Chapter Six: Meeting the Sogdian Merchant at Sunset, Astonishing Tang Yi at Nightfall

In the thirteenth year of Jian'an, a lone wolf howled across the wilderness, the blood moon rose over the desert. On the fourteenth day of the eighth month, just after Shen hour and approaching You hour.

Beyond the capital of Jian'an, the wind that had traveled a thousand miles finally halted upon the endless yellow sands and stony wasteland. In the lingering light of the desert sunset, scattered poplar trees stood proud and solitary. Occasionally, the wind whipped up sand and gravel, striking them with the ancient and mysterious language of the desert—hoarse, yet sacred.

South of Jian'an, at the Xuanle Gate, two squads of the Northern Guard cavalry, clad in black armor, watched the nearby crowd with vigilance. The iron spears in their hands glinted coldly.

The crowd was clearly refugees from outside the Pingjin Pass—each person was ragged, with sallow skin stretched over bones.

“Officer, please, have mercy and let us inside,” pleaded an elderly man, his face etched with hope as he stepped forward beneath the Xuanle Gate.

“Halt! The Marquis of the North has ordered: Turki marauders are rampant beyond Pingjin Pass. To prevent enemies from sneaking into the city among the refugees, all four gates of Jian'an are forbidden to admit any refugees. Violators will be executed without mercy,” barked Zhao Tianxi, a captain among the Northern Guard. His face betrayed no hint of compassion or emotion.

Indeed, the old man had barely taken two steps when the cold steel of the spears met him, the tips nearly pressing against his throat.

“Back!” Zhao Tianxi said in a low voice. The spears withdrew, but the old man trembled as if caught in a sieve. Luckily, two more from the refugees stepped forward to support him back.

“You hour is here. Shut the city gates,” Zhao Tianxi commanded coldly. Just then, a melodious flute sounded.

Zhao Tianxi frowned and looked up; a caravan of camels was approaching the Xuanle Gate at a leisurely pace, accompanied by the flute’s mournful song.

It was a merchant caravan from the western lands.

Upon closer inspection, Zhao Tianxi realized this was not so. The foremost camel bore a man who was playing a seven-holed jade flute—the source of the music.

Zhao Tianxi hesitated, waved his hand, and the Northern Guard, who had been about to close the gate, paused.

As the camels drew nearer, the flute’s tune became clearer, mingling with the tinkling of camel bells, filling the desert with a sorrowful melody.

When the caravan arrived, Zhao Tianxi looked up and, recognizing the newcomer, was startled. He had not expected him.

The man atop the camel had glossy black hair cascading over his shoulders, his indigo robe fluttering in the wind. His features were sharp and chiseled as if sculpted from stone, his pale red lips seeming both cold and passionate. A white wool cloak was draped carelessly over his shoulders, exuding a sense of freedom.

Most remarkable of all, a bird sat calmly upon his shoulder—like a white-capped warbler, yet clearly not.

“Brother Mi, it’s been a long time,” Zhao Tianxi said, smiling for once, brushing the sand from his armor as he spoke.

The man atop the camel was none other than Mi Zige, eldest son of the famed Mi family in Jian'an.

The Mi family dealt in medicinal herbs, running a shop devoted to healing.

“Brother Zhao, I have returned,” Mi Zige said as he jumped down from the camel, put away his jade flute, and clasped his hands in greeting.

“How was your journey to Yangzhou, Brother Mi? Did you have the chance to see the famed lean horses of Yangzhou in spring?” Zhao Tianxi joked, rare for him.

He knew Mi Zige had traveled to the south, for half a year ago Mi Zige had left Jian'an through this very gate.

Mi Zige’s expression darkened, a hint of sorrow flickered in his eyes. He glanced at the cloth bag tied to the camel, his lips moved but he said nothing.

After a moment’s silence, Mi Zige handed over his travel permit.

Zhao Tianxi glanced at it: the applicant was Mi Zige, a citizen of the Great Zhou, native to Jian'an. His caravan consisted of seventeen camels, fourteen attendants, and two sheep, carrying goods such as lingzhi, mountain ginseng, deer antler, and other valuable medicinal herbs.

The permit was in order, but the fourteen attendants were all high-nosed, deep-eyed, with brown hair and yellow-gray eyes—not people of Zhou.

Zhao Tianxi watched them closely; each wore tight trousers and pointed shoes, all foreigners. He noticed their faces were tense, their right hands unconsciously reaching for their waists—a nervous gesture.

That motion was all too familiar to Zhao Tianxi—it was the posture of someone ready to draw a blade.

Mi Zige noticed Zhao Tianxi’s unease and smiled. “On my return from Yangzhou, I came across these men from Dayue. Their caravan was scattered by sandstorms, so I took them in. They've been helpful along the way.”

Relations between Dayue and Great Zhou were generally good, and the Mi family was a prominent house in Jian'an, so Zhao Tianxi let it pass, assuming the foreigners were simply unsettled by the military presence.

Previously, merchant caravans entering the city had their papers and goods inspected by city officials. With the lantern festival approaching, the Northern Guard had taken over security.

“Sir, there’s something unusual,” whispered a soldier of the Northern Guard.

With a swift motion, the cavalry surrounded the caravan.

Zhao Tianxi’s face hardened, his right hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he approached.

One camel bore a wooden crate packed with countless insect corpses, each the size of a fingernail, black and glossy.

Zhao Tianxi frowned; these were not listed on the travel permit.

Mi Zige explained calmly, “These insects are called Cold Robes. They dispel cold and dampness. I brought them specially for my family, not as goods.”

Zhao Tianxi’s frown remained, but his hand left the hilt of his blade.

Mi Zige unfastened a purse from his waist and handed it to Zhao Tianxi. “The Turki have been causing trouble lately; these poor people suffer. Please, Brother Zhao, use this silver to buy them some food. The rest is for you to enjoy a drink.”

Zhao Tianxi weighed the purse—it contained at least forty or fifty taels of fine silver, enough for three years’ wages.

After a moment’s hesitation, Zhao Tianxi dipped a brush into cinnabar and marked the permit with the character for ‘approval.’

Entry to the market was granted.

Within the market, Mi Zige led the caravan slowly inward.

East, south, west, and north each had a broad lane lined with shops and businesses.

At the hour of You, all shops save for their signboards were shut, but the bamboo racks above the doors were adorned with lanterns.

This was preparation for the lantern festival two days hence; from proprietors to errand boys, all were eager for the coming rush.

Jian'an boasted seventy-two wards, thirteen streets north to south, seventeen streets east to west.

All eating, drinking, entertainment, lodging, and commerce had to be conducted within the wards.

There was a nightly curfew; only during the lantern festival could one roam at night.

Mi Zige’s caravan passed the Celadon Shop, crossed Mushan Street to the west, and settled in the Pomegranate Lane of the southwest, at the Tian Si Depot.

Zhao Tianxi ordered the Northern Guard to close the Xuanle Gate and headed straight for the Six Gates Bureau.

The Divine Marquis, Zhuge Changqing, sat in the back hall, weighing a purse in his hand. The sound of silver clinking was singular.

It was the purse Mi Zige had given as a bribe to Zhao Tianxi.

“The fish is in the net; let’s see how it thrashes,” Zhuge Changqing said, tossing the purse back to Zhao Tianxi.

Zhao Tianxi’s face lit up; he took the purse and left.

…

At the beginning of Xu hour, Song Mo waited anxiously in Mortuary Room Seven for business to arrive.

It was the eighth month—not the season for executions, so business was slow.

With thirty-six mortuary rooms and more staff than corpses, it was hardly surprising.

As Song Mo wondered how to curry favor with the mortuary superintendent and secure some business, a knock sounded at the door.

His eyes brightened—heaven rewards the persistent.

Business had arrived.

Song Mo opened the door with joy, only to be stunned.

Standing outside was a lone figure in a purple official robe, carrying a willow-leaf saber.

It was Tang Yi, whom he had seen earlier that day.

“Shut the door. Take off your clothes,” Tang Yi said bluntly.

Song Mo shuddered, “Sir, you must have the wrong person. I’m not into that.”