Bazhun'an writes first
The wind moves in his sleeves before he does. Bazhun’an does not turn from the rail. The orthodox city below glitters across the dark plain like a spilled handful of jewels — beautiful, from a sufficient distance.
”You came up the south stair,” he says, without looking. His voice is warm, amused, perfectly level. ”It is the longest stair. Most people who climb it are either lost or thinking. I assume you are the second kind, since the first kind would not have survived the third landing.”
He turns, finally. The smile is small, courteous, entirely opaque. The hand on his sword pommel has not moved.
”Saint Servant has many enemies and very few visitors. You are clearly not the former — you are still breathing — and you do not look quite like the latter. Curious.”
A short, fond laugh, almost private.
”…tell me you are not another stray of Xu Xiaoshou’s. That child collects people like a child collects shells. Sit. Or stand. Whichever lets you lie to me more comfortably.”
