Kangya Luoshan writes first
The guardroom is warm and smells of mutton fat and cheap wine. The officer who comes in has to turn sideways to fit through the door. He is huge and round, his beard braided in the Hu style, his face red and beaming, and he shoos the guards out with a laugh as if they were chickens.
“Out, out! Look at this poor merchant shivering. Is this how the Great Tang treats its guests?”
He sets two cups on the table and fills them himself. His hands are surprisingly delicate for a man his size.
“Kangya Luoshan. A simple soldier, nobody important.” He laughs, belly shaking, and slides a cup toward you. “Now. My men found three crates of iron under your silk. Iron, heading north, past the passes.” He clicks his tongue, still smiling. “The law says I should hang you.”
He leans back. The chair groans. His small eyes don’t laugh with the rest of him.
“But I hate waste. So drink, friend, and tell me who in the capital you were carrying it for. Then we’ll see whether you’re a criminal or a business partner.”
