I knew him.” He sipped his wine. “But someone knew me, if they told her not to fight. She said she’d have preferred to kill me in a combat. And she knew I was here. Yan didn’t know. She let him go first to my father’s house. Didn’t give away where I was—he’d have suspected something. Maybe. He wasn’t a suspicious man.”
Bytsan looked at Tai narrowly, considering all this. “Why would a Kanlin Warrior fear you?”
He wasn’t so drunk, after all. Tai couldn’t see how it would hurt to answer.
“I trained with them. At Stone Drum Mountain, nearly two years.” He watched the other man react. “It would take me time to get my skills back, but someone may not have wanted to chance it.”
The Taguran was staring. Tai poured more wine for him from the flask on the brazier. He drank from his own cup, then filled it. A friend had died here today. There was blood on the bedding. There was a new hole in the world where sorrow could enter.
“Everyone knew this about you? The time with the Kanlins?”
Tai shook his head. “No.”
“You trained to be an assassin?”
The usual, irritating mistake. “I trained to learn how they think, their disciplines, and how they handle weapons. They are usually guards, or guarantors of a truce, not assassins. I left, fairly abruptly. Some of my teachers may still feel kindly towards me. Others might not. It was years ago. We leave things behind us.”
“Well, that’s true enough.”
Tai drank his wine.
“They think you used them? Tricked them?”
Tai was beginning to regret mentioning it. “I just understand them a little now.”
“And they don’t like that?”
“No. I’m not a Kanlin.”
“What are you?”
“Right now? I’m between worlds, serving the dead.”
“Oh, good. Be Kitan-clever again. Are you a soldier or a court mandarin, fuck it all?”
Tai managed a grin. “Neither. Fuck it all.”
Bytsan looked away quickly, but Tai saw him suppress a smile. It was hard not to like this man.
He added, more quietly, “It is only truth, captain. I left the army years ago, have not taken the civil service exams. I’m not being clever.”
Bytsan held out his again-empty cup before answering. Tai filled it, topped up his own. This was beginning to remind him of nights in the North District. Soldiers or poets—who could drink more? A question for the ages, or sages.
After a moment, the Taguran said, also softly, “You didn’t need us to save you.”
Outside, something screamed.
It wasn’t a sound you could pretend was an animal, or wind. Tai knew that particular voice. Heard it every night. He found himself wishing he’d been able to find and bury that one before leaving. But there was no way to know where any given bones might lie. That much he’d learned in two years. Two years that were ending tonight. He had to leave. Someone had been sent to kill him, this far away. He needed to learn why. He drained his cup again.
He said, “I didn’t know they would attack her. Neither did you, coming back.”
“Well, of course, or we wouldn’t have come.”
Tai shook his head. “No, that means your courage deserves honour.”
Something occurred to him. Sometimes wine sent your thoughts along channels you’d not otherwise have found, as when river reeds hide and then reveal a tributary stream in marshland.
“Is that why you let the young one shoot both arrows?”
Bytsan’s gaze in mingled light was unsettlingly direct. Tai was beginning to feel his wine. The Taguran said, “She was flat against the cabin. They were going to crush the life from her. Why waste an arrow?”
Half an answer at best. Tai said wryly, “Why waste a chance to give a soldier a tattoo, and a boast?”
The other man shrugged. “That, too. He did come back with me.”
Tai nodded.
Bytsan said, “You ran outside knowing they’d help you?” An edge to his voice. And why not? They were listening to the cries outside right now. And screams.
Tai cast his mind back to the desperate moments after Yan died. “I was running for the shovel.”
Bytsan sri Nespo laughed, a quick, startling sound. “Against Kanlin swords?”
Tai found himself laughing too. The wine was part of it. And the aftermath of fear remembered. He’d expected to die.
He’d have become one of the ghosts of Kuala Nor.
They drank again. The screaming voice had stopped. Another bad one was beginning, one of those that seemed to still be dying, unbearably, somewhere in the night. It hurt your heart, listening, frayed the edges of your mind.
Tai said, “Do you think about death?”
The other man looked at him. “Every soldier does.”
It was an unfair question. This was a stranger, of an enemy people not so long ago, and likely again in years to come. A blue-tattooed barbarian living beyond the civilized world.
Tai drank. Taguran wine was not going to replace the spiced or scented grape wine of the best houses in the North District, but it was good enough for tonight.
Bytsan murmured suddenly, “I said we had to talk. Told Gnam that, remember?”
“We aren’t talking enough? A shame … a shame Yan’s buried out there. He’d have talked you to sleep, if only to find a respite from his voice.”
Buried out there.
Such a wrong place for a gentle, garrulous man to lie. And Yan had come so far. Carrying what tidings? Tai didn’t know. He didn’t even know, he realized, if his friend had passed the exams.
Bytsan looked away. Gazing out a window at moonlight, he said, “If someone sent an assassin they can send another—when you get back or while you are on the way. You know that.”
He knew that.
Bytsan said, “Iron Gate saw them come through. They will ask where the two of them are.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And they will send word to Xinan.”
Tai nodded. Of course they would. A Kanlin Warrior coming this far west as an assassin? That had significance. Not empire-shaking, Tai wasn’t important enough, but certainly worth a dispatch from a sleepy border fort. It would go with the military post, which was very fast.
Bytsan said, “Your mourning’s over, then?”
“It will almost be, time I get to Xinan.”
“That where you’ll go?”
“Have to.”
“Because you do know who sent her?”
He hadn’t expected that.
It was Xin Lun who suggested it to me. Yan’s last words on earth, in life, under nine heavens.
“I might know how to start finding out.”
He might know more than that, but he wasn’t ready to think about it tonight.
“I have another suggestion, then,” said the Taguran. “Two of them. Trying to keep you alive.” He laughed briefly, drained another cup. “My future seems to be bound up with yours, Shen Tai, and the gift you’ve been given. You need to stay alive long enough to send for your horses.”
Tai considered that. It made sense, from Bytsan’s point of view—you didn’t have to think hard to see the truth of it.
Both of the Taguran’s suggestions had been good ones.
Tai would not have thought of either. He would need to get his subtlety back before he reached Xinan, where you could be exiled for bowing one time too many or too few or to the wrong person first. He accepted both of the other man’s ideas, with one addition that seemed proper.
They’d finished the last of the flask, put out the lights, and had gone to bed.
Towards what would soon enough be morning, the moon over west, the Taguran had said softly from where he lay on the floor, “If I’d spent two years here, I would think about death.”
“Yes,” said Tai.
Starlight. The voices outside, rising and falling. The star
of the Weaver Maid had been visible earlier, shining in a window. Far side of the Sky River from her love.
“They are mostly about sorrow out there, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“They would have killed her, though.”
“Yes.”
Tai recognized the guard above the gate; he’d come to the lake at least twice with the supplies they sent. He didn’t remember his name. The commander was named Lin Fong, he knew that. A small, crisp man with a round face and a manner that suggested that the fort at Iron Gate Pass was only a way station, an interlude in his career.
On the other hand, the commander had come to Kuala Nor a few weeks after arriving at the fort last autumn, in order to see for himself the strange man burying the dead there.
He had bowed twice to Tai when he’d left with the soldiers and cart, and the supplies being sent had remained completely reliable. An ambitious man, Lin Fong, and obviously aware, during that visit to the lake, of who Tai’s father had been. Traces of arrogance, but there was honour in him, Tai judged, and a sense that the commander was aware of the history of this battleground among mountains.
Not someone you’d likely choose as a friend, but that wasn’t what he was here to be at Iron Gate.
He was standing, impeccable in his uniform, just inside the gate as it swung open. It was just after dawn. Tai had slept through the first night travelling but had been awakened by wolves on the second. Not dangerously near, or hungry, as best he could judge, but he had chosen to offer his prayers for his father in the darkness and ride on under stars instead of lying on high, hard ground awake. None of the Kitan were easy with wolves, in legend, in life, and Tai was no exception. He felt safer on horseback, and he was already in love with Bytsan sri Nespo’s bay-coloured Sardian.
They didn’t sweat blood, the Heavenly Horses—that was legend, a poet’s image—but if anyone had wanted to recite some of the elaborate verses about them, Tai would have been entirely happy to listen and approve. He’d ridden recklessly fast in the night, the moon behind him, borne by an illusion that the big horse could not put a hoof wrong, that there was only joy in speed, no danger in the canyon’s dark.
You could get yourself killed thinking that way, of course. He hadn’t cared, the pace was too purely intoxicating. He was riding a Sardian horse towards home in the night and his heart had been soaring, if only for that time. He had kept the Taguran name—Dynlal meant “spirit” in their tongue—which suited, in many ways.
Exchanging horses had been Bytsan’s first proposal. Tai was going to need some mark of favour, he’d pointed out, something that identified him, alerted people to the truth of what he’d been given. One horse, as a symbol of two hundred and fifty to come.
Dynlal would also get him where he was going faster.
The promise of Sardian horses, to be claimed only by him, was what might keep him alive, induce others to join in tracking down those who obviously did not wish him to remain alive—and help Tai determine why this was so.
It had made sense. So also, for Tai, did his modification of the suggestion.
He’d written it out before they parted in the morning: a document conveying to Bytsan sri Nespo, captain in the Taguran army, his free choice of any three horses among the two hundred and fifty, in exchange for his own mount surrendered at need and at request, and in grateful recognition of courage shown against treachery at Kuala Nor, arriving from Kitai.
That last phrase would help the captain with his own commanders; they both knew it. Nor had the Taguran argued. He was clearly relinquishing something that mattered a great deal to him with the big bay horse. Moments after starting into the sunrise, running with the wind, Tai had begun to understand why this was so.
Bytsan’s second suggestion had involved making explicit what might otherwise be dangerously unclear. The Taguran had taken his own turn with ink and paper at Tai’s desk, writing in Kitan, his calligraphy slow and emphatic.
“The below-named captain in the army of Tagur has been entrusted with ensuring that the gift of Sardian horses from the honoured and beloved Princess Cheng-wan, offered by her own grace and with the lordly blessing of the Lion, Sangrama, in Rygyal, be transferred to the Kitan, Shen Tai, son of General Shen Gao, to him and to no one else. The horses, which presently number two hundred fifty, will be pastured and maintained …”
There had been more, stipulating location—in Taguran lands near the border, close to the town of Hsien in Kitai, some distance south of where they were—and detailing the precise circumstances under which the horses would be handed over.
These conditions were designed to ensure that no one could compel Tai to sign instructions against his will. There were, in Xinan, men trained and often gifted in methods of inducing such signatures. There were others equally skilled in fabricating them.
This letter would go with Tai, be handed to the commander at Iron Gate to be copied, and the copy would proceed ahead of him by military post to the court.
It might make a difference. Might not, of course, but losing the empire those horses would very possibly cause any new assassin (and those who paid him, or her) to be hunted down, tortured for information, and creatively disembowelled before being permitted to die.
Tai had been aware, even as he rode east, and certainly now as he cantered Dynlal through the open gate of the fort and reined up before Lin Fong in the main courtyard, that a second assassin might be sent when word came back that the first one had failed.
What he had not expected was to see one waiting here at Iron Gate Pass, walking up behind the commander, clad in black and bearing crossed Kanlin swords in scabbards on her back.
She was smaller than the first woman had been, but with the same lithe movements. That walk almost marked someone as Kanlin. You learned those movements, even a way of standing, at Stone Drum Mountain. They made you dance there balanced on a ball.
Tai stared at the woman. Her black hair was unbound, falling to her waist. She had just risen from sleep, he realized.
Didn’t make her less dangerous. He pulled his bow from the saddle sheath and nocked an arrow. You kept arrows and bow ready in the mountains, for wolves or the cats. He didn’t dismount. He knew how to shoot from the saddle. Had been in the northern cavalry beyond the Long Wall, and had trained at Stone Drum after. You could find irony in that last, if you were in a certain state of mind. Kanlins were being sent after him. By someone.
The commander said, “What are you doing?”
The woman stopped, fifteen paces away. She had wide-set eyes and a full mouth. Given what she was, fifteen paces might be too close if she had a dagger. Tai danced his horse backwards.
“She’s here to kill me,” he said, calmly enough. “Another Kanlin tried, by the lake.”
“We know about that,” Commander Lin said.
Tai blinked, but never took his eyes from the woman. Moving slowly, she shrugged her leather straps off one shoulder and then the other, keeping her hands visible all the time. The swords dropped behind her into the dust. She smiled. He didn’t trust that smile.
A crowd of soldiers had gathered in the courtyard. A morning adventure. There weren’t many of those here at the edge of the world.
“How do you know about it?” Tai asked.
The commander glanced briefly at the woman behind him. He shrugged. “This one told us last night. She came pursuing the other. Arrived at sunset. Would have ridden on by night towards you. I told her to wait until this morning, that if something unpleasant had happened at Kuala Nor it would have done so already, since the others were days ahead of her.” He paused. “Did something happen?”
“Yes.”
The commander was expressionless. “They are dead? The fat scholar and the woman?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?” The woman spoke for the first time. Her voice was low but clear in the dawn courtyard. “I regret to hear it.”
“You grieve for your companion?” Tai was holding in anger. br />
She shook her head. The smile had gone. She had a clever, alert face, high cheekbones; the unbound hair remained a distraction. “I was sent to kill her. I grieve for the other one.”
“The fat scholar,” Lin Fong repeated.
“The scholar was my friend,” said Tai. “Chou Yan came a long way from the world he knew to tell me something that mattered.”
“Did he?” The woman again. “Did he tell you?”
She stepped closer. Tai lifted a quick hand as he held the bow with the other. She stopped. Smiled again with that wide mouth. A smile from a Kanlin Warrior could be unsettling in and of itself, Tai thought.
She shook her head. “If I were here to kill you, you’d be dead by now. I wouldn’t have walked up like this. You must know that.”
“You might want questions answered first,” he said coldly. “And you know that.”
Her turn to hesitate. It pleased him. She’d been too sure of herself. At Stone Drum you were taught how to disarm a person with words, confuse or placate them. It wasn’t all blades and bows and spinning leaps that ended with a kick to the chest or head and, often as not, a death.
His friend was dead, killed by one of these Warriors. He held that within himself, a hard fury.
Her gaze was appraising now, but not in the way the other woman’s had been. She wasn’t sizing him up for a fight. Either she was biding her time, at a momentary disadvantage, or she was telling the truth about why she was here. He needed to decide. He could just shoot her, he thought.
“Why would you be sent to kill another Kanlin?”
“Because she isn’t Kanlin.”
The fortress commander turned and looked at her.
The woman said, “She went rogue half a year ago. Left her assigned sanctuary near Xinan, disappeared into the city. Started killing for a fee, then was hired by someone, we learned, to travel here to do the same.”
“Who hired her?”
The girl shook her head. “I wasn’t told.”
He said, “She was a Kanlin. She wanted to fight me, said the only reason she didn’t was strict orders.”
“And you think those orders could have been given to someone still serving the Mountain, Master Shen Tai? Really? You were at Stone Drum. You know better.”