He smiled. "Fair enough."
"But in Chiyaden," she said, "there won't be anyone I'll let on my flank."
Laughter died. "Well you shouldn't," he said, and took up his bow and walked away.
There was silence behind him, no sound of string or impact. Retrieving her arrows, he thought. For his part he went and hung up his equipment and picked a few squash for supper.
The leaves began to turn, as the boy came back, with more rice and more wine and a few jars of preserves. "Thank you," Shoka said, bowing politely himself, and the boy bowed and accepted his small list of wants, which were few for this coming winter.
A little straw. The cabin thatch held quite well. Rice and wine, a double portion. But he laid out for the boy a fine lot of furs and a little smoked meat besides.
So Taizu came out and watched the boy go down the mountain, herself squatting on the porch, arms on knees.
Not so timid now, Shoka thought to himself, observing her there in front of him, small figure with a tail of braid between her shoulders. More of curiosity than apprehension—
Perhaps Taizu did not even know the change in herself. He could see it, slow and sure, subtle as the changes in her body—shoulders broadened with muscle, legs strong and shapely, as she had acquired other, more womanly contours.
He had known half a hundred courtesans, soft of skin and pale and certainly never showing such an unfashionably broad back or taking such a graceless posture. Certainly Meiya never would. But, gods—
He whiled away the winter with stories, with moral tales master Yenan had told them: with, sometimes, stories of the court, and of things he had never told to any courtesan, nor any man either, when he came to think of it—duels he had fought, and skirmishes with the conspirators who had plagued the old Emperor in his decline. He was telling the tales to someone outside the court and beyond those politics, without family to be offended, someone whose eyes flickered with understanding when he named this sword tactic and that, and what his opponent had done right and wrong—not by way of boasting, only pouring everything he knew out to the only person since his father had died that he had ever felt moved to tell these things.
She at least knew the reputations of the men he named. That amazed him. "They tell stories in Hua," she said, amused and a little piqued, one night that he said as much. And he felt strangely naked then, to discover that a simple quarrel in the court had spread so far and been embellished beyond all reason—in the versions she recounted.
"Sorcery, hell," he said, regarding lady Bhosai's death. "She was blackmailing lord Ghita. She drank from the wrong teacup. I tell you, Cheng'di was like that. You never trusted anything. They deserve all they got."
She looked at him, distressed.
"They killed the good ones," he amended. "But lady Bhosai wasn't one of them. Lord Riga was. At least—" He was whittling a filler for a crack the cold had warped into the door planks. "I could have supported Riga. He wanted to overthrow the heir. Dammit, if I'd done it—" He peeled off one long hard curl. "Well, someone else would have gotten him. Riga was a man of principle. That was all. No great intelligence. Couldn't be worse than the young Emperor. But he wouldn't have lasted the day, once he declared himself. As it was, Ghita found him out and killed him. I could prove the one who did it. I couldn't prove the link to Ghita."
He looked up at her, at a face intent and listening, asking him no questions.
"All of which is past," he said, and drew another long stroke down the wood. "Past and dead. I don't know there was ever a thing I could have done. Not for myself. Not for—anyone else." He had never mentioned Meiya's name to her. And he found her listening and the night and the storm urging it was something she might understand, something that might explain a great deal to her, that he wanted her to know. But he could not bring himself to mention Meiya's name. Meiya had faded too much. And Taizu never asked, though that part, he knew, was a story the people knew.
"This was the inner court," he said, laying out sticks to frame the rectangle. It was still winter. Night was outside, and wind; and they worked over a good supper, a little wine. The stories became tactical problems, things he had witnessed. He set pebbles in the sand. "Gates." He stuck twigs upright. "Guards." A leaf with a pebble on it. "Lord Hos in his bed."
She gave a grim laugh. It was an attempted murder he showed her, one where the assassins had failed. Where there had been more tricks than lord Kendi's men had counted on.
"The walls are slanted, so. One can climb them with a grapple and a line. This wall has windows. Two."
"How big?"
"Big enough for a slender man."
She nodded, paying strict attention.
"So. Over the walls. In through the windows ..."
"Is there a dog?"
"There's a monkey. It wakes."
"In the dark. The guards are going to be there in a moment."
"Have you left your line?"
"I did. I didn't take it down. I think I'd better get clear of there."
"I think you'd better. But there's guards here now—" He moved two twigs. "Armed with pikes."
"I have the bow."
"Can you take two?"
She nodded.
He moved more twigs. "So far you're doing better than the assassin. But two more guards have come up at your back."
"No arrows in my hand. I'd better get around the corner."
He planted two more twigs. "Sorry. You couldn't see them from the wall. They both have bows."
"The other way, down and roll, hit the doorway."
"The monkey's raising hell."
"The old man's awake. I'm down this hall the other way. The guards rush in. I'm there with the bow, at their backs."
"Not bad."
"I just wait for the rest. That's the other two."
"The man's little daughter runs into the hall."
Her face shadowed.
"Happens," he said.
"Not fair, master Saukendar."
"Will you die for that girl?"
She shrugged. "Let her yell. Like the monkey. She'll bring her papa."
"You'll shoot him in front of her."
"Happens," she said.
"Two more guards."
"If the girl's still yelling, good. Let them come in."
"They do."
"They're dead. I'm out for the wall."
"Hell, use the front gate. Take a horse while you're at it."
"There might be servants there too. I'm for the wall. I'm up and over."
He nodded. "You've left no witnesses but the daughter." And with calculated force. "Suppose she might come after you."
Her eyes shadowed again. "Gitu hasn't got a daughter. Not fair, master Saukendar."
"Nothing's fair, girl."
"Well, it's not poor lord Hos I'm after. It's Gitu. There isn't any daughter to worry about. If there was, she'd be well rid of him."
"He's got two sons and a flock of men-at-arms."
"That's why I won't go into his castle after him. Wait in the fields. That's the way I'll do it."
"You'll never take him with the sword. The bow, I'm telling you. It's your best weapon. Let me tell you another thing—" He drew a breath. "Do it and get away from there. Come back here. You'll be safe here. Plan to survive your enemy, dammit."
She had looked down the moment he said that, about coming back to the mountain. And that stung.
"I'm still the villain, am I?"
"No, master Saukendar."
"Master Saukendar. That's my court name. That's for talking about me. People called me Shoka, to my face. I'd rather you did."
"I'm your student, master Saukendar." Without looking up at him.