assume they went with her, at least some of them.”
Tai’s sister had gone to Xinan three years before, to serve the empress as a lady-in-attendance. A privilege granted to Shen Gao’s daughter. He needed to find out what had happened to Li-Mei. His older brother would know.
His older brother was an issue.
“That is indeed a change, as you said. What else must I know?”
Lin Fong reached for his tea cup, put it down. He said, gravely,
“You named the prime minister. That was an error. Alas, First Minister Chin Hai died last autumn.”
Tai blinked, shaken. He hadn’t been ready for this, at all. It felt for a moment as if the world rocked, as if some tree of colossal size had fallen and the fort was shaking with the reverberation.
Wei Song spoke up. “It is generally believed, though we have heard it suggested otherwise, that he died of an illness contracted with an autumn chill.”
The commander looked narrowly at her.
We have heard it suggested otherwise.
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
Tai’s sister had gone to Xinan three years before, to serve the empress as a lady-in-attendance. A privilege granted to Shen Gao’s daughter. He needed to find out what had happened to Li-Mei. His older brother would know.
His older brother was an issue.
“That is indeed a change, as you said. What else must I know?”
Lin Fong reached for his tea cup, put it down. He said, gravely,
“You named the prime minister. That was an error. Alas, First Minister Chin Hai died last autumn.”
Tai blinked, shaken. He hadn’t been ready for this, at all. It felt for a moment as if the world rocked, as if some tree of colossal size had fallen and the fort was shaking with the reverberation.
Wei Song spoke up. “It is generally believed, though we have heard it suggested otherwise, that he died of an illness contracted with an autumn chill.”
The commander looked narrowly at her.
We have heard it suggested otherwise.
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
Similar Books
