Even the palanquin did not float as smoothly through the crowded streets as usual on this ill-fated day. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that this one was stripped of all insignia of its passenger’s rank and business, so that people didn’t bother to make room for it as readily as they would have otherwise. The Chinese doctor sat within, supporting himself with one hand as not to be tripped over by the sudden turns or abrupt halts, and frowned at his servant, Zian. “We should be almost there”, Zian hurried to say in order to quell a new flood of acid remarks, and sighed inwardly. Except for the last days, his young master had never been more short-tempered or given to foul moods as one would only expect from a pampered member of the elevated circles thronging around the Dragon Throne. In fact, a certain hauteur and petulance was unavoidable, even desired and expected from a young man rising swiftly in the favours of the courtiers – and compared to others, Zian thought, Jin had almost been moderate. He ran a hand over the plain fabric of his shenyi and leaned against the wooden panel. All of the servants had been upset by the recent events, but nobody had believed them to cause such drastic consequences. Of course his master had offered no explanations, but Wei Cheng’s servants had been most helpful in this regard.

Ever since his return from his (now former) benefactor, the honourable Wei Cheng, his mood had been … not the best, to say the least. With pale lips and shivering with rage Jin had ordered all appointments to be cancelled and had retreated to his study, from which the mystified servants heard the ominous sounds of porcelain smashed into the walls – not that this was that uncommon with their hot-blooded master, but this time he’d seemed unable to stop wreaking havoc among the priceless vases that had adorned the room, most of them gifts from, well, Wei Cheng. They all had done the most sensible thing – ducking their heads to avoid the flying objects while they going about their businesses as usual. Zian glanced at the taut, mask-like expression of Jin’s face and wondered again, which ancestor had seen it fit to turn him, Zian, into the doctor’s travel companion. He’d always wanted to see the world, but as a person of his station it had never been likely. Born as the third son of a cook and a minor scribe in the house of Liang Fu, Zian had been sent into the household of Jin at the age of seven and, owing to his bright and shrewd mind, ever since had managed to continually climb the internal hierarchy up to the post of second secretary and assistant. A fact, he and his whole family were proud of.

Apparently there had been some kind of ‘misunderstanding’. After the first emotional storm had had blown itself out, Jin had called for the First Servant and had ordered the entire household to be prepared for a relocation to Samarkand within the next days. Wherever Samarkand was, the servants had no idea, and perplexed as they’d been they had immediately started packing, speculations and gossip running wild. The very next day Liang Fu himself had shown up, and, after hours of discussions behind closed doors, the palace official had left, and the doctor had announced that only he and second secretary, Zian, would leave for Samarkand. Before he had left, Liang Fu had drawn Zian aside and had emphasised that the maximum baggage were two saddle-bags for each of them. The middle-aged official had looked very tired and somewhat disgusted with the entire affair. “I’ve suggested you as his travel companion”, he’d said, “so that at least one member of the party, aside from the guide, is able to use his head for thinking instead of … ah, never mind, you will see for yourself.” – With that last cryptic remark he had turned and disappeared, leaving Zian to his own speculations.

When he’d seen the mass of (in his eyes useless) items he was supposed to squeeze into their saddle-bags, the young servant had gotten a notion why Liang Fu had chosen him. He’d patiently packed, unpacked and repacked until his master seemed to be satisfied with the result. Then, in the dead of night, he’d emptied them again, to fill them with plain but practical clothes, blankets instead of cosmetics, money and small trinkets that could swiftly be turned into cash in most places instead of Jin’s most prized possessions. All in all things they were more likely to need than anything else the doctor had deemed indispensable, although he would be anything but pleased when he found out, but Zian figured they’d be well on the road before he did. The only thing he had left alone was the last bag, filled to capacity with assorted medicines, literature, bandages and even surgical instruments; capricious as his master undoubtedly was, he knew his business. With all these secret preparations made, Zian now breathed easier as their palanquin rounded the corner and came to a halt, swaying dangerously a few times before being set down in front of the ‘Hostelry of the Smiling Cat’.

Zian jumped out of the palanquin and looked around. He couldn’t see Liang Fu, small wonder as it was far past the agreed hour, the time it had taken Zian to talk his master into hiding himself behind a plain traveller’s cloak. On one of the stone benches outside the hostelry he saw the graciously draped, slender figure of the most exotic human being he’d ever seen – black, glossy hair flowed out from the hood and framed a striking face as the young man impatiently nestled at his ear with nimble fingers. A dark sense of foreboding descended upon Zian as the young doctor left the palanquin and turned around and almost froze as he guessed the other one’s identity.

The exotic man on the bench balled his fists and cried out something Zian couldn’t understand at first, but apparently the doctor did. “You!” he hissed, and such coldness and wrath were condensed into this one single word that it made Zian shiver. It had to be the Persian concubine, he realised, the one who had been too dumb to follow Jian’s instructions to apply such a simple medicine like Cantharis and thus had managed to murder his own master – and had had the audacity to accuse the Chinese doctor of murder. Jian’s hands clawed to fists as he made a step towards the Persian who immediately jumped off the bench. Zian nervously looked around. A few people were already looking their way, and some street urchins had already assembled to watch the scene that promised to turn into a full-fledged row. “He is nothing”, Zian whispered frantically into the doctor’s ears. “Nothing!” To his surprise Jin forced his body to relax and turned to his servant with a sweet, albeit poisonous smile. “You are right, Zian. Go inside and tell the guide we are ready for departure – and if Liang Fu is still around, I want a word with him!” With this he retreated into the palanquin again and banged the door shut.

Zian hurried into the hostelry, spotted Liang Fu together with two swordsmen and bowed low as he reached their table. “Would you follow me outside, please?” he whispered with a meaningful glance at the palace official. “My master has arrived and desires to say farewell to you.” Liang Fu’s eyes widened in alarm and Zian smiled apologetically at the swordsmen who curiously eyed the anxious Chinese official.