The Nalan grasslands stretched nearly a thousand *li* east to west, and several hundred *li* north to south. The tribal settlement lay close to the foothills, seventy or eighty *li* from Li Chi’s camp. By the time Borijitai had ridden back, the sky had already gone dark, and to ride all the way back again felt genuinely grueling.

So Borijitai thought he would simply go first thing in the morning. The Tiehe people were all in camp — not as if they were going anywhere.

He stepped out and inquired with the guards posted outside the golden-topped tent, and they told him that the Tiehe envoy’s party was being received by Special Minister Getai, who was also responsible for keeping them under watch.

Borijitai smiled. *Keeping watch* was a generous term for it. And Getai was his father.

Special Minister was an official title within the steppe tribe hierarchy, carrying great authority. Getai was the Nalan Khan’s own younger brother — by Chu reckoning, the equivalent of a prince of the first rank.

The Nalan Khan had no sons, only four daughters. He had declared long ago that the succession would pass to Borijitai. However, by longstanding Nalan tradition, a Khan without male heirs passed the seat to his brother — which meant Getai.

—

Inside the great tent.

Special Minister Getai poured a cup of wine for Tiehe envoy Zhachaleng and smiled with practiced humility. “Please don’t take the Nalan Khan’s words to heart, Envoy. He is confused — he has not yet thought through where the advantage and disadvantage lie. Give him a little time, and he’ll see reason.”

Zhachaleng said, “Between us, a man like that sitting as Nalan Khan is a disaster for the Nalan. You are far more capable than he is. I’ve observed — the tribe holds you in great esteem as well.”

Getai quickly deflected. “My brother is the Nalan Khan. Every soul on this grassland is his.”

“And you have no desire to be Khan?” Zhachaleng leaned closer, smiling. “I am told your brother intends to pass the succession to your son — the young man I met just earlier. He doesn’t seem particularly shrewd to me. If he had any sense of proportion, he would understand — the Khan’s seat rightly belongs to you.”

Getai gave a bitter smile and said nothing.

Zhachaleng pressed on. “I brought six hundred of the finest Tiehe warriors with me. If you are willing, I and my warriors will answer to you alone. Not for your own sake — but for the sake of your hundreds of thousands of Nalan people. You know full well: if the Nalan resist, the Tiehe army will not march south against the Central Plains Chu people first. It will march against you.”

Getai’s eyes flickered visibly — unmistakably afraid.

—

Deep in the night.

Borijitai had just fallen asleep when a clamor woke him. He rubbed his eyes, rose, and stepped out of his tent — only to find torches blazing everywhere and people rushing in every direction.

“What’s happened!” He grabbed a passing man and demanded.

“The Khan — the Khan has been killed.”

Borijitai’s face went white. He sprinted toward the golden-topped tent. When he arrived, he found the Nalan Khan’s body laid out on a wooden frame. His father, Special Minister Getai, was standing beside the body, thundering out something in rage and grief.

“I swear — those Chu people will not be forgiven!”

Borijitai shoved through to his father and demanded to know what had happened. Zhachaleng, standing at Getai’s side, spoke with a grim calm: “Several Chu people slipped in and assassinated the Khan. My men detected it in time — and killed them.”

He pointed to a spot not far away. Five or six bodies lay on the ground.

“You should recognize them,” Zhachaleng said. “These are all Central Plains people. They are the ones who killed the Khan. A blood debt like this — I trust no one in the Nalan will pretend not to see it.”

Borijitai ran over and looked at the bodies. He recognized them — they were among the merchant party that had been permitted entry to the grasslands. These men had no martial training whatsoever. How could they possibly have assassinated the Khan?

Two days ago had been one of the permitted trading days. The permitted Central Plains merchants had entered the grasslands — perhaps four or five hundred of them — bringing large quantities of goods. By tradition, trading lasted five days, after which the Chu merchants were required to leave.

“Kill them all!”

Zhachaleng pointed into the distance, where several hundred Chu merchants had been bound and forced to kneel. They were shouting their innocence in every direction, but no one was listening.

At Zhachaleng’s cry, the Tiehe soldiers charged — one blow each — and cut down every kneeling Chu person where they knelt.

In an instant: blood, everywhere.

Zhachaleng’s voice rang out: “Slaughtering these Chu people disguised as merchants is not yet enough to avenge the Khan. We must ride to where the Chu people live, and kill their officials — only then will we have truly avenged him!”

Many had already been worked into a frenzy, waving their curved blades, crying for vengeance.

But Borijitai did not believe the story was so simple. He turned to look at his father.

Getai was standing over the Khan’s body, weeping.

Yet when Borijitai looked into his father’s eyes, he saw not only tears. He saw something else — something complicated.

He looked at the men clustered around his father: tribal leaders of high standing, men who almost certainly knew something more.

If he stood up now and confronted his father, confronted the Tiehe envoy — he would end up just like the man who had spoken out for him. His father might not have the heart to kill him, but he would be imprisoned.

The Nalan Khan had loved him like a true son. He could not allow the Khan’s death to go unavenged and unexplained.

He did not know who among the tribe he could still trust. It seemed the friend he had only just made was now his only option.

—

The night was vast and deep. Standing outside the camp, looking out over the distant grasslands, one could almost imagine some great, nameless beast lurking in that darkness, drawing slowly closer.

Jia Ruan — senior disciple of the Hanging Blade Sect — was startled by his own thought. He glanced down at his junior disciple, Zhen Gen, who was sitting beside him nodding off.

“Go and sleep,” he said, and gave the boy’s head a gentle ruffle.

Zhen Gen raised his face and looked at him, then shook his head with stubborn resolve. “I’ll keep watch with Senior Brother.”

Tonight was Senior Brother’s rotation. Zhen Gen hadn’t been assigned — but he felt he had to be here.

“Get back to your bedroll,” Senior Brother said with a smile. “If you sleep like that you’ll catch cold. It’s much chillier here at night than back in our town of Jingkou.”

Zhen Gen said, “Are you afraid, Senior Brother?”

“Not in the least,” said the senior disciple. “I’m the senior disciple — senior disciples have the biggest courage of all. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Junior disciples are the ones who get scared.”

Zhen Gen shook his head. “Senior Brother isn’t scared, so I’m not scared either. I’m afraid of… but I can’t say.”

Senior Brother burst out laughing.

At that moment he heard something — faint, from far away. He shot to his feet and stared across toward the grasslands. Whatever unnamed beast he had been imagining was now, it seemed, rushing rapidly toward him.

—

Half an hour later.

Tang Pidi looked at Li Chi. Li Chi understood what that look meant — he didn’t want Tang Pidi to go. But he said nothing, because Tang Pidi would go regardless.

“Perhaps because I lived on the steppe for a time, I understand these steppe men well,” Tang Pidi said. “When we say ‘we’re friends,’ it’s different from how we Central Plains people say it — half the time we say it only as polite phrasing. When I told him we were friends, I meant it. And when they say it — they mean it too.”

He said: “Earlier today I told him — if there’s anything he ever needs from me, come and find me. I will help. Do you know what the steppe people’s attitude toward a promise is? As long as the man is still breathing, the promise counts.”

He rose and looked at Yu Jiuling. “Ninth, help me into my armor.”

Yu Jiuling looked at Li Chi. Li Chi slowly exhaled, rose, and said, “As long as the man is still breathing, the promise counts.”

He held out both arms. “Help me into mine as well.”

Yu Jiuling’s eyes went wide. “Your wound hasn’t healed.”

“Even so,” Li Chi said, “there aren’t many people who could beat me.”

He looked to Jia Ruan, the Hanging Blade Sect’s senior disciple. “I’ll leave the camp to you.”

Jia Ruan drew himself to his full height. “Steppe men say a promised commitment will not be casually broken. So do the men of the Central Plains. I promised to protect your people. The Hanging Blade Sect’s brothers and sisters — we will guard that with our lives.”

Li Chi thought for a moment. “Give us one day. If we’re not back by then, take the women to the nearest county town.”

Tang Pidi turned to Li Chi and shook his head. “You should stay.”

Li Chi said, “You’ve been Borijitai’s friend since today. You’ve been my brother since long before that.”

He turned to face the camp.

A hundred elite cavalry stood armored, swords at their hips, mounted on their warhorses — ready for battle.

“You don’t have to come!” Tang Pidi called out.

The hundred men looked at one another, then drew their blades and beat them against their chest armor.

A volley of dense, rhythmic thuds — like war drums.

Gao Xining stood before those hundred cavalry and said, “They don’t have to listen to you. Because they are *my* soldiers.”

She turned to face them and called out: “Ride with them. Bring them back. Answer me the way I taught you!”

A hundred voices answered as one.

“Hoo!”

—