"No," said the officer below him. "Not so. Not until Wen Zhou comes out to us. Stand aside, son of Shen Gao, if you will not come down. We have no quarrel with the man who went to Kuala Nor, but you must not be in our way."

Had this been a younger man, Tai would later think, what followed might have been different. But the officer, however low-ranking, had clearly been a soldier for a long time. He'd have had companions, friends, at Teng Pass, and he would have, just this moment, learned what happened there.

The dui dui commander gestured towards the door. commander gestured towards the door.

More arrows struck, all together, loudly. They had to sound like a hammer blow inside, Tai thought. A hammering from the changed world. He thought of Jian, more than any of the others in there, even the emperor. He wasn't sure why.

"Come out to us, or we will come for you," the officer shouted. "First Minister Wen, commander of the armies of Kitai, your soldiers are waiting! We have questions that must be answered."

Must be. From an officer of fifty men to the first minister of Kitai. Tai wondered how the sun was climbing in the sky, how birdsong sounded as it always did. From an officer of fifty men to the first minister of Kitai. Tai wondered how the sun was climbing in the sky, how birdsong sounded as it always did.

The door to the posting station opened.

Wen Zhou, whom he hated, came out.

LONG YEARS AFTER, when that rebellion was another part of the past-a devastating part, but over with, and receding-the historians charged with examining records (such as remained from a disjointed time) and shaping the story of those days were almost unanimous in their savage writings as they vied to recount the corrupt character (from earliest childhood!) and the foul treachery of accursed An Li, more commonly known as Roshan.

Virtually without exception, for hundreds of years, Roshan was painted in text after text as the grossest possible figure, pustulent, oozing with depraved appetite and ambition.

In these records, it was generally the view that only the heroic and wise first minister, Wen Zhou, had seen through the vile barbarian's dark designs-almost from the first-and done all he could to forestall them.

There were variations in the writings, complicated by certain aspects of the records, and by the need (until later dynasties) not to be at all critical of the Great and Glorious Emperor Taizu himself.

Accordingly, the most common explanation of the events at the outset of the An Li Rebellion involved incompetence and fear among the generals and officers assigned with defending Teng Pass-and Xinan, behind it. A certain General Xu Bihai, an otherwise inconsequential figure, was routinely described with contempt as physically infirm and a coward.

This solution to the problem of explaining what happened was obvious, given that official historians are civil servants and serve at the court of any dynasty-and can readily be dismissed, or worse.

It would have been deeply unwise to imply, let alone assert, any error or failing on the part of heaven's emperor, or his duly appointed ministers. Easier, and safer, to turn one's gaze and calligraphy to the soldiers.

The handsome, aristocratic, preternaturally wise first minister was also, of course, part of a legendary tragedy, one embraced by both the common people and the artists of Kitai-and this, too, surely played a role in the shaping of official records.

When the desire of the court and the tales of the people meld with the vision of great artists, how should any prudent chronicler of the past set himself to resist?

THE FIRST MINISTER, showing no sign of unease, stopped at the front of the porch, above the three steps leading to the yard.

It left him, Tai thought, looking disdainfully down on the dui dui commander and the soldiers. Wen Zhou had had no real choice but to come out, but this encounter needed care, and part of that, surely, was to make clear the gulf, wider than the Great River in flood, between himself and those below. commander and the soldiers. Wen Zhou had had no real choice but to come out, but this encounter needed care, and part of that, surely, was to make clear the gulf, wider than the Great River in flood, between himself and those below.

Tall and magnificent, Zhou looked out into the sunlight of the yard. He was dressed for riding: no court silk, but perfectly fitted cloth and leather. Boots. No hat. He often disdained a hat, Tai remembered, from days in Long Lake Park, seeing him at a distance.

A much greater distance than this.

Zhou extended an arm and swept it, one finger extended, in a slow, wide arc across the inn yard. He said, his voice imperious, "Each man here has forfeited his life for what has just been done. The officers must be executed first."

"No," murmured Sima Zian, under his breath. "Not that way."

Wen Zhou went on, "But our infinitely merciful emperor, mindful that these are difficult times for ordinary men to understand, has elected to let this moment pass, as if it were the troublesome behaviour of small children. Put away your weapons, form ranks. No punishment will be visited upon any of you. Await orders when we come out. You will be needed in defending Kitai."

And he turned, amazingly, to go back inside without waiting to see what they did, as if it were inconceivable that anything other than immediate compliance could take place.

"No," said the dui dui commander. commander.

Tai could see that it cost him a great deal to say that single word. The man was perspiring in the sunlight, though the morning was mild.

Wen Zhou turned. "What did you say?" he asked. His voice and manner, Tai thought, could freeze a soul.

"I think you heard me," the officer said. Two others came to stand with him. An archer and one of his officers of ten.

"I heard treason," said Wen Zhou.

"No," said one of the archers. "We have learned of treason just now!"

"Why was the army ordered out of Teng Pass?" cried the grey-bearded commander, and Tai heard pain in his voice.

"What?" snapped Zhou. "Will the heavens crack above us? The sun fall? Are common soldiers asking questions of the Ta-Ming now?"

"They didn't have to fight!" cried the dui dui commander. "Everyone knows it!" commander. "Everyone knows it!"

"And you are fleeing from Xinan, leaving it to Roshan!" shouted the archer, a small, fierce figure. "Why was any any of this done?" of this done?"

"They say you gave those orders directly!" the officer of ten said.

First hesitation in Wen Zhou, Tai saw. His mouth was dry again. He didn't move. He couldn't move.

Zhou drew himself up. "Who says such a thing?"

"Those who rode with you have told us!" cried the archer. "Your own guards heard it on the ride!"

Tai turned to Sima Zian. The poet's face was stricken. Tai wondered how he looked himself. He heard Wen Zhou again. "This encounter is over. Soldiers! Take custody of these three men. Your dui dui commander is relieved of his post. Bind them and hold them for execution when we come out. Kitai will commander is relieved of his post. Bind them and hold them for execution when we come out. Kitai will fall fall if such chaos is permitted! Soldiers of the Second Army, do as you are ordered." if such chaos is permitted! Soldiers of the Second Army, do as you are ordered."

No man moved in the inn yard.

A flurry of wind stirring the dust. Birdsong again, and always.

"No. You must answer us," said the archer. His voice had altered. Tai heard Song draw a breath behind him. He saw Wen Zhou look down into the inn yard with the withering, lifelong contempt a man such as he would have for those below. He turned, to go back inside.

And so the arrow that killed him struck from behind.

Sima Zian, the Banished Immortal, master poet of the age, who was there that day at the Ma-wai posting inn, never wrote a word about that morning.

A thousand other poets, over centuries, did take those events as a subject, beginning with the death of Wen Zhou. Poets, like historians, have many reasons for varying or amending what might have taken place. Often they simply do not know the truth.

Before the prime minister fell, there were five arrows in him.

The bowmen of the Second Army would not let one of their number carry the burden of this deed alone.

By the time the poems of lament were in full spate, like a river, some versifiers had twenty-five arrows (with night-black feathers) protruding from the first minister's back as he lay in his red blood upon the porch: poets straining for pathos and power, oblivious to the excesses of their images.

Tai stepped forward. His swords remained sheathed. His hands were shaking.

"No, my lord!" cried Song. "Shen Tai, please. Hold!"

And, "Hold!" echoed the dui dui commander below, eyeing him narrowly, visibly afraid. Frightened men were dangerous. commander below, eyeing him narrowly, visibly afraid. Frightened men were dangerous.

Tai saw that the man's hands were also trembling. The commander stood alone now, exposed in the dusty inn yard. The archer was no longer beside him, nor his officer. They had withdrawn, blending back in with their fellows. Tai was quite sure he could recognize the archer, the man who'd fired first.

The bowmen in the yard all had arrows to string. So, he saw, glancing back, did Song and the other Kanlins. They stepped forward to surround him. They would be killed before he was.

"This must stop!" he cried, a little desperately.

He pushed forward, past Song. He looked down at the dui dui commander. "You know, surely you know it must stop." commander. "You know, surely you know it must stop."

"You know what he did," said the commander. His voice was harsh with strain. "He sent all those men-an army!-to their deaths, left Xinan open to ruin, and only because he feared for himself if the officers in the pass decided he'd caused this rebellion."

"We can't know that!" cried Tai. He felt weary and sick. And afraid. There was a dead man beside him, and the emperor was inside.

"There was no reason for our army to leave the pass! That one there sent the order in the middle of the night, with the half-seal. He gave it himself! Ask those who escorted you here."

"How do you know know this?" cried Tai. "How would they know?" this?" cried Tai. "How would they know?"

And the officer in the inn yard below, not a young man, said then, quietly, "Ask the prince you came here with."

Tai closed his eyes, hearing that. He felt suddenly as if he might fall. Because it fit. It made a terrible, bitter kind of sense. The prince would be readying himself to take command now, with a full-fledged war upon them and his father so frail. And if the prime minister was the one who had created this sudden nightmare ...

They had seen Shinzu ride ahead in the darkness on the road, to join the escort from the Second Army, speak with them.

A man's actions could have unexpected consequences, sometimes; they could come back to haunt you, even if you were a prime minister of Kitai. Also, perhaps, if you were a prince of Kitai.

Tai opened his eyes, found himself unable to speak just then. And so, instead, he heard, in that bright, clear morning light near Ma-wai and its blue lake, another man do so, from among the gathered soldiers, lifting his voice. "One more must die now, or we will all be killed."

Tai didn't understand, not at first. His immediate thought was, You are all going to die, in any case You are all going to die, in any case.

He didn't say it. He was too shaken to speak. Very near him, blood slowly spreading on the wooden porch, lay Wen Zhou.

"Oh, please, no," said Sima Zian, barely a breath. "Not this."

Tai remembered that, too. That it was the poet who realized first what was happening.

He turned quickly to look at the other man, then wheeled back to the courtyard.

And with a sorrow that never left him, that lay in memory, in his days forever after, as powerful, in its way, as the terrible images of the Bogu by the northern lake, Tai saw the soldiers step forward, together, well trained, and he heard the one who had just spoken speak again, and this man-whose face Tai never properly saw, among seventy or so of them-said, very clearly, "He was prime minister for only one reason. All Kitai knows it! We will be slain in vengeance-by her. She destroyed the emperor's will with her dark power and has brought us all to this, through her cousin. She must come out to us, or this cannot end."

Dancer to the music. Bright as morning light. Lovely as green leaves after rain, or green jade, or the Weaver Maid's star in the sky when the sun goes down.

CHAPTER XXV.

"This will not happen!" said Tai.

He said it as forcefully as he could, feeling a frantic need to push back against where the morning had now gone.

A trickle of perspiration slid down his side. Fear was in him, a twisting thing. He said, "She was working to control her cousin. Wen Zhou had even tried to kill me, at Kuala Nor. She was gathering information on that. Against him!"

He felt ashamed, telling soldiers this, but the moment was surely beyond shame, or privacy.

Hidden among the others, the archer (he would remember the voice) shouted, "This family has destroyed Kitai, driven us to civil war! As long as she lives they will poison us!"

That was clever, a part of Tai was thinking. A moment ago it had been about their own safety, those who had killed Wen Zhou-now it was something else.

"Bring her out," said the dui dui commander. commander.

Tai felt like cursing him. He held back. This was not a time to let anger overwhelm. He said, as calmly as he could, "I am not going to allow another death. Commander, control your men."

The man shook his head. "I will. But after the Wen family poison is purged from among us. Our companions were sent out from Teng Pass. Will you measure two against so many? You have been a soldier. You know how many men are dead there. Does not the Ta-Ming invoke execution when someone in power has erred so greatly?"

"She is only a woman. A dancer." He was dissembling now, but desperate.

"And women have never shaped power in Kitai?"

Tai opened his mouth and closed it. He stared at the man below.

A twist of the officer's mouth. "I sat the examinations twice," he said. "Studied eight years before accepting that I would never pass them. I know some things about the court, my lord."

Tai would wonder about this later, too. If the world as it went forward from that day might have been otherwise had another leader and his fifty men been shifted to the northern route from the congested highway to Xinan.

There are always branches along paths.

"I will not permit this," Tai said again, as coldly as he could.

The commander gazed up at him. He didn't look triumphant or vengeful, Tai thought. The man said, almost regretfully, "There are ... eight of you? We have better than seventy men. Why would you wish to kill your Kanlins, or yourself? Do you not have tasks in the war upon us now?"

Tai shook his head, aware again of anger. He fought it. The man was telling only truth. Tai could kill a great many people with the wrong thing said or done here. Even so: "I have no task greater than stopping this. If you wish to move into that posting station, you will have to kill me and my guards, and deprive Kitai of two hundred and fifty Sardian horses."

He was willing to play that card, too.

There was a short silence.