Killing him might have been the truest answer to what had been done to him, offering the kindness of release, but Tai didn't do it, and didn't allow his soldiers to do it. He wasn't even sure this figure could be killed, and he really didn't want to test that.
After a long stillness, barely breathing, he saw Meshag—or what had been Meshag—move one hand, in a gesture he could not interpret. The figure turned away from him, from all of them, living and dead and burning. Meshag didn't laugh again, and he never did speak. He loped away, around the burning cabin and then along the shore of the lake, towards the fire-coloured autumn trees and the distant, almost-hidden mountains.
Tai and his men stayed together, watching him through the smoke until he passed from sight, and then they started the other way, towards home.
They had left the silk farm and the orange flare of the fox far behind.
The sun was going down, also orange now. Tai realized he'd been wrapped in reverie for a long time, tracing memory, the paths that had led him here.
Or, one particular path, that journey north: past Wall, past river's loop, beyond the steppes to the edge of winter's land.
In the eye of his mind, riding now with six companions on a glorious Sardian horse, he still saw Meshag, son of Hurok—or whatever he had become—shambling away alone. It occurred to him that, having seen this, having been a part of that day, he ought not to be so quickly dismissive of someone else's belief in fox-women.
Or, perhaps, because of his own history, that was why he needed to be dismissive? There were only two people in the world with whom he could even have imagined talking about this feeling. One of them was in Xian and it was very likely he would never be able to speak with her again. The other was Chou Yan, who was dead.
Wei Song was still up front. The stream they were following was on their left, a wide valley stretching from it, fertile lands, both banks. The forest that had flanked them to the south had receded. This was farming land. They could see peasant huts clustering into hamlets and villages, men and women in the fields, charcoal burners' fires against the darkening trees.
Tai had come this way heading west, approaching Kuala Nor two years ago, but he'd been in a strange state of mind then—grieving, withdrawn—and he hadn't paid attention to the land through which he rode. Looking back, he couldn't say he'd begun to think clearly about what he was doing, what he intended to do, until he'd ridden beyond Iron Gate Fort up the long ravine and come out and seen the lake.
He needed to become a different man now.
Spring Rain had warned him so many times about the dangers of the Ta-Ming Palace, the world of court and mandarin—and now he had the army, the military governors to consider as well.
Someone wanted him dead, had wanted that before he'd received the horses. He couldn't keep them, he knew he couldn't keep them.
Not in the world as it was. The issue was what he did with them, and—before that—how he could live long enough to claim them back at the Taguran border.
He twitched Dynlal's reins and the big horse moved effortlessly forward to catch up to the Kanlin woman. The sun was behind them, shining along the plain. It was almost time to stop for the night. They could camp out again, or approach one of these villages. He wasn't sure where the next posting station was.
She didn't turn her head as he pulled up beside her. She said, "I'd be happier inside walls, unless you object."
It was the fox, he guessed. This time he didn't make a jest. He still carried the long day's dark remembering, a smell of burning in his mind from a northern lake.
"Whatever you say."
This time she did look over, he saw anger in her eyes. "You are indulging me!"
Tai shook his head. "I am listening to you. I retained you to protect me. Why hire a guard dog and bark yourself?"
Not calculated to appease her, but he didn't exactly feel like doing that. It did occur to him to mildly regret hiring her. The soldiers from the fort would surely have been enough protection. But he hadn't known that he'd be given a military escort.
There was more... person in her than he'd expected. She'd been chosen by Spring Rain, he needed to think about that. He had many things to think about, it seemed.
He said, "You never did tell me that night if Rain knows anything, or told you, about why someone sent a Kanlin to kill me."
A weak question... he'd have been informed by now, if she knew. He expected a remark to that effect, didn't get one. "A false Kanlin," she reminded him, reflexively. Then added, "If the Lady Lin Chang knew, I do not. I don't believe she did know. Your friend was bringing you tidings, and it seemed you weren't to know them."
"No." Tai shook his head. "It is more than that. Or they'd have killed Yan before he reached me. It would have been easy to have him die along the way. They were alone."
She looked at him. "I never thought of that."
"They didn't want me alive to act on whatever he was coming to tell me, if I found it out some other way."
She was still staring. Tai grinned suddenly. "What? You are astonished I can think of something you didn't?"
She shook her head, looked away. Watching her, Tai felt his mood darken. The joking felt shallow. He said, not sure why he was confiding, "He was a dear friend. Never harmed a soul in life that I know of. I am going to want to know why he died, and do something about it."
She turned again to look at him. "You may not be able to do anything, depending on what you discover."
Tai cleared his throat. "We had better choose a village soon, if you want to negotiate for shelter."
Her turn to smile, as if to herself. "Look ahead."
Tai did so. "Oh," he said.
The land rose slightly before them. He saw that the road widened, three lanes now, the middle one reserved for imperial riders. In the distance, caught by the setting sun, he could just make out the walls of a fair-sized city, with banners flying.
Chenyao. They had arrived. And closer to them, beside the road, obviously waiting, Tai noticed a small group of men. They had horses but had dismounted, respectfully. One of them, formally dressed, lifted a hand in salute.
"You are being met outside the walls," Wei Song murmured. "It is an honour. Iron Gate sent word of your coming, with the courier."
"The horses," Tai said.
"Well, of course," Song replied. "You will probably have to meet with the military governor and the prefect, both, before you can go find a woman. So very sorry."
He couldn't think of a rejoinder.
He lifted a hand in a return salute to those waiting. They immediately bowed, all of them, as if pulled downwards by his gesture, like puppets in a street theatre.
Tai drew a breath and let it out. It was beginning.
CHAPTER VII
It might have been thought that the most beautiful and talented of the singing girls, the courtesans who could break a man's heart or bring him to a climax in ways he had never imagined, would all be in Xinan, with its world-dazzling wealth and the palace by the northern walls.
That would have been a fair assumption, but not an accurate one. Market and canal-side towns could emerge as celebrated or notorious for a variety of reasons, and the grace and skill of their women was one. The south had its own traditions in the matter of lovemaking, as far back as the Fourth Dynasty, some of these sufficiently subversive to be discussed only in whispers or after too much wine.