For Li-Mei it would be worse. Tai remembered the dust storms of the north. Real ones, stinging, blinding, dangerous, not a poet's imagery. There was so much anger when he thought of her.

He'd felt a tug within, a feeling nearly physical, as they passed the cut-off south. Two years and more since he'd been there, seen the gates in the stone wall, the worn-smooth statues beside it (to frighten demons away), the always-swept path, the goldfish ponds, the porch, garden, stream.

His father's grave-marker would be raised by now, he thought. The allotted time had passed. His mother would have done things properly, she always did. But Tai hadn't seen the headstone, hadn't bowed before it, didn't know what was inscribed, what verse had been chosen, what memorial words, who had been selected to do the calligraphy.

He'd been at Kuala Nor. And was going elsewhere now, riding past the road that would bring him home. There could be peace there at night, he thought, after two years of hearing the dead.

He knew that this speed was almost meaningless. It crossed into some showy gesture, a display of love for his sister, driving riders and horses hard towards Xinan, and to no point.

She'd already been gone when Sima Zian left the capital. He'd said so. The decision had been made before poor Yan had set out for Tai's family estate, thinking to find him there, to tell him what was being done to her. There might have been enough time if he'd been home.

Too late now. So why was he pushing on so fiercely, all of them awake before sunrise, riding till nightfall? The days were longer now, too, approaching the summer festival.

No one complained, not by word or glance. The soldiers would not (would never!), but neither did Wei Song, who had given considerable evidence of a willingness to advise him as to correct conduct. And Sima Zian, older and presumably suffering most from their pace, did not seem to be suffering at all. The poet never spoke to Tai about their speed, the folly of it, the absence of proportion.

Perhaps, with a lifetime of observing men, he'd understood from the beginning what Tai only gradually came to grasp: he wasn't thundering down this road on his glorious horse in a wild attempt to rescue his sister.

He was going to his brother.

Accepting that truth, acknowledging it, didn't bring anything like the calm that resolving uncertainty was supposed to do. For one thing, there was too much anger in him. It seemed to find new channels with every li li they rode, every watch of the nights when he lay awake, even in the fatigued aftermath of the day's riding. they rode, every watch of the nights when he lay awake, even in the fatigued aftermath of the day's riding.

He didn't talk about any of this with the poet, and certainly not with Song, though he had a sense they both knew something of what was troubling him. He didn't enjoy the feeling of being understood so well, even by a new, dazzling friend, and certainly not by a Kanlin woman who was only here to guard him, and only because he'd made an impulsive decision at Iron Gate. He could have dismissed her by now. He had thirty soldiers.

He didn't dismiss her. He remembered, instead, how she'd fought at sunrise, in a garden in Chenyao.

IT WAS LATE in the day. Tai felt it in his legs and back. The sun was behind them, a mild summer's day, slight breeze. The imperial road was thronged with traffic. It was too crowded, too noisy, for any attempt to appreciate the beauty of late afternoon, the twilight to come.

They were three days past the cut-off to his home now, which meant less than two days from Xinan. They might even be there tomorrow, right around curfew. He knew this part of the road very well, had gone back and forth often enough through the years.

Even with the crowds they were going quickly. They used the middle of the three lanes, reserved for soldiers and imperial riders. A pair of imperial couriers, galloping even faster than they were, shouted for them to make room and they did, jostling some farm carts and laden peasants right off the road towards the drainage ditch. The couriers carried full saddlebags, obviously packed with more than message scrolls.

"Lychees for Wen Jian!" one of them shouted over his shoulder as the poet threw out a query.

Sima Zian laughed, then stopped laughing.

Tai thought about helping the farmers right their carts and goods, but there was too much urgency in him. They would help each other, he thought, and looking back saw that it was so. It was the way of life for country folk: they'd probably have been fearful and confused if soldiers had stopped to aid them.

He looked over at the poet. Zian's horse was beside his. Dynlal could have outrun all the others easily; a foolish thing to do. It might not be as foolish in a day or so. Tai had been thinking about that, of making his way ahead, entering Xinan quietly, before the gates closed at dusk. He had someone to see, and it might be more possible after dark.

The other man's expression was grave, as they watched the couriers disappear into dust ahead of them, carrying a delicacy for the Precious Consort. Lychees. The military post, wearing out horses with them.

"That is wrong. It is not ..." Sima Zian began. He stopped.

Recklessly, Tai said, "Not proportionate?"

Zian looked around to ensure that no one else was near them. He nodded. "One word for it. I fear chaos, in the heavens, here on earth."

Words that could have you beaten and exiled. Even killed. Tai flinched, sorry he'd spoken. The poet saw it and smiled. "My apologies. Shall we discuss the verses of Chan Du? Let us do that. It always brings me pleasure. I wonder if he's in Xinan ... I believe he is the best poet alive."

Tai cleared his throat, followed the lead. "I believe I am riding with the best poet alive."

Sima Zian laughed again, waved a hand dismissively. "We are very different men, Chan Du and I. Though he does enjoy his wine, I am happy to say." A brief silence. "He wrote about Kuala Nor when he was younger. After your father's campaign. Do you know them, those verses?"

Tai nodded his head. "Of course I do." He had studied those poems.

Zian's eyes were tiger-bright. "Did they send you there? To the lake?"

Tai thought about it. "No. My father's sadness sent me there. One poem ... may have given me a task."

The other man considered that, then said: Why sir, it is true: on the shores of Kuala Nor Why sir, it is true: on the shores of Kuala Nor White bones have lain for many years.

No one has gathered them. The new ghosts Are bitter and angry, the old ghosts weep.

Under the rain and within the circle of mountains The air is full of their cries.

"You thought it was a poet's imagery? About the ghosts?"

Tai nodded. "I imagine everyone does. If they haven't been there."

A short silence, and then the poet asked, "Son of Shen Gao, what is it you need to do when we arrive? How may I help you?"

Tai rode a little. Then said, very simply, "I do not know. I am eager to be counselled. What should should I do?" I do?"

But Sima Zian only repeated back to him, "I do not know."

They rode on, the light very rich now, nearing day's end, the wind behind them. Tai felt it stir his hair. He reached forward and patted the mane of his horse. He loved the horse already, he thought. Sometimes it took no time at all.

The poet said, "You told me you wanted to kill someone."

Tai remembered. Late night in the White Phoenix Pleasure House. "I did say that. I am still angry, but trying not to be unwise. What would you do, in my place?"

A quick answer this time. "Take care to stay alive, first. You are a danger to many people. And they know you are coming."

Of course they did. He'd sent messages, the commander of Iron Gate had, Governor Xu would have sent letters, using all-night riders.

But Tai took the point, or what might have been part of a subtle man's point: it truly would not be wise to ride alone through the walls, to do whatever it was he wanted to do, if he decided what he wanted to do.

He realized that Zian was reining up beside him. Slowing Dynlal, Tai looked ahead, towards the side of the road, at a grassy space across the ditch. He realized, doing so, that it had become more than just foolish, any notion of slipping quietly into the city as darkness fell.

He stopped his horse. Lifted a hand so the others would do the same. Wei Song came up beside them and so, a little behind her, did the gap-toothed soldier whose name he could never remember. The one who always took care of Dynlal.

"Who is it?" Song asked quietly.

"Isn't it obvious?" asked the poet.

"Not to me!" she snapped.

"Look at the carriage," said Zian. There was an edge to his voice. The sun from behind them lit the road, the grass, and the carriage he was eyeing. "There are kingfisher feathers on it."

"That isn't isn't the emperor!" Song said. "Stop being obscure. I need to know, to decide what-" the emperor!" Song said. "Stop being obscure. I need to know, to decide what-"

"Kanlin, look at the soldiers!" said Sima Zian. "Their uniforms."

A silence.

"Oh," said Song. And then she said it again.

The poet was looking at Tai. "Are you prepared for this?" A real question, the large eyes grave. "You may not have any more time to decide what you wish. He cannot be ignored, my friend."

Tai managed a thin smile. "I wouldn't dream of doing that," he said.

He urged Dynlal forward, towards a tight cluster of forty or fifty soldiers surrounding an enormous, sumptuously extravagant carriage. A carriage so big he wondered how they'd got it across the small bridge that carried the roadside ditch. Maybe, he thought, one of the bridges was larger, farther east? At a crossroads?

It didn't matter. The mind, he decided, could be peculiar at times like this with what it chose to dwell upon or ponder.

He heard hoofbeats. Looked back. He wasn't alone, after all: rumpled poet, small, fierce, black-clad Kanlin.

He reined up, looked across the ditch at the carriage. Kingfisher feathers decorating it, as the poet had pointed out. In the strict code of such things, these were reserved for the imperial household, but some, near enough to the throne, in high favour, might display that favour by using them.

He reminded himself that those in the palace-in all the different factions-would be wanting to enlist him to their cause if they could, not end his life.

He moved Dynlal across the roadway to the grass beside the ditch.

The door of the carriage was opened from the inside. A voice, unexpectedly light, slightly foreign, used to commanding, said bluntly, "Master Shen Tai? We will talk in here. Come now."

Tai drew another breath. Let it out. He bowed.

He said, "I will be honoured to converse with you, illustrious lord. Shall we speak at the posting station east of us? Your servant must attend to the needs of his soldiers and friends. They have been riding all day."

"No," said the man in the carriage.

Flat, absolute. Tai still couldn't see the speaker, not from where he was beside the road astride Dynlal. The voice added, "I wish not to be seen and known."

Tai cleared his throat. "My lord," he said, "there can be no one on this road who matters who does not know who is in this carriage. I will meet you at the posting inn. Perhaps we can dine together. It would be a great honour for me."

A face appeared in the window of the carriage. Enormous, round as a moon, under a black hat.

"No," repeated An Li, usually called Roshan, governor of three districts, adopted son of the Precious Consort. "Get in or I will have your soldiers killed and your friend decapitated and have you brought in here anyway."

It was surprising, given how crowded the road had been, but a space seemed to have somehow been shaped where they were, in both directions, east and west. Tai looked ahead, then over his shoulder, saw that other travellers were holding back. It was quiet, suddenly.

It matters, he told himself. he told himself. It matters what I do now. It matters what I do now.

So he said, speaking very clearly, "Sima Zian, it is a grief to me, as it will surely be to the empire, that our friendship may end your illustrious life, but I must trust you to understand why this is so."

"Of course I do," said the poet. "What is friendship if it comes only when the wine cups are readily filled?"

Tai nodded. He turned to the Kanlin. "Wei Song, be good enough to ride back and advise Governor Xu's escort that they must prepare to be attacked by cavalry of the-" he glanced over at the horsemen by the carriage-"is it your Eighth or Ninth Army, honourable governor?"

From within the carriage there came no reply.

The man would be thinking hard. Tai had just said something, perhaps two things, that would register. He was pleased to note that his voice had remained level, as if he did this sort of thing every day.

"I believe it is the Ninth," said the poet.

"I obey, my lord," said Song, in the same moment.

He heard her galloping back to their cavalry. He didn't turn to watch. He looked at the carriage, at the round, silent moon-face within, just visible.

He said, quietly, "My lord, I am-honorary though the commission may be-an officer of the Second Military District, commanding cavalry, some of them assigned to me by Governor Xu himself. Regulations must shape my actions more than inclination. I carry important information for the court. I believe you know this. I believe that is why you have done me the honour of being here. I am not in a position to follow my desires and accept the privilege of hidden converse with you. There is too much embodied by that, with so many watching a carriage that bears kingfisher feathers. I am certain you will agree."

He was certain, in fact, of the opposite, but if he had any hope of remaining free in his own alignment, his decisions, surely he needed to- From within, coldly, An Li said, "This is truly that drunken poet beside you? The one they call Immortal?"

Tai inclined his head. "The Banished Immortal, yes. I have the honour of his companionship and counsel."

Sima Zian, on his horse next to Tai's, sketched his bow. He was smiling, Tai saw, amazed. That drunken poet. That drunken poet.

From within the carriage, a moment later, came a string of oaths startling in their crudeness, even to someone who had been a soldier.

In the silence that followed, the poet's smile deepened. "Are those formal requests of me, my lord? I admit I would find some of them difficult, at my age."

Roshan stared out at them both. The general's eyes were nearly lost in the creased folds of his face. It was hard to see them to get any reading of his thoughts. He was, Tai realized, even more frightening because of that.

It was said that once, fighting in the northeast, he had defeated an army of Shuoki tribesmen beyond the Wall, part of a border insurgency. He had ordered his soldiers and their Bogu allies to cut off one foot from each man captured, then he and his army had ridden off, taking the enemy horses, leaving the Shuoki to die in the grass, or survive, somehow, maimed.

There were other stories.

Now, in that oddly high, accented voice he said, "Don't be clever, poet. I have little patience for cleverness."

"My apologies," said Sima Zian, and Tai had a sense he might mean it.

"Your being here limits my actions."

"For that," said the poet, calmly, "I must decline to apologize, my lord, if your actions were to be as you suggested."

Roshan leaned back in his seat. They couldn't see him any more. Tai looked to his right. The sun was setting, he had to squint. Wei Song was arranging their men in a defensive alignment. They had not yet drawn their weapons. Traffic had come to a halt. The tale of this encounter, he knew, would race ahead of them now. It would be in Xinan before him.

That was the reason he was acting as he was. But there was a risk of dying here, of others dying for him. If a celebrated poet had not been with them ...

From within the carriage he heard, "Son of Shen Gao, accept my sympathy for the passing of your honourable father. I knew of him, of course. I have journeyed two days from my own route to speak with you. I will not, for my own reasons, go back to that posting inn. They are not reasons you require to know. But if you enter my carriage, if you ... honour me by doing so ... I will begin by telling you what happened to a man you will be looking for, and show you a letter."

Tai registered the changed tone. He said, carefully, "That man would be?"

"His name is Xin Lun."