“Nothing. I was just thinking about the man in the hat at the inn entrance. Back then, you didn’t talk, you didn’t look at anyone, and you’d sit outside all afternoon with a cup of cold tea, like a plant left in the shade.”
“I’m not a plant.” Xi Yu tossed the cloth at him, hitting Que Zhi square in the chest.
Que Zhi caught the cloth, said nothing, and folded it neatly on a stone. He picked up the waterskin and handed it to Xi Yu, gesturing for him to drink.
Xi Yu took the waterskin, had a couple of sips, and handed it back. The motion was so natural it seemed like he’d done it a thousand times.
In eighteen years at the palace, he’d learned one thing—when someone gives you something, you give it back.
But Que Zhi never made him return anything.
The cloth was still folded neatly on the stone. Xi Yu had thrown it over, Que Zhi hadn’t given it back, and he hadn’t asked for it.
—
The next day, they spotted a camel caravan on the trade route.
It was more magnificent than any caravan they’d seen on the Gobi. Camels stretched from the foot of the mountain all the way to the bend in the valley, laden with silk, tea, porcelain, and lacquerware. The camel bells clanged and jingled in a chorus, as if the entire valley were ringing like a bell.
The merchants driving the camels wore turbans, their skin darkened by the sun, shouting to each other in dialects they couldn’t understand. Their voices echoed through the valley.
Xi Yu sat atop his camel, utterly transfixed.
He tugged at Que Zhi’s reins. “Those people aren’t leading camels—they’re leading oxen. See that? Those long-haired oxen.”
“Yaks. The people at the foot of the snowy mountains use them to carry heavy loads.”
“Their fur is so long, it drags on the ground.”
Xi Yu tilted his head, watching a yak lumber slowly past his camel. The yak turned its head and gave him a look, blowing a puff of white vapor from its nostrils.
Xi Yu paused, then laughed, mimicking the yak by puffing out a breath of his own. His laughter scattered in the air, mingling with the sound of the bells.
Que Zhi watched him trade puffs of white breath with the yak, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Want to touch it?”
“No. It doesn’t look like it wants anything to do with me.”
—
On the first night of traveling the trade route, they stayed at a relay station.
It was a relay station in name only—really just a row of rammed-earth houses built in a sheltered part of the valley. A crooked flagpole stood at the entrance, flying a faded cloth banner with the character for “post” written in both Han and Western-region scripts.
The courtyard wall was made of piled gravel, low and barely enough to block the wind.
Several merchant caravans were already staying in the yard. Camels were tethered along the base of the wall, and the merchants had lit fires to cook, filling the air with the smell of spices and burning dried dung.
The innkeeper was an old man with graying hair, his skin tanned to a dark brown by the plateau sun. He spoke with a thick accent, but his Han Chinese was just understandable.
He said he’d run this relay station for thirty years, and had seen tribute-bearing envoys, soldiers heading home, and eloping couples pass through.
As he fed dried dung into the stove, he sized up Xi Yu and Que Zhi with cloudy eyes.
“You two—from the Central Plains?”
Xi Yu nodded.
The old man asked again: “What is he to you?”
Xi Yu glanced at Que Zhi.
Que Zhi was crouched in a corner of the yard, helping to unload the camel’s saddle. His dark blue robe flapped loudly in the wind, his curved saber hung at his waist, and he didn’t look up.
Xi Yu turned back to the old man, his peach-blossom eyes curving slightly. “A traveling companion I met on the road. We’re heading west together, since we’re going the same way.”
The old man gave a noncommittal “Oh” and didn’t press further, but a glint of cunning flickered in his small, wrinkle-surrounded eyes.
He handed the room key to Xi Yu, then used the key to point toward Que Zhi in the corner of the yard. “That traveling companion of yours—he’s no ordinary man.”
“This afternoon, he helped me move the fodder. He carried three times as much as anyone else in a single load. These old bones of mine have seen plenty of people. The way he looks at you—that’s not how you look at a travel companion.”
Xi Yu took the key, his ears warming slightly, but he didn’t lower his head.
He dropped his gaze for a moment, then raised it again, looking at the old man with the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. His voice was light, as if he were commenting on how mild the evening breeze was, yet it landed with precision: “Then what does it look like to you?”
The old man hadn’t expected such a quick retort. He paused, then burst out laughing, waving his hands and saying he was too old to meddle in young people’s affairs.
Xi Yu turned and walked toward the room. After two steps, just out of the old man’s sight, he let out a quiet breath and clenched the key in his palm.
That night, the merchants gathered around a campfire in the yard, drinking and chatting. One caravan from Daliang had drunk too much and started talking about border affairs.
A burly man with a full beard held up his wine bowl, his voice loud enough for the entire yard to hear: “I hear there’s going to be another fight up north. The Helian tribe’s cavalry crossed the border twice this spring already and raided three villages. The court said they’d send more troops—that was two years ago. Where are the troops? Not a single ghost in sight.”
Another merchant chimed in: “You’re talking about the area north of Jincheng? That’s not really Daliang territory anyway. The Helian tribe and Daliang have been fighting for decades—the border changes every year. This year it’s yours, next year it’s theirs. Now the Shuo Kingdom—they’re the ones who’ve stayed steady.”
Helian tribe. Xi Yu’s hand paused on his flatbread at the unfamiliar name.
He leaned closer to Que Zhi and lowered his voice: “What’s the Helian tribe?”
“A tribe on the grasslands. Fierce warriors. They were once vassals to Northern Shuo, then rebelled. Now they roam between the Shuo Kingdom and Daliang, answering to no one.” He tossed a piece of dried dung into the fire. “Want to hear more?”
“Yes.” Xi Yu nodded.
Que Zhi set the fire poker aside beside the stone stove and brushed the dust off his hands.
“From Jincheng northward, between the desert and the grasslands, there’s a long stretch of pasture—rich in water and grass, good for grazing on both sides.”
“The Helian tribe’s ancestors were originally vassals of the Shuo Khan’s court. But they didn’t want to stay vassals, so they led their people away and took that pasture. They fight both sides, and they pledge allegiance to both sides too—whoever offers more, they listen to for the time being. The thing is, that place is strategically critical. Whether Shuo moves south or Daliang moves north, if they’re going by land, they can’t go around it. Can’t go around—so they fight. Can’t win—so they negotiate.”
“But there’s this snowy mountain range between the Central Plains and Shuo. Would soldiers have to cross the mountains to fight?”
Xi Yu blinked up at Que Zhi.
Que Zhi looked back at him, paused briefly, then continued.
“This trade route you’re on now—it used to be a military supply route. And not just this one. There are routes curving around from the south, crossing the desert from the north, and mountain passes that stay snowed in all year. But no matter which one you take, you have to pass through Helian territory.” He turned over the dung in the fire, and sparks crackled upward.
“Those people you saw crossing the Gobi—they carried wounds that couldn’t have been made by a blacksmith. You said that yourself. North of the snowy mountains, it’s even less peaceful than the Gobi.”
He looked up. The firelight flickered across his face, but his amber eyes were serious:
“We keep heading west tomorrow. Stay close to me.”
Leave a Reply