On the third day after returning from the frozen river, something happened to Batu.
Helü Tao brought the news.
He’d set out before dawn to deliver the new sheep-driving sticks to the winter pastures, but before noon he was racing back at full speed, his horse’s hooves clattering urgently against the stone-paved roads outside the royal city.
When he dismounted at the courtyard gate, his foot slipped and he nearly collided with the old Khan, who had just been about to step out.
Helü Tao grabbed the old Khan’s arm to steady him. Forgoing formalities and still gasping for breath, he blurted out that Batu had fallen through a hole in the ice.
The old Khan was still holding the tea bowl he hadn’t put down before leaving. The news made him slosh half the tea out of it. He immediately asked if the man was all right.
“He’s all right, and his leg’s not broken—but his boots filled up with ice shards. Right now he’s wrapped in blankets at the winter pasture, drinking ginger soup.
His mother dug out every dry piece of clothing she had and piled it on him. Halebala wouldn’t go into the tent to keep him company—said he smelled too much like ice.”
The old Khan set his tea bowl on the stone table, told Helü Tao to go handle his business at the stables first, then ride over and give a full report.
Xi Yu happened to be lifting the door curtain to hang some freshly dried wild chrysanthemums under the eaves. He paused at the mention of Batu’s name and turned to look at Que Zhi.
“The black horse is in the back courtyard. I’ll go get him. You go prepare warm clothes.” Que Zhi understood immediately.
Xi Yu went inside, quickly changed into a thick robe, tucked his dagger into the outside of his boot shaft,
and bent down to grab an extra pair of sheepskin winter boots. As he stepped out, he was carrying an extra steamer basket that the old cook had just taken out of the steaming rack—covered tightly, with a clean cotton cloth draped over the top.
The black horse ran faster than he did. Que Zhi swung up and pulled Xi Yu up behind him. Xi Yu straddled the horse behind Que Zhi, arms wrapped around his waist, the steamer basket held snugly between them. The horse’s hooves left a trail of deep prints across the snow.
Inside the felt tent at the winter pasture, a fire of dried cow dung burned. Batu had wrapped himself in old blankets like a stuffed dumpling, his left foot bare and propped on a low stool—his ankle was swollen, blue-black with cold.
His mother’s pounded herbal poultice was plastered over it, pale green juice trickling down along the ankle bone, leaving a dark, damp stain on the old felt covering the ground.
Helü Tao had arrived an hour earlier. He was squatting by the felt tent entrance, whittling a new sheep-driving stick with his dagger, a pile of wood shavings and two ruined branches already scattered at his feet.
When he saw them lift the tent flap and enter, he tucked the dagger back into his boot and jerked his chin toward Batu.
“There was a hidden hollow under the ice. He got lucky—only one leg went in.”
Que Zhi crouched down to examine Batu’s ankle, pressing his thumb gently against the swollen area.
Batu let out a sharp hiss of pain, beads of sweat surfacing almost instantly.
Que Zhi said it was a sprain—no bone damage. Ice it for two days, then apply the poultice.
“Where are your boots?” Xi Yu set the steamer basket by the fire, took off his gloves, and walked over to the low stool, bending down to look at his ankle.
“Ruined. When I stepped into that ice hole, the sole cracked right through. The shaft froze into a solid chunk of ice.
My mother put it by the fire to thaw so she could stitch it, but the needle broke after two stitches. She said that boot’s older than I am. I even swore brotherhood with it, and it still refuses to go out with me anymore.”
Batu smiled wryly, tapping his swollen ankle.
Xi Yu didn’t take up his joke.
He set the new pair of boots beside the low stool, then took out his own socks, knee pads, and a thick pair of wool leggings one by one from the bundle, laying them neatly next to the boots. Then he sat down beside Batu and lifted the steamer lid.
The aroma of lamb and scallion dumplings burst out along with the steaming heat from the cloth.
Batu stared at the plate of dumplings for a long moment, then said, “You made these? How do you know how to make this? When did you even have the time?”
“Made them last night. Heard you fell through the ice, figured you’d be stuck in this tent for a few days—your foot can’t move, but your mouth still can. I’ve made you porridge before. This time I thought I’d switch things up. Eat them while they’re hot—the lamb flavor gets heavier when they cool.”
Xi Yu’s tone was as ordinary as when he was reviewing documents.
Batu picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks, stuffed it into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out. As he chewed, his eyes reddened.
He said these were dumplings made by someone who’d traveled a thousand miles from home, a warm meal saved specially for him in this frozen wasteland—but he didn’t know how to thank him.
Xi Yu pushed the steamer basket another two fingers closer to him.
“Don’t thank me. Just eat.”
Then he pulled Batu’s slipping blanket back up over his shoulder, picked up the cracked old boot, and turned it over to examine it. Sure enough, there was a deep diagonal split in the sole.
Wool cord would be too stiff for mending, and the leather sole would easily crack again when walking outdoors. He said he’d take it back and have the old cook re-stitch it with an awl to make it solid again.
“Don’t bother fixing it—my father made those boots with his own hands when he was young. They’re older than I am. They deserve to retire.” Batu mumbled through a mouthful of dumpling, trying to stop him.
“Then keep them as a keepsake. Wear the new boots when you patrol the pastures from now on, and put the old ones away safely in the tent.”
Xi Yu wrapped the old boots in the bundle cloth and placed them under Batu’s felt bed. Then he picked up the wet gloves Batu had tossed by the fire, turned them over, and set them next to the brazier to dry.
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