A divine healer, a general, a young marquis! Who can rival them!

The royal tent could hold three hundred people. The pillar in the center of the tent was as thick as two arm spans, and at its base was a stone. On the stone was a bronze basin, and the fire in the basin was never to be extinguished.

On May 21, the heads of all forty-three departments arrived.

The seating arrangement was set thirty years ago: the eastern row consisted of the old followers who had risen with the Khan, the western row of those who had submitted in the last ten years, and the northern row, which was furthest from the royal court, only came twice a year.

The first thing to be discussed was the draft.

"Seventy-one days," the old man sitting in the first seat on the east side said. "The grass within a radius of sixty li is being grazed to the roots by cattle and sheep. If my unit doesn't move soon, thirty percent of the livestock will die in the fall."

"Where to move it?"

"Move north, back to our own pasture."

"I have eleven thousand head of livestock in my unit," he continued. "When we came here in March, each sheep weighed forty catties of meat. Today we slaughtered two, and they weighed twenty-nine catties each. That's a quarter of the weight lost."

"The horses are the same," someone from the row to the north chimed in. "My horses have started gnawing on tree bark. There are no trees around here, so they're gnawing on cart shafts."

The row on the north side nodded in agreement. The row on the west side remained still.

The eldest prince stood up.

When he stood up, half the people in the tent looked down at the ground.

"The grass is a minor matter," said the eldest prince. "I want to discuss a more important matter first."

He pulled a stack of things from his pocket and threw them on the ground in front of the copper basin.

There were nineteen sheets of paper, with words written on them that were from inside the Great Wall.

"Nineteen tribes received the letter from the southerners," the eldest prince said. "The letter said that your sons are with me, alive. Seven tribes secretly sent people to negotiate, and in return, they brought back fifty-nine wounded soldiers and sent out two hundred and thirty-seven Grand Chancellors."

A sound came from inside the tent.

Am I right?

"right."

The one who answered was a chieftain sitting on the west side, about forty years old, with an old scar on his left cheek.

"My department is gone. I admit it."

"You admit to betraying your tribe?"

"I accept the exchange," the chieftain said. "Your Highness, my tribe went out to fight three battles and brought back thirty-seven men with broken arms and legs. Last winter, we treated them ourselves, and eleven of them died. The six that came back alive from the south this spring."

"You survived thanks to medicine given to you by people from the south, and you still have the nerve to say that?"

"I have no face," the chieftain said. "I have thirty-one people who are still breathing."

He waved his hand toward the tent entrance.

Four people carried in a stretcher and placed it in front of the copper basin.

On the stretcher was a young man in his early twenties. His right leg was wrapped in cloth from the knee down. He was sitting up, his face was pale, and his eyes were bright.

"Speak," the chieftain said.

The young man's hands were braced against the edge of the stretcher.

"I was shot with an arrow on February 11th north of Qingshikou. The arrow was lodged in my leg bone. Last winter, the shaman in our tribe scraped it with a knife. After the scraping, it became infected and the pus flowed from my knee all the way down to my ankle."

He lifted the cloth.

The leg only reached the knee, the cut was clean, the flesh had healed, and it was red and shiny.

"They sawed this section off in March," the young man said. "Before they sawed it off, they told me: if they didn't, the person wouldn't live past April. After they sawed it off, they changed the cloth every three days. A girl changed the cloth, and she used a thread to measure the wound and wrote it down on a piece of paper."

"Did they ask you to bring back any message?" the eldest prince asked.

"no."

Not a single word?

"When they sent me out of the camp, they gave me three days' worth of dry rations," the young man said. "The rations consisted of two bags of fried rice and a sachet of yogurt."

"And what about your legs?" the eldest prince raised his voice. "Your legs are in their hands, and you're still speaking up for them?"

"They sawed off my legs," the young man said, "but they snatched my life back from our own witch doctor."

The witch doctor sat to the west of the copper basin.

He stood up.

"There's a metallic smell in the tent," the shaman said. "He's using iron. Iron is dirty; medicine that comes into contact with iron is deadly. Anyone who has touched iron cannot enter this tent. It's a rule passed down for three generations."

"The rust on my legs was washed off by soaking it in milk," the young man said. "Heaven wanted to take me away, and now I'm sitting here."

"You're sitting here because Heaven hasn't finished taking what it wants." The witch doctor turned to everyone in the tent. "The three tents to the north are now bare poles, representing two tribes. Ninety-seven people are lying there, unable to get up, their excrement stained with blood, their bodies covered in spots. This is Heaven counting our people. This disease was brought over by that man from the south."

"He only crossed Baisha Ridge in April," said the scarred chieftain. "The three tents were erected with bare poles in March."

How did you know it was March?

"He sent someone to ask."

The sounds inside the tent suddenly grew louder.

"Khan," the eldest prince turned around, "you heard it. Letters, people, medicine, messages—they're being stuffed into our tents one by one. In another year, how many of these forty-three tribes will still listen to you?"

The fire in the brazier flickered.

The Khan sat beneath the great banner, remaining silent.

The large banner stood at the back half of the tent; the pole had been erected thirty years ago and had never been moved.

When he spoke, the people in the east row sat up straight.

"Bring him up."

Four people carried the stretcher to the fire pit.

The Khan stared at the severed leg for a long time.

"Did it hurt when they sawed off your leg?"

"pain."

Did they hold you down?

"He's holding me down. It's their general who's holding me down."

The Khan nodded and leaned back.

"The one who went to his camp in April, come up here."

The messenger stood up from the back of the western row and walked to the brazier.

"You went twice," the Khan said. "What did he ask you?"

"Not a single question was asked."

"What did you see?"

"There's a wooden pole standing inside the gate, with a piece of paper pasted on it," the messenger said. "The paper has two numbers on it: sixty-one wounded and sick, and two hundred and nine returning to the ranks that month. There are sixty tents for the wounded, spaced apart from each other, with a small wooden stake stuck outside each tent to mark when the cloth was changed. There's a line of people in front of nine pots to get water; no one cuts in line, and no one fights. There are seventeen hundred horses, not in good condition, but not a single one is lying down, and there are beans in their troughs."

"Why did he show you these things?"

He said I should come back and tell the truth.

The Khan turned his gaze to the forty-three people in the tent.

"Listen carefully. He sent our men into his camp to count his horses," the Khan said. "He's not afraid of us knowing how many men he has. He's afraid we won't know."

"I've killed four generals from the south," he said. "The first wanted the city, the second wanted the horse, the third wanted the head, and the fourth wanted everything, so he died the fastest."

"This is an important person."

The eldest prince placed his hand on the hilt of his sword: "Father Khan, he's just a doctor."

"He didn't seize my tribe," the Khan said. "He waited for my tribe to come over on its own."

He raised his hand and pointed to the row on the east side of the tent.

"After seventy-one days, the grass will be gone. If I allow you to disperse, you can return to your pastures and pass by his camp. He will give you salt, medicine, and treatment for your sheep. I will summon you again in three months. Will you come?"

No one answered from the row on the east side.

"If I don't allow you to disperse, thirty percent of your livestock will die, and you'll have to leave even more next spring," the Khan said. "He's laid out both paths for me."

He put his hand down.

"The prisoner exchange ends today. Anyone who receives another letter from the south will not be punished, but his troops will be moved five hundred li north."

The heads of the seven departments all bowed their heads.

"Khan," the shaman stepped forward, "I have a way to deal with those two tribes in the north."

"speak."

"The disease is caused by impurities coming from the ground," the shaman said. "It must be sent back with fire. Once it's burned, the sky will be clean. After it's burned, I'll erect a new pole on the ashes, and all forty-three tribes will come to see it. After they've seen it, who will dare say that the medicine from the south is more potent than the Longevity God's?"

"How many people do you need?"

"Two departments," the witch doctor said. "Four hundred people."

The Khan raised his eyes and glanced at the banner that had never been moved.

"for you."

He pressed his hand on his knee.

"Add one more rule. Each of the forty-three departments shall send ten people to oversee the burning. After they return, they shall each report back to their respective departments."

The witch doctor bowed down.

The old man in the row on the east side asked, "Khan, are there any sick people left in those two departments? What should we do?"

"Did you count them?"

"no."

"Then there's no need to ask."