Summers in Xishan were short, but there'd been rain yesterday and the whole court was atwitter with the possibility of the wells refilling and the grass growing. Taiga didn't have the heart to tell them the level of rainfall that would be needed to repair their drought. He was quiet about it, kept perfectly mum, and holed up in his yurt. Xishan was not a city, but a people—for generations upon generations Taiga's forebears had lived so they could be uprooted in minutes. There was something grander than any city in the light glinting off the hunting hawks as they wheeled above the conical tops of the traditional fur tents. The yurts turned the flat steppes into hills for miles.<br/><br/>Every spare inch of Taiga's yurt was covered in scrolls and books. They lay on every surface, bulged out of sacks and trunks, were stuffed into his shoes. He was elbow deep in a mathematical treatise he'd acquired from Dusan's premier university with the last round of traders, deeply enjoying the experimental, theoretical text, when a serving girl called outside the flap.<br/><br/>"Come in," he said.<br/><br/>"Khan, the Khagan needs you."<br/><br/>Taiga's heart sank. Why did father need him? And how many bruises would he walk away with?<br/><br/>There was no honor in this. Taiga was a man of nineteen. These weren't honest injuries from training or fighting.<br/><br/>He put away the book and walked through the narrow halls created by the sides of yurts. To his surprise, everywhere he looked he saw servants getting ready for a journey of what must be extreme diplomatic importance. Servants were buzzing and twittering, beating out linen and he passed the smithy to see his own circlet being re-inlaid with pearls that had been taken out to be sold ages ago, and state treasures Taiga recognized being polished and readied.<br/><br/>He detoured through the ovens and found handsome provisions being laid for a journey of some distance. When he finally reached his father's yurt, he was sweating and stepping lightly, tension tightening his lips.<br/><br/>No sooner had he opened the door than his father called out, "Ah, and here's the diplomat! The tailor needs you, boy, in a few hours. We're using the silk hangings to make you a new outfit. It'll be our traditional style, but nods to Dusanian taste."<br/><br/>"Of course," Taiga said, trying to buy time to understand what in Jugol's hells was going on.<br/><br/>The King fixed the slave who had been carefully noting something on rice paper with an eye. "Out," he told him.<br/><br/>The enslaved scribe meekly left, still scrawling down characters in ink. When he was gone, his father walked past Taiga and untied the flap, letting it fall. Taiga's heart sank. He knew what this was about.<br/><br/>The King grabbed his hair in a fisted grip and dragged him forward. Taiga cried out, pulled to his knees. He felt scalped by his father's hands.<br/><br/>The King punched him in the stomach. The rings hardened the blow like brass knuckles and Taiga doubled over, gasping, clutching his aching abdomen.<br/><br/>"Listen, you little brat, you will not disgrace our family by so much as breathing to anyone you're anything less than absolutely thrilled to be in Dusan." His father grabbed his ear and pulled him up to shout into it. "And you will not engage with any men, ever again. No one will find out our family harbored a sodomite or pawned him off to one of the highest realm in the land. Never. Again. None of your unnatural flirtations at night, you will throw out those texts you think I don't know about on the practices of sodomites. They may allow such evils in Dusan, but my son will not be caught up in them."<br/><br/><i>"Are we clear?"</i><br/><br/>"Yes, father," Taiga gasped, clutching his diaphragm. He was given a few more punctuating blows on areas of his body that would be hidden below ceremonial robes. He would meet the leadership of Dusan tender with bruises.<br/><br/><br/>The travel was conducted as soon as the silk garments for Taiga were prepared. The train set out, and while it was accosted three times by desperate bandits, the guard was able to repel them. Banditry in better times would never have been Xishanese versus Xishanese, but these were not better times.<br/><br/>They made it to Dusan's capital in eleven days, so great was their rush, less than two weeks since the reception of the offer for a diplomatic outreach. The last six were spent on the wide roads of the ever more prosperous Dusan. The drought that the north had felt was gone as they entered balmy regions. The summer of Xishan became oppressive Dusanian heat, and the ceremonial garb of their people was not meant to accommodate the muggy air.<br/><br/>Finally, they entered Atla, the capital and palace. Taiga had never laid eyes on it before but had pored over maps of it and sketches of its landmarks many times. Atla made everything about their retinue shabby and small. They made their way over the wide bridges, Taiga awed by the light glinting off of water to every side, the guards telling the heralds, who ran inside the towering palace to tell his majesty and the court of the arrival of the Xishan retinue.<br/><br/>Taiga had changed into his new silken robes before entering the city, but it was inevitable that their tailor was a bit out of fashion, and the silks had hung on walls and so were not as fine and airy as those that clothed the basest servants they passed.<br/><br/>Taiga made the walk up the massive marble stairs into the public reception room. The court was waiting, looking on the small Xishanese retinue with transparent disdain.<br/><br/>Taiga had intentionally chosen his men to look large, frightening, and belligerent. They were selling a treaty on war, and so they had to look capable of it.<br/><br/>Taiga stepped forward, first of his retinue, to make a proper obeisance to the king. He straightened and said nothing, not having been called on to speak. His family were the descendants of warriors—Taiga alone had his mother's looks instead of his father's. She had been a beauty known all through his country, and Taiga had inherited her loveliness. The only thing he kept from his father was a rather strong pair of eyebrows—unlike his brothers, though, they gave his face intelligence, instead of overpowering their forehead like beetles.<br/><br/>He was gestured forward and spoke in accentless Dusanian, his voice pitched to carry but somehow not a shout—the reception heard him, but he seemed not at all uncouth. The pearls glittered on the circlet on his head.<br/><br/>"I am Khan Taiga, son of Khagan Timur. Xishan sends its regards to rulers with the mettle of King Jausemir. We have brought a bevy of finest horses, gifts for the King."<br/><br/>The official reception went well, and Taiga was taken to his rooms, already prepared for him. He picked up a silver ladle next to the water basin, examining its artistry.<br/><br/>A moue crossed his lips. He felt uneasy in the solid stone walls. Though he strained his ears, he couldn't hear a single horse.<br/><br/>He put the silver down with a sigh, turning as the door was rapped. He'd read about this custom, it meant someone wanted to enter.<br/><br/>"Come in," he called, coolly.