At the trading post at the northern foot of the Yin Mountains, the sky was not yet fully bright. Frost clung to the blades of grass, and horses' hooves stepped through the wet earth, leaving strings of black prints.
The Helian cavalrymen emerged from the wooden palisade gates, led by twenty riders clearing the way.
Behind them were eight large carts strapped with wooden crates, wine jars, silk bundles, and iron tools. The wheels crushed against the gravel, creaking incessantly.
These are goods from the Great Qian, keep your hands clean!
Centurion Uliji sat on his horse, his riding crop hanging by his boot. His voice was rough enough to jolt awake the rabbits in their grassy burrows.
Anyone who dares to touch them will get their hands chopped off!
The herder slaves stepped forward with their heads bowed.
They had no horses. Their feet were wrapped in rotting sheepskin, and the old robes they wore were patched over and over, the cuffs so stiff they scraped the flesh.
Amur was third in line.
He was fifteen this year. He had already shot up in height, but his shoulder bones were narrow, and his face still bore the gauntness of a young boy.
The cavalryman in charge of the carts tapped the largest wooden crate with the tip of his whip.
You, come here. Carry this.
Amur bent down and looped the hemp rope over his shoulder. The moment the wooden crate left the cart, his legs sank half an inch.
What are you dawdling for?
The cavalryman kicked him in the calf.
Amur clenched his teeth and shuffled forward.
The crate was incredibly heavy. Its wooden corners dug into his back, and the hemp rope bit into the flesh of his shoulder. Before he had taken ten steps, sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Blown by the wind, the sweat clung to his skin and stung.
He had no idea what was inside the crate.
The belongings of the nobility were never meant for the eyes of slaves.
Slaves were only fit to carry, to take the whip, to drag the nobles' wealth from one place to another.
Beside him, an old herder slave carrying a wooden rack of wine jars twitched his nose and muttered softly.
Strong liquor.
Amur smelled it too.
The aroma of the wine seeped through the cracks in the clay seals, drilling into his dry, cracked nasal passages and making his throat itch with a burning sensation.
He hadn't eaten a proper meal in two days. Last night, he had been given half a piece of hardened milk curds; he chewed on it for ages until the roots of his teeth ached.
The cavalrymen up ahead, however, drank kumiss from their leather pouches the whole way, smashing the empty pouches at the slaves' feet when they were done.
What are you looking at? Go lick the dirt!
A young herder slave couldn't help but stare at the glass case on the cart.
Smack!
A whip lashed across his face, splitting the skin and flesh on the spot. Blood dripped down his chin onto the grass.
The cavalryman cursed loudly.
Cheap bones, do you think you're worthy of looking at the treasures of the Great Qian? Look again, and I'll gouge out your eyeballs to feed the dogs!
The young slave covered his face, his shoulders trembling a few times, but he still hoisted the crate onto his back.
The procession moved north.
After the sun climbed up, the frost on the grassland melted into water. The horses' bellies were splashed wet, and the slaves slipped on their feet. When they fell, they were driven back up by the whip.
One of the carts sank into a shallow ditch, its wheels stuck. Four slaves bent over to push it. Uliji, finding them too slow, drew his scimitar and struck the cart shaft three times.
Listen well. If the cart stays stuck here, no one gets the evening meal.
Those words were more effective than a whip.
Amur set his wooden crate on the ground. The skin on his shoulder was already rubbed raw, but he didn't care to touch it, joining the others to push the cart.
One, two!
Push!
The wheels moved half a turn, then sank back in.
The cavalrymen's curses rained down, followed by their whips.
Amur was struck on the back. His clothes tore, and a fiery pain crawled up his waist.
The old slave growled in a low voice.
Stomp your feet into the mud! Don't save your strength! Again!
They pressed their shoulders under the cart board, their knees sinking into the wet mud. Gripping the spokes with their hands, they threw their entire body weight forward.
The wheels finally rolled out of the ditch.
The cavalrymen laughed.
That's more like it. Slaves have to be urged with a whip, they won't move without a beating.
Amur stood panting by the cart, his stomach letting out a rumble.
The old slave beside him cast a glance at him, fished half a dried grass root from his chest, and shoved it into his hand.
Chew on this. Don't faint from hunger, no one will carry you if you do.
Amur stuffed the grass root into his mouth. The bitter taste overwhelmed his tongue. He chewed very slowly, afraid it would be gone too soon.
At dusk, the procession stopped behind a leeward slope.
The cavalrymen set up leather tents and slaughtered a skinny sheep. The smell of meat broth drifted over on the wind. The slaves could only squat by the carts, waiting for the overseer to distribute the leftover broth dregs.
Amur was called to unload the goods.
Be gentle with your hands. If you break it, your whole family will pay for it!
A cavalryman pointed at a slender wooden crate, his tone fierce.
When Amur lifted the crate down, the straw rope loosened halfway.
Through the gap in the crate's lid, half of a cup was exposed. Its color was translucent, its edges thin. It reflected the firelight, glowing so brightly that one wouldn't dare to touch it.
He stared at it for a moment.
His first thought wasn't that it was beautiful.
He was wondering how many pieces of air-dried mutton this thing could be traded for.
Even one piece would do.
It would allow his mother to boil a pot of soup, and save his sister from having to gnaw on frozen hard milk skins.
A sneer came from behind him.
Dirt dog, are you dumbstruck?
Amur turned around and saw a low-ranking cavalryman holding a wooden bowl containing sheep bones.
The cavalryman walked over and kicked the crate with the tip of his boot.
This is called a glass cup, a plaything used by the nobles of the Great Qian. Even our princes on the grassland fight over them. Just this one cup can be exchanged for three horses in a noble's tent.
Amur withdrew his fingers into his sleeves.
Three horses.
If a small tribe had three capable mares, they could survive the winter for two more months. The children could drink mare's milk, and the elderly could live to see the spring grass sprout.
He looked at that half of the cup, a stifling feeling in his chest.
Such a light and flimsy thing. Nobles used it to drink wine, while slaves broke their backs carrying it.
Seeing that he kept silent, the cavalryman reached out and patted his cheek.
Remember, your life isn't even worth the foot of this cup.
The old slave nearby quickly pulled Amur to the back.
Don't provoke him.
Amur lowered his head and continued moving the crates into the temporary storage tent.
The wind was harsh at night, flapping the leather tents with loud smacks.
The storage tent was piled high with Great Qian goods. The strong liquor jars were sealed with red clay, the silk cloth was wrapped in oiled paper, and iron pots, knives, and nails were arranged in bundles. The glass crates were placed at the very back, guarded by two cavalrymen.
In the middle of the night, a muffled thud came from outside.
A crate of strong liquor had slipped from a cart. Its corner struck a rock, cracking the clay seal, and liquor flowed out from the fissure.
The aroma of the wine instantly dispersed.
The few slaves nearby all froze.
Someone swallowed hard.
Someone hid their hands behind their back, yet their feet shuffled forward.
A scrawny slave couldn't resist. Taking advantage of the cavalryman turning his back, he reached out a finger, swiped it through the leaked liquor, and swiftly brought it to his mouth.
The moment the liquid touched the tip of his tongue, Uliji had already dismounted.
No one saw clearly how he drew his blade.
The flash of the blade fell. The slave collapsed to the ground clutching his neck. His legs twitched twice, and his blood flowed into the spilled liquor, dyeing the ground a dark crimson.
Uliji wiped his blade clean on the corpse's clothes.
Stealing military goods means death.
The low-ranking cavalrymen were also frightened; the hands that had intended to catch the wine with bowls shrank back.
Uliji turned his head and swept his gaze over them.
Are you craving it too?
No one made a sound.
If you crave it, exchange it for military merit, exchange it for enemy heads. Don't be like a slave and steal the nobles' wine.
He kicked the corpse aside and pointed at Amur and the others.
Carry away the leaking wine jars and report the loss to the overseer. As for the wine on the ground, whoever dares to lick it will meet the same end as him.
The slaves stepped forward to clean up.
When Amur crouched down, the smell of wine mixed with the stench of blood drilled into his nose. His stomach churned a few times, and his throat turned sour.
The dead slave was named Achou. He was two years older than him and had helped him steady a crate during the day.
Batu hadn't stolen a jar of wine, just the tiny drop that coated his finger.
The nobles of the grassland loved to say that the Eternal Blue Sky would bless the brave.
Watching Achou being dragged away, Amur had only one thought left in his mind.
The Eternal Blue Sky could not care for those with empty stomachs.
...
After dawn, the caravan continued toward the Right Division camp.
The closer they got to the main camp, the more cautious the cavalrymen became. Uliji ordered the wagons to be rearranged into two lines.
The crates of colored glass were placed in the middle, the strong liquor at the back, the silk cloth covered with felt blankets, and the ironware closely guarded by four riders.
The Right Division camp was pitched by a river bend, with hundreds of felt tents stretching out together. Cattle and sheep pens formed the outer perimeter, while herds of horses grazed on the high slopes.
A wolf-tail banner hung from a wooden pole at the camp entrance.
Bayan, a steward under Temur, was already waiting there.
He wore a grey fox fur robe with a bronze plaque hanging at his waist. Behind him stood over a dozen accounting slaves, holding leather ledgers in their hands.
Uliji dismounted and raised his hand in a salute.
"The goods have arrived. The colored glass, strong liquor, silk cloth, and ironware from the Great Qian are all here."
Bayan did not rush to answer. He first walked up to the leading wagon and lifted the felt blanket.
A bolt of silk was revealed. The color was vibrant, and when he pressed his fingers against it, the fabric felt smooth, with fine, dense patterns woven along the edges.
Bayan rubbed the fabric between his fingers, then went to inspect the ironware.
The edges of the iron pots were smooth, the blades of the iron knives were cleanly sharpened, the iron nails were uniform in size, and even the wooden boards of the crates were planed evenly.
He clicked his tongue.
"These Great Qian people certainly know how to put in the effort."
Uliji smiled.
"Will these things sell well on our grasslands?"
Bayan raised his hand, signaling someone to open the glass crates.
After the wooden lid was pried off, dry grass and soft cloth were found lining the inside. Twelve glass cups were arranged neatly. Illuminated by the firelight, the walls of the cups were translucent, with delicate floral patterns pressed into their bases.
The surrounding cavalrymen stared so hard they practically drooled.
Bayan picked one up, his grip extremely gentle.
"Sell well? Once these enter the tents of the princes and nobles, the price will triple."
Uliji asked in a low voice.
"Then does this trip count as a great merit for us?"
Bayan put the cup back.
"The merit belongs to Lord Temur. Whether you get rewarded or not depends entirely on His Lordship's mood."
Uliji's face fell a little, but he did not dare talk back.
Bayan waved his hand.
"Inventory the goods."
The accounting slaves immediately stepped forward, registering everything crate by crate.
"Twenty glass cups, intact."
"Eight glass bowls. Seven intact, one chipped."
"Twenty jugs of strong liquor, one cracked."
"Six bundles of silk cloth."
"Thirty iron pots, fifty iron knives, ten bundles of iron nails."
Amur stood at the rear of the wagon, listening to these numbers, his shoulders still aching.
He had been carrying loads the entire way, yet he had not even received an extra cup of water for it.
A single word "intact" from the nobles could be exchanged for horses, sheep, and official positions.
But if a slave were to break a single cup, they would have to pay with their life.
Bayan walked over to the chipped glass bowl, picked it up, and examined it.
A piece the size of a grain of rice was missing from the rim, barely noticeable unless one looked closely.
An accounting slave spoke up.
"Head Steward, should this one be recorded as damaged?"
Bayan shot him a sidelong glance.
"Record what damage? The chip is so small. Wrap it in soft cloth and send it to the side tent."
The accounting slave hurriedly bowed his head.
"Yes, sir."
Bayan concealed the slightly damaged glass bowl in his sleeve and turned to enter the storage tent.
No one dared to follow him inside.
He brought the glass bowl under the lamp and inspected it repeatedly.
The chip was on the rim and would not affect its ability to hold wine. As long as he claimed it was an intentional notched design made by the skilled craftsmen of Great Qian, the mistress might not look into it.
Lord Temur's mistress loved these rare novelties the most.
If he presented it to her, he could be transferred from an outer camp steward to the inner tents.
By then, he would be eating the choicest cut of sheep's back and drinking the first brew of wine.
Even a centurion like Uliji would have to bow half a head lower when seeing him.
