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Han Ying woke up. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
He woke up, and then he kept waking up, his body responding in fits and starts to the healing lavished on him by Da Wu. Da Wu, of all people! For him! Han Ying had rarely seen the man before he left Jin, but he had always seemed dour and unapproachable, so far above Han Ying’s station he might as well be an eagle soaring across the northern sky.
“I need to go home,” he was saying outside Han Ying’s door, just audible to Han Ying’s trained ears. “He can travel safely if we take it slowly, but there’s still considerable rebuilding to be done before his martial arts can recover. If we leave him here, that work may be undone.”
Zhou Zishu replied, even more quietly. Even knowing the familiar intonations of his voice, Han Ying couldn’t pick out a word of it, although the tone didn’t sound happy.
“I’ll send him back,” Da Wu said.
The road to Nanjiang was long. Han Ying felt he’d left his heart, his soul, behind in Kunzhou. He had staked everything on Zhou Zishu and on finally seeing Siji Manor. He had meant to rest there forever.
Recovery in Nanjiang was longer still, but as the world woke up to springtime, his body woke to itself. Never had simple movement felt so joyful. There was a child in Da Wu’s house, Lu Ta, who treated Han Ying as a playmate, and he found himself shouting with laughter some days trying to keep up with him. One day, Qi Ye came to see him personally. He had known Han Ying by name even when Han Ying was a wet-behind-the-ears trainee, but Han Ying was still surprised by his attention now.
“My husband says you’re ready to try sitting a horse,” Qi Ye said casually. “Why don’t you come with me? I have one who will suit you just fine.”
And so, on horseback, Han Ying began to explore Nanjiang, and to his astonishment, to become easy with Qi Ye—or Jing-da-ge, as he enjoined Han Ying to call him. “You’re not Zishu’s subordinate anymore,” Jing Beiyuan said, not appearing to notice the sting of that remark, “so there’s no need to stand on ceremony. His friend is my friend.”
By summertime, Jing Beiyuan was talking Han Ying into headlong races along the clearest roads. “Are you up for travel?” he asked one day. “There’s some people I’d like you to meet, if you’re willing.”
Han Ying found he was eager for it. The people here were well enough, but he was slow to pick up their language, always a little on the outside of any conversation. In Da Wu’s house, of course, he could converse easily in his own language, but that limited his society. So, on a bright midsummer day, he rode up to a Ping’an Silver House with Jing Beiyuan and was introduced to its manager.
The sun was blazing orange and near the horizon when Han Ying rode into the stableyard. He made soothing noises to his horse as he led her around to be put away for the night. “Good rations for you tonight, you’ve earned it,” he told her.
He was turning in to seek his own supper when a voice called out his name. He turned and grinned as he spotted its owner. “Song-laoban! What are you doing this far north? I thought you were supposed to be at the border houses until spring.”
“You think my little birdies don’t bring me every tidbit of news relevant to my business, including your route this time?” Song Ping’an gestured him to a table, and a man arrived promptly with wine and, bless him, food. Han Ying lifted his chopsticks and glanced at Song Ping’an for permission. When he nodded, Han Ying tucked in with relish.
With a few bites to take the edge off, he settled more comfortably into his seat and gave Song Ping’an an amused look. “You came this far to inquire about my travel plans?”
“I came to make a counter-offer, in case you’re thinking about pursuing that job in Kunzhou again.” Song Ping’an lowered his voice. “The jobs you’ve taken on your way west? Don’t think I don’t know exactly what route you have plotted to drop you right off at Siji’s doorstep.”
Han Ying’s smile fell a little. “You know how much I appreciate you taking me on in the first place.”
“It wasn’t a favor!” Song Ping’an gestured emphatically with his own chopsticks. “You, my friend, are one of our best couriers. No one writes a report like you do; whatever else you can say about Zhou-xiansheng, he knows how to train people for this work. Forget gratitude; I came prepared to fight for you.”
“Song-laoban,” Han Ying laughed, feeling hot around the ears despite himself. He shook his head and took another bite of his food. “I’m very flattered, but I’ve already delayed this some time. It’s been five years since I left Kunzhou.”
“And I’m not asking you not to go back.” Song Ping’an leaned in. “There’s a Silver House in the town right at the base of Siji Mountain. It’s about to have a vacancy. Six months as a courier based there, and then we’ll see what we can do about putting you in as manager, if you still want to stay in Kunzhou. And either way I’d appreciate it if you sketched up some ideas for training couriers to look out for and synthesize intelligence the way you do.”
Han Ying considered Song Ping’an, keeping his face straight as he chewed. It sounded like a dream of an offer, but it wouldn’t do to leap at it. “What’s the pay like?” he asked casually once he was finished. “I was thinking it’s about time I asked for a bump in salary.” He named a figure, well within what he was worth.
Song Ping’an made pained faces and protested, which he was practically sworn to do, but in the end they laughed and agreed on the pay raise.
When Han Ying set out the next morning, it was with a strange certainty in his chest. He was going back, but not as the man who had left, barely alive and made of nothing more than devotion to Zhou Zishu. He wanted to see if there was a place for him among familiar people for the version of him he had found on the road. He rather liked this Han Ying; he hoped Zhou Zishu did, too.