What Batu meant by “once we cross the ridge, you’ll see” was the direction of the royal court. But actually reaching the foot of the royal court took them another full day.
Xi Yu saw the Royal City at dusk several days later.
It wasn’t felt tents, wasn’t a river bend—it was a city.
The city walls were several times taller than those of Liangzhou, built of neat gray-white stone blocks. At intervals along the walls, blue banners stood erect, embroidered with totems he couldn’t read.
The city gate stood wide open, with a steady stream of caravans, herders, and mounted cavalry passing through—the clamor of camel bells and horse hooves mingling and echoing at the foot of the walls.
Outside the gate ran a broad moat, its water channeled down from the snowy mountains, so clear he could see the pebbles at the bottom.
The drawbridge was lowered across the moat, its surface paved with thick wooden planks that rumbled dully under the weight of wagon wheels.
“This is the Royal City?” He sat on his camel, tilting his head back to gaze at the walls, his hat slipping to the back of his head without his noticing. “Didn’t you say there were no walls?”
“Outside the royal court, there are no walls. The Royal City has them.”
Que Zhi had also stopped. He looked at the blue banners on the walls, a faint ripple passing through his eyes.
“The royal court is where the Khan’s tent is—moving with water and grass. The Royal City is the capital of Shuo. The Khan winters here to escape the cold and returns to the grasslands in spring. Now that autumn is here, the Khan should still be in the city. What you called felt tents—”
He turned to look at Xi Yu. “That’s the summer camp. Winter in the city, spring back to the grasslands. That’s the Shuo way.”
Batu caught up from behind, driving his flock. As a Shuo herder, he was clearly no stranger to the Royal City. He showed no surprise at the walls at all—instead, pointing at the caravan queue at the gate, he said proudly: “I told you the royal court was big—see, see? I wasn’t lying. The first time I came here, I thought the whole grassland had moved into the city.”
The herder pulled a wrinkled entry permit from his robe, explaining that they needed this to enter—if they didn’t have one, they’d have to queue up at the side to get it processed. He asked if they had theirs.
For Xi Yu, this was unfamiliar territory—his identity wasn’t something one applied for; it was etched into him from the moment of birth.
Xi Yu dismounted from his camel, rummaged through his bundle, and pulled out the travel permit Old Zhou had left him.
The paper had softened, its corners frayed and fuzzy from repeated folding and handling—the last trace Old Zhou had left on that half-filled page.
He handed the permit to the guard at the gate, his face calm beneath the brim of his hat.
The soldier glanced at the permit, then at his face, and asked in halting Chinese where he had come from and what he was doing in Shuo.
“Jiangnan. Traveling.”
The soldier gave him another look, asked no further questions, stamped the permit with an unreadable seal, and waved him through.
He walked through the city gate, his boots landing on the thick wooden planks of the drawbridge. Ahead lay the Royal City’s main street, paved with flagstones, several times wider than Liangzhou’s dirt roads.
The street was crowded not only with Shuo people, but also with Persian merchants wrapped in turbans, Central Plains traders in silks, Gaochang horse dealers leading camels, and even a few dark-skinned monks from Tianzhu begging at street corners.
The robes, languages, and scents of all kinds of people mingled together like a boiling stew.
The air was thick with a blend of spices and roasted meat, mixed with the smell of livestock, the aroma of freshly baked flatbread, and the sour tang of tanned leather from the cobbler’s shops.
The shops along the street stood shoulder to shoulder—selling furs, curved knives, silverware, and medicinal herbs. From beneath the porch pillars, the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith’s hammer rang out, while at the tailor’s entrance hung a half-finished wool tapestry, with streaks of indigo and ochre dye seeping along the cracks between the flagstones like tiny streams.
He stood in the middle of the main street, carried forward a few steps by the flow of the crowd, and suddenly let out a laugh.
Que Zhi asked what he was laughing at. Xi Yu said that when he’d first left Liangzhou, he’d thought Liangzhou was the Western Regions. Then after walking the sheep trails for days, he’d thought the felt tents on the grassland were all there was.
But here was something even bigger—larger than Liangzhou, larger than the Western Regions depicted in books.
Xi Yu used his fingers to frame a rectangle in the air, enclosing the blacksmith’s shop across the street, the spice stall beside it, and the distant gate tower flying blue banners.
He said he was never trusting Que Zhi’s descriptions of “Northern Shuo” again—his “Northern Shuo” was too modest. Every time, he only told a small part, hiding the rest for Xi Yu to discover on his own.
“Don’t you like discovering things slowly?” Que Zhi turned slightly in the crowd, shielding Xi Yu from an oncoming carriage with his shoulder.
Batu caught up from behind. His sheep had been held up at the gate for a long inspection—his herding staff nearly confiscated as a weapon—but in the end, they’d let him through. He drove his flock to a temporary pen at the foot of the city wall, paid a few copper coins for the herding fee, and lingered reluctantly, saying a long goodbye to Khalbala. Then he dusted the dry grass clippings off his hands and ran after them, shouting: “Wait for me—I’m hungry!”
“You’re hungry? Go find your father,” Xi Yu said, glancing back. “Didn’t you say your Helian tribe has acquaintances here?”
“We do, but they don’t necessarily feed me. I’ll stick with you guys—you look like you know how to eat well.”
Que Zhi didn’t object.
He walked through the Royal City’s streets, his steps different from usual—not faster, but heavier. Every turn was an old path, every crack in the walls held traces of his boyhood climbs and leaps. But now he wasn’t navigating—he was watching the person beside him, who could savor even a freshly baked flatbread, trying to turn these streets and walls into his memories.
They crossed the main street and turned into a narrower but livelier alley.
Both sides of the alley were lined with eateries—steaming baskets stacked taller than a man, whole roasted sheep hanging at the doorways, their fat dripping onto charcoal with a sizzle.
But Que Zhi slowed his pace at a side path mid-alley. The mouth of the lane was dim, carrying the mingled scent of medicinal herbs and aged dust. The shopfronts were low and worn, their signs crooked and faded—as if they belonged to an entirely different city.
He glanced inside, his gaze passing over several half-closed wooden doors, then withdrew and continued walking.
At some point, Batu had sidled up to Xi Yu and whispered that from the moment they’d entered the city, Brother Que Zhi had steadied him four times—first on the drawbridge, second past the carriage, third dodging a camel, and fourth right here at the alley entrance. He hadn’t even been about to fall, but Que Zhi had steadied him anyway—it was a habit.
Xi Yu’s eyes curved into a smile. He raised his voice toward the figure already several steps ahead: “Que Zhi, did you count? Four times.”
Que Zhi didn’t turn back, but his steps slowed by half a beat. “Only counting the bare minimum.”
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