Chapter Thirty-Five: Liang Haite (I)

On the east-west avenue of Cloud City, there stood a tavern. Evening was drawing near, and the place was at its most bustling. Crowds streamed in, one after another, filling the establishment.

Taverns with open doors, welcoming all comers—such things were rare in places like Chang’an or Luoyang, where noble families clustered thick as trees. Not until the Song Dynasty would such open commerce flourish. The great houses, after all, owned hunting grounds, farmlands, orchards—even riverways could be monopolized. They produced their own ingredients and kept their own retinue of cooks; for a banquet, everything could be arranged at home. Why would the scions of these houses deign to share their table with the lowborn?

In Chang’an or Luoyang, a so-called tavern was more akin to a private club—usually the property of one noble house or another, offering a discreet place for those of the same class to mingle.

But here on the frontier, in Cloud City, a tavern was truly for the people—no distinctions drawn. The establishment was merely a two-courtyard compound; fire pits were set up in every room, where fine, plump sheep roasted above the flames. Pickled vegetables were laid out, and earthenware jugs of village-brewed wine were served piping hot.

Everyone sat cross-legged around the fire, helping themselves—some sliced off hunks of mutton with their own knives, others dipped ladles into the steaming wine. The noisy clamor of eating and drinking filled the place.

Once they had eaten their fill, coarse, black bricks of tea would be boiled into strong, bitter brew, and everyone would drink to aid digestion.

With so many people suddenly swarming outside Cloud City, it would have been too troublesome to build fires for hot meals—there wasn’t even wood to be gathered for all these mouths. For the sake of defense, nearly every tree outside the city had been cut down, lest the enemy use them for siege engines.

Most survived on dry rations. The city garrison could not admit so many all at once. But for those with coin in their belts—or those who could stomach dry bread no longer—the taverns were a constant draw, offering a sumptuous meal.

The Cloud City Autumn Fair was being held again after a year’s absence. Traders had come from both north and south, easily numbering ten thousand or more. Even if only a fraction were let inside each day, the city teemed with life. The tavern keepers, who had staked everything to lay in their stores, could only beam as guests from the steppe and the heartland alike packed their halls.

The largest and liveliest tavern on the avenue was packed near to bursting. The mingled aroma of roasted meat, wine, and sweat hung heavily in the air—a strange and pungent perfume.

Xu Le and his companions, hoods drawn low to hide their faces, had paced the avenue several times. Each pass by the tavern left Song Bao and the other young swordsmen swallowing hard. Even the most taciturn among them, Han Yue, who scarcely glanced aside and kept close to Xu Le’s heels, could not stifle the loud gulps of saliva.

Ever since Yuan Junwei had chased them into Cloud City, they hadn’t eaten a proper hot meal. Their rations, tucked close to the skin, had been soaked in sweat and now gave off a rank, sour smell. Who wouldn’t long for a real meal?

Back in Shenwu County, Song Bao and his friends might have simply gone in and tried to strike a bargain with the owner—or, failing that, made plans for a “free” meal. But today, having only narrowly escaped the city’s garrison thanks to Xu Le, they dared not hand themselves over to the authorities so easily.

Xu Le lifted his head to study the scene, and his companions followed his gaze. There, a company of more than ten steppe men were leading four fat sheep straight into the tavern.

These men wore fur robes, curved blades at their waists. Each sported a fox-fur cap, fashioned from nearly an entire pelt, the bushy tail hanging down to cover their braids. They were high-nosed, deep-eyed—some with blue eyes, betraying the blood of the western regions.

At their head was an elder, his beard streaked with white, his face weathered by years. His fox-fur cap glimmered blue with the fine pelt of a snow-fox. He was short and sturdy, his legs bowed from decades in the saddle—a man who had lived his life on horseback.

Song Bao and his companions, seasoned by years in Mayi, recognized them at once: this was the Lianghait tribe, one of the Nine Tartar Clans!

The Lianghaits had lived west of the Yin Mountains for more than two centuries. Yinshan was famed for its snow-foxes, and the pelts traded by the Lianghaits were always in high demand. Their dealings with the Han were friendly.

But why was Lord Le watching them so intently? The Lianghaits were among the wealthier tribes of the Tartars—did hunger truly drive Lord Le to contemplate robbery?

The Lianghait elder reached the tavern door, where the owner hurried out to greet him with a bow. “So the old chieftain has come! The honor is ours! After last year’s battle, I worried your tribe might have suffered, but seeing your color, I know all is well—I worried for nothing.”

The old man laughed, waving for his men to hand over the sheep. He instructed carefully, “Don’t be stingy with the spices, and don’t use that black salt—use only the best from Jiechilake. When you bleed the sheep, leave a tenth—don’t drain them dry. Get it done quickly! And as for your wine, don’t bring me anything that’s only been strained once—it must be strained at least three times!”

The owner grinned, signaling his staff to take the sheep, and ushered the elder inside. “Everyone knows the old chieftain has finer tastes than any Han! Your messenger warned us you would come, so the spices and salt are ready, and the wine’s been strained five times! We have a quiet courtyard prepared for you to sleep in tonight, too—no need to worry!”

Xu Le and his companions heard every word, astonished to realize this was the chieftain of the Lianghaits! Though not the largest tribe—perhaps a thousand tents compared to the ten thousand of the mighty Gedai—they were nimble and cunning, their camps hidden in the mountain fastnesses, easy to defend and hard to attack. Not a force to be taken lightly.

No one had expected the chieftain himself to come!

The Cloud City Autumn Fair was traditionally protected by both the steppe and the people of Mayi. No one caused trouble during the fair; any old grudges could wait until after. Thus, nobles of the Nine Tartar Clans often attended, as did Turks posing as Tartars, coming and going freely.

But for a chieftain to come in person was a rare thing indeed!

Could it be Lord Le had recognized the Lianghait chieftain and was plotting something?

Heavens, if there was to be trouble, so be it—but could they not at least get a taste of those four fat sheep before making their escape?

After Xu Le’s stand in Cloud City, where he’d fought Liu Wuzhou head-on, Song Bao had come to believe Xu Le would sooner fight than talk at the slightest provocation...

But they did not know that Xu Le had truly found a savior at last!

Their destination as merchants was the Lianghait tribe!

Grandfather Xu Gan had founded the Xu family’s settlement by the Sanggan River, and in those early years, before the land yielded much, it was trade with the Lianghaits that had sustained them. Xu Gan and the present chieftain were well acquainted.

Given how dearly Xu Gan cherished Xu Le, he would never have let the boy travel unless he had a trustworthy partner to deal with.

Xu Gan had described the chieftain’s appearance to Xu Le in great detail. At a glance, Xu Le recognized him now.

He had never imagined the chieftain himself would come to Cloud City!

Without a word, Xu Le strode forward. The Lianghait men at the door, noticing the hooded stranger’s sudden approach, all reached for the hilts of their curved blades, wary.

The old man’s gaze sharpened as well.

Xu Le halted a few paces away, removed his hood, revealing his youthful, striking face, and bowed with a smile. “Are you Chieftain Luo Dun? Xu Le of Shenwu greets you, honored chieftain.”

The old man gazed at Xu Le for a moment, then slapped his thigh in delight. “You’re old Xu Gan’s grandson!”