These could be called words of treason.
Commander Lin said nothing, however. It could never have been said that the army held any love for Emperor Taizu's brilliant, all-controlling first minister.
Chin Hai, tall, thin-bearded, thin-shouldered, famously suspicious, had governed under the emperor through a quarter-century of growing Kitan wealth and fabulous expansion. Autocratic, ferociously loyal to Taizu and the Celestial Throne, he'd had spies everywhere, could exile—or execute—a man for saying something too loudly in a wine shop, overheard by the wrong person.
A man hated and terribly feared, and possibly indispensable.
Tai waited, looking at the commander. Another name was coming now. Had to be coming.
Commander Lin sipped from his tea. He said, "The new first minister, appointed by the emperor in his wisdom, is Wen Zhou, of... of distinguished lineage." The pause was deliberate, of course. "Is his a name you might know?"
It was. Of course it was. Wen Zhou was the Precious Consort's cousin.
But that wasn't the thing. Tai closed his eyes. He was remembering a scent, green eyes, yellow hair, a voice.
"And if someone should ask me... should propose to make me his personal courtesan, or even a concubine?"
He opened his eyes. They were both looking at him curiously.
"I know the man," he said.
Commander Lin Fong of Iron Gate Fortress would not have named himself a philosopher. He was a career soldier, and had made that choice early in life, following older brothers into the army.
Still, over the years, he had come to realize (with proper humility) that he was more inclined to certain ways of thinking, and perhaps to an appreciation of beauty that went deeper in him than in most of his fellow soldiers—and then fellow officers—as he rose (somewhat) through the ranks from humble beginnings.
He enjoyed, among other things, civilized conversation so much. Sipping wine alone in his chamber late at night, Lin Fong acknowledged that a disturbing measure of what had to be called excitement was keeping him awake.
Shen Tai, the son of the late General Shen, was the sort of person Lin Fong would have wished to keep at Iron Gate for days or even weeks, such was the spark of the man's thinking and the unusual pattern of his life.
Their conversation over dinner had forced him to acknowledge, ruefully, how impoverished his daily routines and company were here.
He'd asked the man an obvious (to him) question. "You have now gone twice beyond the borders for extended periods. The ancient masters teach that danger to the soul lies in doing that." He had offered a smile, to take any sting or offence from the words.
"Some teach that. Not all."
"That is so," Lin Fong had murmured, gesturing to a servant to pour more wine. He was a little out of his depth when it came to variant teachings of the ancient masters. A soldier did not have time to learn these things.
Shen Tai had looked thoughtful, however, the oddly deep-set eyes revealing a mind working on the question. Courteously, he'd said, "The first time, commander, I was a very young officer. I went north among the Bogu because I was ordered there, that's all. I doubt, respectfully, you would have chosen to come to Iron Gate, had your wishes been considered."
So he had noticed! Fong had laughed a little self-consciously. "It is an honourable posting," he'd protested.
"Of course it is."
After a short silence, Fong had said, "I take your point, of course. Still, having been beyond the empire once without any choice of your own, the second time...?"
Unhurried, unruffled, a man of obvious breeding: "The second time I was honouring my father. That is why I went to Kuala Nor."
"There were no other ways to honour him?"
"I'm sure there were," was all Shen Tai said.
Fong had cleared his throat, embarrassed. He was too hungry for such exchanges, he'd realized, too starved for intelligent talk. It could make you cross social boundaries. He'd bowed.
This Shen Tai was a complex man, but he was leaving in the morning to pursue a life that was unlikely ever to bring the two of them into contact again. With reluctance, but an awareness of what was proper, the commander had turned the conversation to the matter of the Tagurans and their fortress north of the lake, what Shen Tai could tell him of that.
The Tagurans, after all, were within his present sphere of responsibility, and would be until he was posted elsewhere.
Some men seemed able to slide in and out of society. This man appeared to be one of them. Lin Fong knew that he himself was not, and never would be; he had too great a need for security, routines, for such uncertainty. But Shen Tai did make him aware that there were, or might be, alternative ways to live. It probably did help, he thought, to have had a Left Side Commander for a father.
Alone in his chamber later that night, he sipped his wine. He wondered if the other man had even noticed that they'd been drinking tea earlier, how unusual that was out here. It was a new luxury, just beginning to be taken up in Xinan, imported from the far southwest: yet another consequence of peace and trade under Emperor Taizu.
He had heard about the drink from correspondents and asked for some to be sent. He very much doubted the new custom had been adopted by many other commanders in their fortresses. He'd even ordered special cups and trays, paid for them himself.
He wasn't sure he liked the taste of the drink, even sweetened with mountain honey, but he did enjoy the idea of himself as a man in tune with court and city culture, even here on a desolate border where it was almost impossible to find a man worth talking to.
What did you do when faced with this as your life? You reminded yourself, over and again, that you were a civilized man in the most civilized empire the world had ever known.
Times were changing. The prime minister's death, the new first minister, even the nature and composition of the army—all these foreign troops now, so different from when Lin Fong had first enlisted. There were great and growing tensions among military governors. And the emperor himself, aging, withdrawing, with who knew what to follow? Commander Lin did not like change. It was a flaw in his nature, perhaps, but a man could cling to basic certainties to survive such a flaw, couldn't he? Didn't you have to do that?
There was only one private chamber for guests at Iron Gate.
The fort wasn't a place where distinguished visitors came. The trade routes were to the north. Jade Gate Pass, aptly named, guarded those and the wealth that passed through. That was the glamour posting in this part of the world.
The guest room was small, an interior chamber on the second level of the main building, no windows, no courtyard below. Tai regretted not having chosen to share a communal room where there might at least be air. On reflection, however, it hadn't been an option: you needed to make choices that reflected your status or you confused those dealing with you.
He'd had to take the private chamber. He was an important man.
He had blown out his candle some time ago. The chamber was hot, airless, black. He was having trouble falling asleep. His thoughts were of Chou Yan, who was dead.
There were no ghost-voices in the darkness here, only the night watch on the walls, faintly calling. There hadn't been ghosts in the canyon, either, the two nights he'd spent coming this way. He hadn't been used to that: stillness after sunset. He wasn't used to not seeing the moon or stars.
Or, if it came to that, to having a young woman just the other side of his door, on guard—at her absolute insistence—in the corridor.
He didn't need a guard here, Tai had told her. She hadn't even bothered to reply. Her expression suggested that she was of the view she'd been retained by a fool.