then by a Sumbrese agent raced

to the mountains from the palace

to thwart Vihaz’s bitter malice.

At the border, haste laid to waste:

the portentous message misplaced

by a distracted customs clerk

worn out by perpetual overwork.

Chance, mischance, or the hand of fate.

The note unread until too late.

FERRY

Well past midnight,

the ferry-raft rocked gently

as Dao, king’s guard,

sat on the bench by King Xau,

glad that the day’s heat

was finally dissipating.

Reflexively,

Dao scanned the far riverbank,

but no one waiting to cross;

no sound but the splash

of the three ferrymen

working the long wooden poles.

Light from the oil lamp

caught on the wet poles,

on the medallion round the neck

of Nahr, the senior ferryman,

a Sumbrese man who’d been working

this crossing for years.

Neither King Xau

nor the other three guards spoke.

Probably they were as relieved as Dao

to be out of the minister’s house,

the party too noisy,

too crowded.

—a ferry pole, all three poles

split lengthways

—the ferrymen yanked out

thin sticks

—blades

Dao shouted. Captain Li shouted.

Dao scrambled to stand.

The three ferrymen on them.

Chong, seated in front of the king,

downed before his sword was out.

“Xau!” shouted Li. “Run! Swim!”

—the rightmost man

held off by Captain Li

—the leftmost man blocked by Gan

—the center man, Nahr, advancing

—Nahr’s stance

—the shift of his feet

Dao lunged,

parried Nahr’s thrust—

Dao off-balance—

—Nahr pivoted

—Gan exposed

“Gan!” yelled Dao.

Too late, too slow,

but the king deflected the blade

as Dao got his balance back,

stepped clear of a bench—

“Xau!” shouted Li. “Go! We will slow them—”

—Gan disarmed by the leftmost man

—Nahr fast, faster than Dao

—the king blocked a cut aimed at Li

—Nahr sidestepped, feinted, lunged

—the blade speeding at the king

Dao in the wrong position.

Nothing he could do, except:

Dao fell.

Fell deliberately.

Fell onto the blade’s sharp sweep.

Fell down onto the planks.

The blade yanked back, up,

clear through Dao’s side. Pain.

Dao turned his head,

saw Xau on his feet.

A single drop of blood

beaded the king’s neck

where the blade had nicked him,

but the king was well.

Dao closed his eyes.

THE RIDE

Xau offered Hana his kingdom;

she declined.

The horse lord who ruled her tribe

ordered her to marry Xau.

Hana lay face down in the dirt

at the horse lord’s feet. And declined.

A second king,

father to Xau’s dead queen,

took such offense at the possibility

of Xau replacing his daughter

with a barbarian horse woman

that he unleashed

his assassins.

Not on Hana herself,

honorably, in open challenge—

barbarian that she was,

she would have met them

with bow and knife,

without fear, gladly—

but against King Xau by night,

by stealth, by trickery.

The captain of Xau’s guards

yelled at him to flee.

Instead Xau fought

beside his men.

No mannered fencing match, no rules.

Three assassins, two guards slain.