Guy Kay - Under Heaven

People had stories in Chenyao, and they didn’t have to tell them.

When they arrived, Hwan negotiated the lease of a good-sized house, with a staff to run it. He was apparently skilled at such bargaining, but it had also helped, Rain knows, that both Kanlins went with him and were standing by. No one was inclined to offend the black-clad ones in any possible way, and someone who had two of them serving her was not to be troubled.

An uncharacteristic lack of energy or will had settled on Rain from the time they took the city house. She knew it, knows it tonight, weeks later, lying awake.

She has no clear (or even vague) idea what to do next. Along with everyone else—Chenyao is crowded with refugees from Xinan and elsewhere now—they watch the movements of soldiers from the west and northwest, passing through, riding or marching, grim-faced. Some of the faces seem very young to Rain.

Armies are moving all through Kitai this summer.

They seize on news, or the rumour of news. Qin spends mornings in the market begging for coins, though it is hardly necessary. But he finds that people talk to a crippled beggar and he learns almost as much as the Kanlins do through their own channels.

Rain has never asked what these channels are. She’s too grateful for their presence, unwilling to intrude. At night they gather and share what they know.

They know that the Ta-Ming Palace had seen wholesale slaughter, as did much of Xinan. That it is quieter in the capital now, but strange, tense, a city under occupation. Crouched against another blow, someone said.

They know that the Emperor Taizu is now the father-emperor, reportedly heading southwest, beyond the Great River. Shinzu rules them now, although Xinan and Yenling are held by the rebels, which makes it a fair question if anyone can be said to rule Kitai.

There was a battle in the northwest, not far from the Long Wall. Depending on who tells the tale, it was a victory against the rebels, or a victory for them.

They have known from near the outset of their journey that Zhou is dead, and Jian.

Awake at night again because some animal has screamed in the street, Rain thinks about war, the boys’ faces seen in the army ranks, about Kitai, this land that she came to years ago with her pipa , her yellow hair and green eyes, and so young.

In summer darkness, stars in her south-facing window, she makes—or accepts—a decision in her heart. There is fear again with it, and sorrow, but also a kind of easing of disquiet and distress, which is what acceptance is said to bring, is it not?

With that, it seems her clarity returns, the sense that she can sort matters through, make plans, a choice and then the next one. For one thing, none of the four men with her is to be burdened with this. It is her decision, and is to be hers alone, she thinks.

She falls asleep.

IN THE MORNING, when the men are out and about, in the market, buying goods for the household, pursuing information, she has one of the servants call a sedan chair and she makes her way to a merchant’s place of business, alone.

It is almost certain that he cheats her on the price he offers for a jade necklace and a golden brooch in the shape of a dragon, but she doesn’t think he’s been outrageously dishonest, perhaps intimidated by her manner and a casually dropped reference to Kanlins awaiting her at home.

She makes one other stop, conducts another negotiation, and is back at the house before the others.

That evening, in her chamber, she calls for brush and ink and paper and, some time later, by lantern light, writes a single message addressed to the four of them.

Chenyao, she suggests, is a good place for Hwan to remain for now. He and Qin will have money (the point of this morning’s first transaction) to keep the house, to buy food, to live … if the war does not last forever.

The Kanlins, she knows, will not accept money from her. They were hired and paid by Wen Jian. It is another strangeness for Rain, that these two—who have meant so much to her this summer, who have saved her life—she owes not just to Tai (whom she is leaving now) but to the Precious Consort, who is dead.

She thanks them by name: Ssu Tan, and the younger one, Zhong Ma. She asks them to accept her gratitude and to convey it to the leaders at their sanctuary. And also, if they will be so very kind, to convey that same gratitude, and farewell, to Master Shen Tai, who sent them to her, should they encounter him again.

There is sadness, and she doesn’t write this part quickly, or easily. But what woman has ever been promised a life, has ever lived a life, without sadness? And at least she is not sitting above jade stairs in moonlight, waiting, waiting while life recedes.

He had asked her not to do that when he went home after his father died. He had ended up at Kuala Nor among the ghosts. She had ended up with Wen Zhou.

Or, no, she thinks. She has ended up here.

She finishes writing and puts the brush aside, blows on the letter until the ink dries. She leaves it on the writing table and she rises and takes the money she’s received today and places most of it on the table.

They will be all right, she thinks. If the war does not last too long.

She looks out her window. Sees summer stars. It is time. She has not changed into her night robe. She is not going to sleep. She’ll need to be quiet, leaving, but the sedan chair she hired ought to be outside the door by now, and the household is accustomed to her restlessness. It ought to be all right.

She takes the part of the cash she’s kept back for herself, and the small bag with the jewellery she will need for a journey. A long journey. A hard one. She’s hired two guards, paid them a third of the negotiated fee, and she’s arranged to join a good-sized group leaving at sunrise. The two guards are her contribution to their safety. That is how these things are done.

There are always parties of one sort or another leaving Chenyao. The leaders of this one seemed to know what they were about, talking with her this morning, which is good. It is not truly safe, of course, especially not now, and for a woman, but the world never is. She wishes she had her pipa , a distracted thought.

Perhaps she’ll find one on the way. It is time to go. She crosses the floor silently and opens her door to the dark hallway. She will need to step over the third step on the stairway down, she remembers. It creaks. She’d tested for that earlier today.

As it happens, it doesn’t matter.

All four of them are in the corridor. Hwan, Qin, both Kanlins. They are dressed to travel.

“Ah, good,” says Ssu Tan. “We had just decided to wake you. The chair has been outside for some time. We have to go, if we are to join the caravan before it leaves.”

Her mouth is open. Hwan is holding, shielding with his hand, a single candle. She can see their faces. Amazingly, all of them are smiling.

Rain says, “You can’t … this isn’t a journey I can ask any of you to take!”

“You didn’t ask,” says Qin. When he has a wall to lean against, he can stand for a time. “We have chosen.”

“You can’t!” she says again. “Do you even know where I’m going?”

“Of course we do,” says Ssu Tan. “We thought you’d decide this some time ago. We talked about it.”

“You … you talked about what I’d decide?” She would like to be angry.

Hwan says, quietly, “We talked about what we’d do, my lady, once you made your decision.”

The younger Kanlin, Zhong Ma, has said nothing. His eyes have never left her, and he’s still smiling.

“But I’m going to Sardia!” she cries.

“You are going home,” says Ssu Tan.

“But it isn’t your home.”