Dark of the Sun by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

the Inn of the Immortal Peach, which catered to wealthy and influential travelers, where he informed the rest of his party that they would turn north. “We’ll see what the reports tell us in a day or two,” he said to the others.
    “It delays our arrival,” said Yao. “We’ve already been on the road nine days—two days longer than we would have been in summer. The weather will slow us still more.”
    “Better a few days’ delay than getting caught in a battle,” Zangi-Ragozh pointed out.
    “Are you certain there is a battle, then?” Jong asked, looking up from his cup of hot rice-wine.
    “No, I am not,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “The rumors are very consistent, however, and that gives me pause.”
    “Then we go north, and that adds at least a week to our time on the road,” said Yao, spitting into the fire at the center of the dining room of the Inn of the Immortal Peach. He had been sullen for the last two days, inclined to brood and to give abrupt answers to anyone foolish enough to talk to him.
    “What is the matter with you, Yao?” Jong demanded, completely exasperated. “Are you ill?”
    Yao hitched up his shoulders. “I know I’m out of sorts. I don’t know why. My grandmother was like this, too, always irritated before a blizzard.”
    “A blizzard!” Jong exclaimed. “Not here in the lowlands, certainly.”
    “No, in the mountains. It would probably bring sleet here.” Yao put his hands together.
    “A blizzard would be inconvenient,” Jong declared.
    “No doubt it would,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “And yet, I would rather have some warning than be caught in the open when it strikes.”
    “Far better to be safe indoors,” Ro-shei agreed with a knowing nod. “For all of us.”
    Jong rounded on Zangi-Ragozh. “Do you believe this nonsense?”
    Zangi-Ragozh considered his answer. “Blizzards are not uncommon at this part of the season, at least not in the mountains, and although Jun-Chau is a bit southerly for one, his saying such a storm is coming is not so astonishing as hearing something of the sort in high summer would be. I propose to put up here for another day, to see if the weather gets better or worse. Rain makes the road a muddy morass, and snow would render it impassable.” He pulled off his gloves and held his small hands out toward the fire.
    “A waste of time,” Jong grumbled. “I think this is an absurd—”
    “Absurd it may be,” Zangi-Ragozh interrupted him, “but it is my decision to make, and I have made it.” He took two steps back from the fire and went to pay for the men’s supper.
    “Will you want your own meal served in your room?” the landlord asked with an obsequious smile; he recognized all the trappings of a wealthy merchant, foreign or Chinese, and knew such rich patrons were rare in winter; a little extra attention now could pay off handsomely in the future, so he laced his plump fingers together and strove to appear as helpful as possible.
    “I think not. I would rather be told where I might find a dancing girl—very accomplished, at a first-class establishment,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
    The landlord considered, weighing various possibilities in his thoughts. “There is La-Che at The Silver Fan,” he said at last. “Very desirable, very temperamental, fiery, but accomplished in every amorous art; there’s some barbarian blood in her, and you know how they can be. She’s considered expensive but a real prize.”
    Zangi-Ragozh shook his head. “That was not the accomplishment I meant,” he said smoothly. “I would like to see a truly skilled dancer, and, if she is willing, I would like to spend the evening in her company.”
    “Ah, a connoisseur; a different matter entirely,” said the landlord, revising his opinion of his foreign guest a little. “How remarkable, that a foreigner should seek such a dancer.”
    “If concern for art is so remarkable,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
    The landlord heard an implacable note in his voice and decided not to