Batu’s acquaintance was an old sheepskin seller who lived near the mule and horse market in the south of the city.
At the fork in the road, he made plans with Xi Yu to explore the Royal City’s grand market together the next day, then drove his flock off cheerfully.
Only two people remained in the alley. Que Zhi watched Batu’s figure disappear into the dust kicked up by the mule market, then turned and headed down another road.
“This way.”
Xi Yu followed.
They didn’t go south. Instead, they doubled back to the main street and headed north along that broad flagstone-paved road.
The shops along both sides gradually thinned out, replaced by high walls and vermilion gates, with the upturned eaves of mansions and apricot trees leaning over the walls visible above. The further north they went, the fewer pedestrians there were, and the cleaner the road became—not even weeds grew between the flagstones. Occasionally, mounted patrol soldiers passed by, their horseshoes striking the stones with crisp clicks.
“You live around here?”
Xi Yu looked at the increasingly grand mansions ahead.
“When we passed that rundown alley earlier, you looked inside several times. I thought you lived in a place like that.”
“That alley used to house a weaponsmith. He made my first curved knife. Later, he moved away.”
He paused. “You thought I’d live in a place like that?”
“You’ve been forging iron, sleeping on sand, chewing dry rations, and not even flinching when rocks scrape your leg—you don’t look like someone with money.”
“I’m not someone with money either,” Que Zhi stopped before an enormous palace gate. “I just live in a rather large place.”
—
It was a palace.
More precisely, it was a palace complex built on the north side of the Royal City.
The palace walls were even taller than the city walls, built of whiter stone, gleaming with a faint blue-green sheen in the twilight. The palace gate stood wide open, flanked by guards in armor bearing halberds. When they saw Que Zhi approach, they all dropped to one knee simultaneously, right hands over their left chests, and murmured something in Shuo in unison.
Their voices were crisp, their armor clanking with the metallic rustle of kneeling.
Que Zhi replied in Shuo, his tone as flat as usual, then reached out and pulled Xi Yu—who was still standing outside the gate in a daze—inside.
His hand fell naturally on his shoulder, just as it had countless times before in the Gobi—helping him down from the camel, crossing rivers, dodging carriages. The heel of his palm pressed down gently, his fingertips resting against the hollow of his shoulder, guiding him forward with neither too much nor too little force, while his body angled to block the cold draft sweeping in through the gate.
Inside the palace gate, the ground was paved with polished bluestone—smoother and more lustrous than any stone Xi Yu had ever seen. Stone-carved argali stood on both sides of the passage, their horns spiraling into intricate coils, casting silent shadows in the dusk.
He looked down at his own boots, still flecked with grass clippings and sheep dung, leaving gray smudges on such pristine stone with every step. Suddenly, he felt out of place in this palace.
Que Zhi said nothing as they walked down that old palace path he had traversed countless times. He only slowed his pace, letting those peach-blossom eyes beneath the hat brim take in their fill a little longer.
“Que Zhi, isn’t there something you forgot to tell me?”
“What.”
“You live in the royal palace!”
“You’re the young master here!”
He said those four words in a calm tone—no rise, no pause—as if merely stating a fact. He had heard the words of Que Zhi’s subordinates and the old Khan on the grassland, and he had glanced several times into that rundown alley at the intersection. He hadn’t forgotten to ask—he was waiting for the right moment.
“You didn’t ask. In Liangzhou, you asked if I was from the royal court, and I said yes. You didn’t ask what I was in the royal court.”
“I thought you were at most a general with royal blood.”
Xi Yu’s tone suddenly shifted. He tossed his empty sleeve over his shoulder.
“And now you show me this. You should have told me earlier—then I could have bought you a more expensive wrist guard back in Liangzhou. The most valuable thing on you right now is a cheap piece—hardly befitting your status.”
“It fits. I’ve never cared about prices.”
“Are you upset?”
Xi Yu didn’t answer right away.
He remembered the news he’d heard in the Royal City—that the old Khan had only one child, the young master.
He also remembered the dry rations Que Zhi had shared in the Gobi, how he’d saved all the raisins for him without touching them himself by the oasis, how he’d taken off his own heavy cloak in the stone hut and wrapped him up like a silkworm cocoon. He truly had never cared about prices.
His fingers lingered on his back shoulder where Que Zhi had pressed—through the half-old blue robe, that faint pressure still clung to his skin like a branding iron.
“I’m not upset! You didn’t ask about my identity either.”
Lamps were gradually being lit within the palace walls. He lowered his hand from his shoulder, his empty sleeve swinging back to his side, and said softly: “Come on, lead the way. It’s your home—don’t get lost in the corridor.”
—
Beyond the passage lay a broad courtyard, with an extremely old poplar at its center—so thick that two people couldn’t wrap their arms around it, its canopy shading half the yard.
Beneath the poplar was a stone well, its rim deeply grooved by years of rope wear. On both sides of the courtyard ran covered walkways, with bronze lanterns hanging from the pillars—the tallow wicks already lit, casting layered pools of warm yellow light.
Xi Yu took it all in as he walked. Though it was a royal palace, it wasn’t particularly magnificent—just a bit more refined than an ordinary household.
Several servants in plain robes were adding oil to the lanterns beneath the eaves. When they saw Que Zhi, they all stopped their work, pressed their right hands to their left chests, bowed, and stepped back half a pace.
Their movements were quiet. The flames in the bronze lamps flickered, and occasionally a drop of oil splashed onto the bronze plate with a soft sizzle.
One of the older attendants stepped forward and spoke a few words to Que Zhi, his tone respectful but unhurried—as if he’d long known the young master would return in a few days.
After listening, Que Zhi turned to Xi Yu and said: “The Khan isn’t in the palace. He left for the northern hunting grounds three days ago and won’t be back for several days. He left word—that the person I’ve brought back is to be treated as a guest.”
His voice was flat, but the word “guest” lingered in his mouth for a beat, as if pronouncing it felt unfamiliar.
“How did your Khan know you were bringing someone back?”
“There are couriers in Liangzhou. He knew the day you entered the city.”
Que Zhi took a bronze lantern from the attendant and walked deeper into the corridor.
At the end of the covered walkway was a hanging-flower gate. Beyond it lay an independent courtyard, with several clumps of unknown shrubs planted in the yard. A thin layer of dust covered the stone steps—the mark of a place long uninhabited, but recently cleaned in advance.
He pushed open the carved wooden door of the main room. The furnishings were simple—a low couch, a wooden table with a teapot and two teacups already set out, and a new thick mattress laid over the bamboo mat.
In the corner stood a bronze crane lamp, freshly filled with oil, carrying a faint scent of pine resin.
“This is my courtyard. The one next door—” He pointed to another tightly shut door across the corridor. “Used to be my mother’s. It’s empty now. You’ll stay in this one.”
“This is your room. If I stay here, where will you stay?”
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