and gave him grain and gold and women,

but that did not content Batar,

so he rode north to Jian-Jian.

“That’s where Papa’s gone.

Because it had an earthquake.”

Shazia nodded. Unbidden,

she thought of Xau waking Keng

before dawn to say goodbye.

Jian-Jian, city of a thousand bells,

and each of the thousand bells rang

as Batar rode up, as the city rulers

prepared to surrender their treasure.

But a sewing-girl, ten years old,

ran up onto the ramparts

and shouted, “Leave us alone!”

Batar laughed and his men laughed.

He fitted an arrow to his bowstring

to silence the sewing-girl,

but his horse turned under him

and galloped away from Jian-Jian.

And all the horses in Batar’s army

turned likewise and galloped away.

(Xau hadn’t woken their baby daughter,

but he had lifted the blanket

and kissed her toes.)

Next morning Batar returned

with the full might of his army.

Before the city rulers could surrender,

the sewing-girl ran onto the ramparts

and shouted at Batar, “Leave us alone!”

And Batar’s horse lay down under him

so suddenly that Batar fell off,

and all the horses of his army

lay down likewise.

“Like Papa in the battle

when the enemy horses stopped.”

Shazia nodded.

Batar was the greatest horse lord

who ever rode the eastern plains,

great enough to recognize an equal.

He stood up, bowed to the girl,

led his army away,

and never again troubled Jian-Jian.

Keng yawned. “When will Papa be back?”

“I don’t know. Close your eyes.”

Shazia didn’t finish the story,

didn’t tell Keng how the rulers

of Jian-Jian waited a month

in case Batar should return,

then drove the girl from the city.

She kissed Keng on the forehead,

tucked the blanket about him,

and tried not to think of Xau.

HELP

Cold in the tent where Lieutenant Honghui

made tiny notes on scraps of paper,

trying to calculate how long he had

before hunger tipped to starvation.

The twelfth morning since the earthquake:

six thousand three hundred and twelve still alive,

of whom perhaps five thousand could walk,

if he had anywhere to send them,

or supplies to send them with,

or soldiers to escort them.

The roads at best rubble,

at worst sheered into crevasses;

the bridges out;

Honghui’s commanding officers killed

when the barracks collapsed.

The least of his worries that his aide

burst into the tent without announcing himself.

“Lieutenant! The king!”

Honghui raised his eyebrows and said mildly,

“King Xau? Has he sent a message?”

“No! He’s here! Outside the tent.”

Honghui jumped up,

tugged his uniform

into a semblance of order,

went outside.

Seven men in black pants, black jackets,

all armed, all travel-stained,

none of them dressed more finely than the rest,

but Honghui remembered King Xau

from the war against Innis.

No man in that third battle

would ever forget the young king.

He bowed to the lanky youth.

“Your Majesty—

I didn’t expect you—

I only hoped you might send help—”

King Xau bowed back. “Lieutenant Honghui,