Guy Gavriel Kay – Under Heaven (страница 2)
The Imperial Family, and Ta-Ming Palace mandarins
Taizu, the Son of Heaven, emperor of Kitai
Shinzu, his third son, and heir
Xue, his thirty-first daughter
Wen Jian, the Precious Consort, also called the Beloved Companion
Chin Hai, formerly first minister, now deceased
Wen Zhou, first minister of Kitai, cousin to Wen Jian
The Shen Family
General Shen Gao, deceased, once Left Side Commander of the Pacified West
Shen Liu, his oldest son, principal adviser to the first minister
Shen Tai, his second son
Shen Chao, his third son
Shen Li-Mei, his daughter
The Army
An Li (“Roshan”), military governor of the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Districts
An Rong, his oldest son
An Tsao, a younger son
Xu Bihai, military governor of the Second and Third Districts, in Chenyao
Xu Liang, his older daughter
Lin Fong, commander of Iron Gate Fortress
Wujen Ning, a soldier at Iron Gate
Tazek Karad, an officer on the Long Wall
Kanlin Warriors
Wan-si
Wei Song
Lu Chen
Ssu Tan
Zhong Ma
Artists
Sima Zian, a poet, the Banished Immortal
Chan Du, a poet
In Xinan, the capital
Spring Rain, a courtesan in the North District, later named Lin Chang
Feng, a guard in the employ of Wen Zhou
Hwan, a servant of Wen Zhou
Pei Qin, a beggar in the street
Ye Lao, a steward
Beyond the borders of Kitai
Sangrama the Lion, ruling the Empire of Tagur
Cheng-wan, the White Jade Princess, one of his wives, seventeenth daughter of Emperor Taizu
Bytsan sri Nespo, a Taguran army officer
Nespo sri Mgar, his father, a senior officer
Dulan, kaghan of the Bogü people of the steppe
Hurok, his sister’s husband, later kaghan
Meshag, Hurok’s older son
Tarduk, Hurok’s second son
Amid the ten thousand noises and the jade-and-gold and the whirling dust of Xinan, he had often stayed awake all night among friends, drinking spiced wine in the North District with the courtesans.
They would listen to flute or
Here in the mountains, alone in hard, clear air by the waters of Kuala Nor, far to the west of the imperial city, beyond the borders of the empire, even, Tai was in a narrow bed by darkfall, under the first brilliant stars, and awake at sunrise.
In spring and summer the birds woke him. This was a place where thousands upon thousands nested noisily: fishhawks and cormorants, wild geese and cranes. The geese made him think of friends far away. Wild geese were a symbol of absence: in poetry, in life. Cranes were fidelity, another matter.
In winter the cold was savage, it could take the breath away. The north wind when it blew was an assault, outdoors, and even through the cabin walls. He slept under layers of fur and sheepskin, and no birds woke him at dawn from the icebound nesting grounds on the far side of the lake.
The ghosts were outside in all seasons, moonlit nights and dark, as soon as the sun went down.
Tai knew some of their voices now, the angry ones and the lost ones, and those in whose thin, stretched crying there was only pain.
They didn’t frighten him, not any more. He’d thought he might die of terror in the beginning, alone in those first nights here with the dead.
He would look out through an unshuttered window on a spring or summer or autumn night, but he never went outside. Under moon or stars the world by the lake belonged to the ghosts, or so he had come to understand.