Yet, because it was Tadiqan whom the shan-yu had entrusted with the leaderhip of this new mission, Tadiqan who might lead what could prove to be a new war, the talk was all of Tadiqan and his prowess. Prince Vughturoi seemed to be forgotten. Much to Silver Snow’s surprise, he appeared to be content that this was so. She became aware that, each evening, Vughturoi was seated farther and farther from his father. Whenever he attempted to speak with him, some distraction intervened, some clamor of Strong Tongue’s, some disagee-ment between Vughturoi’s warriors; while the proud, touchy elders who clustered still around the shan-yu regarded Silver Snow as an old man’s toy, and paid homage to Strong Tongue as shaman.
These older men began to speak of war in the spring, plan for it, hope for it. Silver Snow listened with rising apprehension as the old men worked themselves into a frenzy of anticipation. Beyond a certain point, she feared, there was no recalling them to such sanity as the more warlike Hsiung-nu ever possessed. Besides, she seemed to recall edicts, treaties with Ch’in, that forbade such wars in the grasslands.
If only Sable’s brother Basich would return! If only Silver S»ow knew for certain that her message had been delivered! She clenched her fists within the concealment of her silken sleeves. Just let the letter arrive; to hope for a letter in return was to ask for far too much.
Vughturoi’s keen eyes studied the other Hsiung-nu too. He must remember those treaties, Silver Snow thought. He must. Why, then, did he choose to enflame his fellow tribesmen? To test to see who his partisans were? To gauge his father’s support? Or—Silver Snow snatched at this thought— did he seek to oust Tadiqan from the camp just as he had been ousted earlier that year? He watched his elder brother like a fox, poised to hunt its prey.
“I spoke but of an embassy,” Vughturoi said, at length. “Is it not true, Heavenly Majesty,” he finally asked, raising his voice to be heard from his seat that was now so far from his father, “that your treaty with your cousin in Ch’ang-an forbids such a combat?”
First the stalk; then the pounce. Vughturoi had not forgotten the treaties. Then his suggestion of riding forth to the Fu Yu was a suggestion not of war but of embassy; that Tadiqan snatched it up might do him no favor in his father’s eyes.
Silver Snow glanced about the tent, and her heart sank. Clever Vughturoi might be, but he was not adept in states-craft. His suggestion had escaped him, much as fire, spilled from a firepot in a dry summer, flames up over the grassland and threatens to devour all that is in its path. Much as his father might favor him, he could not go against the will of his people if it were strongly expressed.
“What do we care about the swirls of a foolish brush on wood or silk?” came the shouted reply from an elder warrior near the front of the tent. “Such are easily burnt or forgotten! We care about herds and swords, bows, and speedy obedience to our commands!”
“I have seen the armies of Ch’in,” Vughturoi flung back. “And I say that I would not willingly go up against them.” “We have seen their soldiers,” snapped Strong Tongue, taking a shaman’s freedom to intrude in the affairs of war. “When the arrows pierce them, they bleed like other men, though, perhaps, more weakly. Alive, and in our camps, they do the work of slaves.”
She stroked her spirit drum, as if reminding the assembly that one, at least, of the half Ch’in had done other service to the Hsiung-nu, long after his untimely death. Silver Snow controlled a shudder, then pursed her lips in revulsion. She must pretend to ignore Strong Tongue’s spite.
“True that may be,” said Vughturoi. “But surely it is also true that those who cannot lay aside their weapons shall in the end be consumed by them.”
Why, Vughturoi had lifted those words from Confucius’ Spring and Autumn Analects, Silver Snow realized. Perhaps he had even heard them from her or from Li Ling. She had not known just how impressed the prince had been with Ch’in during his stay. No, he was no savage child of a savage race, but a thinking man to whom, he hoped, his father would listen.
“What coward made that noise?” came a raucous yell, accompanied by some comment about lazy camels and dung, bawled out too fast and too slurred by drink for Silver Snow fully to understand, even had she wished to.
The shout of coward shattered the control that Vughturoi had maintained, the careful veneer of Han civilization.
“Coward?” screamed Vughturoi. In that moment, he was all Hsiung-nu. “Coward? Let me show you who is a coward!” He launched himself forward, knife out, his face contorted into a mask of rage.
Although the Hsiung-nu cheered his energy, they separated prince and warrior before blood could stain the cushions and carpets, and Khujanga shouted for order. “Obey your own words!” he snapped at his younger son, and turned his attention away from him for the rest of the evening. Silver Snow cast one glance at Vughturoi as he sat glowering by the fire, too proud to withdraw, then bent her energies to entertaining the shan-yu and softening his mood. She was very much afraid that she had but indifferent success.
And in the days that followed, the breach between the shan-yu and his younger son appeared to widen.
Remembering her own time out of favor in Ch’ang-an, Silver Snow could recognize the skill and subtlety of Strong Tongue’s latest gambit: isolate the young prince, make certain that he was angered and placed in bad situations, then spread and nurture doubts about him. Vughturoi’s response came that evening. As Khujanga sat in Silver Snow’s tent, listening to a song of the North, Vughturoi appeared. He bowed to his father, head to earth, though, usually, xhe. shan-yu insisted that sons and warriors who were high in his favor omit the full prostration. Then he nodded to Silver Snow and, at a gesture from his father, sat down.
Permission that may have been; nevertheless, Vughturoi sat very near to the tent’s opening, as if uncertain of his welcome. He accepted rice wine, but spoke not a word. He was simply there, as a minister who favored an unpopular cause might do at the Son of Heaven’s court: saying nothing; simply maintaining his presence and that of his cause.
Silver Snow’s fingers flickered upon her sewing, and never had her voice risen so sweetly, her wit sparkled like firelight upon rock crystal. Khujanga shook his head in doting admiration at this stranger-wife of his. “I will admit it; some among my own retainers think me a fool, as they whisper all men are fools who take a young wife. They think me a double fool for listening to her songs and stories. You have seen Ch’in, though. What do you think, son?”
He had spoken to his out-of-favor son! Silver Snow’s fingers tightened on her handiwork for one moment, and she glanced at Vughturoi, who leaned forward deferentially. His square face was flushed, and light flickered in his eyes.
“The day that the beloved of heaven is a fool, the plains will become mountains,” Vughturoi began cautiously. “I have been in Ch’in, as you say. I can say that the lady’s stories are true.” Khujanga raised a white, skeptical brow.
“But,” Vughturoi added, “they are too modest.”
He glanced quickly at Silver Snow, then away.
“The people of the Han are a great people,” said the prince.
“As are we, my son. And we are a freer people, besides.” Vughturoi bowed, head to rugs.
“As indeed we are, Heavenly Majesty. But the Middle Kingdom has as many folk as the desert has pebbles. It is very old and, in its ages, it has enriched itself. One pestilence or one harsh winter will not wipe out a clan and threaten the weal of all. They have abundance; and in their abundance, they can afford to create wonders, to hold treasures, and to protect them beyond the power of our yurts and horses.” Resolutely Silver Snow kept her eyes fixed upon her work, glad that it kept her from twining her fingers or plaiting her sleeves with them. Both were unsightly gestures that broke the serene facade that she attempted to show the shan-yu. She must mean rest, peace, and grace for him, so he would seek her out, and, thus, her influence would grow. As father and son spoke together, the days’ estrangement gone from voice and manner, she turned her eyes back to her other work, the finely crafted bag that she was stitching. Though her knowledge violated modesty, she well knew that she was one of the wonders of the Han to which Vughturoi had referred.