by S. C. Emmett
And the only ones Garan Tamuron had ever truly lost.
SAFEST COURSE
In another part of the Kaeje— that most royal of palaces within the great walled complex— a small breakfast-room was muffled with a double layer of embroidered hangings because the queen it held like a pearl in folded silk despised any chill. Every corner was rounded, there was no partition to a garden’s free air, and a multiplicity of pillows for propping a royal body in any languid posture necessary to aid digestion crowded the table as well as the three royal bodies they were meant to aid.
It should have been a comfortable room, but Second Princess Garan Gamnae oft found it anything but. Especially lately.
“I did not ask you,” Gamnae’s elder brother said coldly, and the Second Princess of Zhaon almost gasped.
It was not unheard of for Garan Kurin to utter a sharp word at the breakfast table, but it had never been common for his ire to fasten upon his mother instead of his little sister.
Well, at least, it had been uncommon before now. Second Princess Gamnae, caught in the act of pouring fragrant jaelo tea, halted in astonishment. Amber fluid rippled inside her thick, expensively glazed balei-ware cup, and she hastily glanced in their mother’s direction to gauge the effect of this strangeness.
“You have an ill temper this morn.” First Queen Garan Gamwone, her round, pretty face patted with matte zhu powder, did not raise a manicured black eyebrow. Instead, she paused as well, dabbing delicately at her lips with a square of pressed-rai paper as she surveyed the arrangement of sliced fruit and sweetbroth that was her usual first meal of the day. “Did you sleep badly?” Her tone was cajoling, meant for a child who had overstepped and must be firmly reined.
“Mother.” Kurin’s eyes narrowed. His topknot, caged in gold-beaded leather and stabbed savagely with a dull-iron pin, was oiled today, but it looked a fraction too tight. Maybe that was why he was so irritable, but then, he had been exceedingly snappish lately, and not just to Gamnae. “If you open your mouth to speak again before I receive an answer from Gamnae, I may be forced to break your dishes.”
“How dare you—” Mother began, but Kurin’s fist landed upon the tabletop, hard. Every piece of pottery or glass jumped. Gamnae’s eating-sticks trembled, their tips resting politely upon a tiny fish-carved stand.
“Be quiet,” Kurin hissed.
The thin stream of tea descending into Gamnae’s cup wavered. She’d overfilled the cup well past a mannerly two-thirds; she hastily set the pot aside, holding her sleeve just so. Perhaps Mother wouldn’t notice and let loose that awful, withering scorn. Do not guzzle like a greedy merchant’s daughter, Gamnae. Really, you are old enough for manners now. You should display some.
“Elder Brother?” she said, tentatively. Maybe she could halt the approaching storm, but it didn’t seem likely. Neither the First Queen nor her precious eldest son could be diverted once irritation truly set in. Gamnae’s pretty babu-patterned morning gown stuck to her lower back even through a thin linen modesty-shift. It was a hot morn, but those did not often make her sweat. “I do not understand.”
“Don’t pretend to be stupid, little sister.” Kurin held his own orange silk sleeve aside as he selected a slice of walanir from the savories plate. His morning robe was familiar, patterned only at hems and cuffs with Gamnae’s careful stitching, a Year’s End Festival present he was probably deigning to wear only because he wanted something of her. “Or I shall slap you.”
He meant it, and Mother would not stop him.
“Yes. Takshin saw me in the gardens.” Gamnae risked a glance at Mother, gauging the effect such news was likely to have in that quarter. “He asked me to visit the Jonwa.”
Two spots of bright crimson stood high upon the First Queen’s cheeks. Her hair was merely drawn back in a sleeping-braid instead of lacquered in place by her chief maid Yona’s dry fingers as it would be later in the day; a few stray strands touched her soft forehead. One plump, soft hand with resin-dipped nails was clutch-crumpling the stack of pressed-paper squares meant for couth touching of lips between courses; the filigree sheath over the nail on her smallest finger glinted.
Any mention of Gamnae’s other elder brother put Mother in a bad mood. Takshin had been sent to Shan and come back scarred, silent, and difficult. Sometimes, Gamnae wondered if it would have been better to send Kurin instead. At least in Shan the Second Prince wouldn’t be able to pinch or poke at her, though to be honest Kurin had largely ceased to torment her when he found other, more satisfying prey.
Now, though, he seemed eager to recommence. Everything was changing so quickly. It was hard to keep her balance when the world kept rocking like a small boat.
Gamnae hated boats. And at the moment, she almost hated Takshin for speaking to her in the gardens yesterday, too. Why couldn’t he have found a less public place, or sent her a note? A note might have gone almost unnoticed unless one of Mother’s big-eyed, scrawny maids thought news of it likely to win a prize from Yona.
But no, someone had seen her passing words with her second brother, Kurin had found out, and now whatever he wanted Gamnae didn’t know, but it couldn’t be pleasant.
At least that was the same as ever.
“Kurin.” The First Queen’s voice was deceptively mild, but Gamnae’s stomach dropped with an entirely unheard splash. She knew that tone. “This is a revolting display at breakfast. You will apologize at once.”
“The instant I do something meriting an apology to you, Mother, one will swiftly occur.” Kurin didn’t even glance at Mother, and that was a difference indeed. “So, Taktak wishes you to visit him at the Jonwa? Or does he think you’ll sing lullabies to our grieving Eldest Brother?” A smile stretched his thin lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in a few weeks he looked truly pleased. “Come now, little sister, do not be shy. Who exactly did he ask you to visit?”
“No one.” Gamnae’s throat almost closed up, and she tried, frantically, to think of what barbed mischief Kurin might be planning— and how to ameliorate it. Stopping was beyond her power, but perhaps something small could be done. “Well, no one of consequence. He just said, since I’d visited the Crown Princess—”
“Do not mention that foreign bitch at my table.” It was not quite queenly to hiss, but Mother wasn’t bound by rules like other people. Were there ears listening greedily at the hall partition? The servants withdrew while the family was at private meals, but it was silly to think nobody was waiting, large-eared, to carry tales all through the Palace’s warren.
Gamnae, instead of glancing at Mother to gauge her mood more surely, watched Kurin. She’d seen this look upon him before, but never in front of their mother. No, Kurin did not let his eyes blaze or his mouth twist like this when anyone who mattered could see.
Her brother picked up a small, whisper-fragile blue sauce dish. Then, with a swift fluid motion that spoke of a prince’s necessary training in the art of combat, he flung it across the room. The sound of its breaking was lost under Queen Gamwone’s gasp.
“Shut up,” Kurin said, in a low fierce tone Gamnae also knew very well, but had never heard him use before Mother. “Or the sweetbroth goes next.”
“Kurin…” Gamnae all but gaped, her fingers still upon the teapot’s handle. Words tumbled breathlessly out of her, half placating, a crownbird’s fluttering to distract a predator from its true nest. “He just said my presence might be a comfort in a grieving household, that’s all. You know how he is.” She did not dare glance at her mother again, not at this point. If she could somehow escape, hide under the table perhaps, like she used to when she was much younger…but there was no retreat possible. She was a tiny creature caught between two mountains, neither caring what they crushed during a collision.
“You…” Mother had barely enough breath for the word. It was strange to see First Queen Garan Gamwone of Zhaon at such a loss. Why, she almost sounded as frightened as Gamnae, and that could not be possible.
Could it?
“It’s really nothing.” Gamnae tried again to press the rai smooth, like a cook with a troublesome dish. “I won’t go, of course. There’s no reason—”
“That’s right.” Mother straightened, and the two rosettes upon her plump cheeks glared from unwonted paleness elsewhere. The humors drained from her face seemed to have collected upon her morning-robe, which was a bright, fetching pink. “Now, Gamnae, you are finished with breakfast.” Her left hand, lying upon the table, had turned into a round fist, dimples changed into white knuckles, and though she had let go of the stack of napkins, her other hand’s fingers had curled into a spider-shape. “Run along, your brother and I have things to discuss.”
It was a deliverance, and Gamnae gathered her skirts, preparing to rise. Once in the safety of her rooms she could call for a tray of something, if her stomach would unclench. A bright smear of pao sauce dripped from a hanging scroll; Kurin had flung the dish with a great deal of force to make it shatter so against heavy hangings.
“Gamnae,” Kurin said, very softly. “I did not give you leave to go.”
Who should she obey? Her brother was the man of the house, yes, but Mother was sitting right there. Gamnae hesitated, trying to decide which obedience would hurt less. Mother could punish her today, of course.
But Kurin…he would wait.
“Please,” she managed, a dry croak masquerading as politeness. “I don’t feel well. I should go to my room.”
“Certainly. But”— Kurin raised an admonishing finger, his princely greenstone hurai glinting—“you will also visit the Jonwa regularly, and you will call upon that Khir girl Takshin’s so careful of. You’re going to be her very good friend. Do you understand me?”
Oh, no. “Lady Komor? But she’s only a lady-in-waiting, and…” Objections died in her desert-dry throat when Kurin’s chin swiveled in her direction. If he fixed her with that paralyzing glare, she might shame herself by vomiting. Or worse. “Elder Brother…”
“I expect to hear gossip about your kindness to such an undeserving creature, Gamnae. Now you are excused.” Kurin turned his attention back to Mother, and Gamnae’s legs were soft as gluey, pounded rai.
“To your own mother,” Mother began, in a small, deadly whisper.
Kurin did not heft the tureen. Instead, his free hand flickered again with a warrior’s speed, snatching up a plate of candied pearlfruit. It went sailing across the room and Gamnae flinched, letting out a hopeless, mouselike squeak lost in the sound of breakage.
Neither Mother nor her eldest brother paid attention. The Second Princess found her footing and swayed for the partition, her house-slippers shushing against piled rugs; if she tripped someone would turn upon her for clumsiness, and they were both in a mood to cause some significant harm. Were there shadows listening behind the sliding, painted door? She did not care, if she could reach that uncertain harbor in time to escape more of this.
Whatever this was. The boat was foundering, and Gamnae did not know how to right it. She had never known.
“Yes, Mother.” Kurin now sounded utterly bored instead of vengeful, and it was now he who was most dangerous. “How else will I make you listen? I am your son, not your soldier or your kaburei, and I am the head of the clan.”
Gamnae’s feet were numb. She halted only to arrange her skirts, hoping neither would notice such a necessary operation performed with trembling hands.
Mother hated being interrupted, and her tone was terrifyingly quiet as well. “Your uncle—”
“Lord Yulehi knows who holds his leash. I am head of this household now.” Kurin glanced in his sister’s general direction. “Didn’t I tell you to leave?”
Gamnae fled. There was nobody beyond the partition; perhaps the servants sensed something changing in this part of the Kaeje. It wasn’t until she reached her own familiar quarters that Garan Gamnae realized she had brought her cup along in her free hand, hot jaelo-fragrant tea slopping against thick glazed pottery.
Father was sick, Sabwone was gone to be married to the king of Shan, and now Kurin was making it very clear Mother was no longer the household god requiring greatest propitiation. Everything had twisted into a new shape overnight like Murong Cao’s story of the fishes, and Gamnae’s stomach revolved inside her, trying to catch up.
She did not drop her cup yet she heard, in the far distance upon the battlefield she had left, something else break with a musical tinkle. The halls were empty, another change. Even her own pale, whispering close-servant Mai was nowhere in evidence, probably in the kitchens swallowing a hurried first meal.
Gamnae decided not to call for a second breakfast, though her stomach was an empty knot. Instead, she locked the door to her sleeping chamber, peeled away her morning-robe, and crawled back into her wide, comfortable bed, setting the cup upon her night-table to cool. Expensive hangings all chosen by Mother and full of exhortations to maidenly obedience watched her from the walls, but at least the floor was cool and bare, and if she drew the thin curtains meant to keep stinging insects from her nightly rest she could imagine they didn’t see her.
If she pulled the covers over her head, perhaps the world would cease moving like clay in fast water, too.
Huddled in her shift under a light cotton sheet— it was too hot for anything heavier— she trembled, and wondered just what Kurin wanted with the Khir lady-in-waiting. It didn’t matter nearly as much as staying out of his way for a good long while, and Mother’s too.
That, Gamnae decided, was her safest course.
FAIRLY ENOUGH
Bathed, his cheeks scraped clean and a few cups of hot sweet soldier’s tea behind his breastbone, Zakkar Kai stepped into the Emperor’s presence; a murmuring ran through courtier and eunuch alike. The head general of Zhaon’s mighty armies paid little attention, pausing only to accept Zan Fein’s bow with a slight inclination of his upper body and scan the open slat-doors to a porch choked with the robed, topknotted, and hopeful as well as those with actual business.
Before, during, and after every battle, it was crucial to view the terrain.
“There he is, my general.” Garan Tamuron still had some muscle-bulk to his frame, and his dark gaze was still sharp. The hollowness of his carefully shaven cheeks was new, though, and so was the set of his mouth, tight with pain as it had rarely been even after the worst battles of Zhaon’s most recent unification. His knuckles were slightly swollen, too, and though he sat upon the edge of his bed he was not dressed. His robe was rich, golden longbills worked with tiny stitches onto crimson silk, but it was an invalid’s wrapper.
All this Kai took in within seconds. Each time he saw the man who had rescued him from childhood tragedy there was some new damage to account for, like bad news during a fighting retreat.
“Have you eaten?” Tamuron continued in a ringing tone, perhaps to make certain everyone present could mark Kai’s position as unchanged. “Come, fruit and tea for my head general, and withdraw to your own meals. Sit with me, Kai. There is much to discuss.”
Kai made the prescribed bow, restraining the urge to stamp as if he was booted and helmed, entering an army tent during heavy rain and knocking mud free upon a wooden clot-mat. It would be ridiculous in the slippers he was forced to wear for both cleanliness’s and propriety’s sake within the palace, since Zhaon was not at war and a man wearing a greenstone hurai was forced to better manners than most. “You are most hospitable, Your Majesty, but I have already eaten.”
“Lies.” Tamuron’s grin was a shadow of its former self, but at least it was genuine. A kaburei close-servant with leather-wrapped braids hurried forward to offer a
brawny arm, but the Emperor waved him away, determined to stride to the small ebonwood table, with its inlaid top, without aid. Perhaps he wished to remind the court he was not quite ascended to Heaven yet, merely watching the door he would exit by. “You were at early drill and have had nothing but soldier-tea, if I know you.”
The general acknowledged his emperor’s astuteness with a wry smile. “Drill keeps the blade sharp and the body fit, my lord, and one cannot perform if one is over-busy digesting.” At least his lord’s mind was still sharp and his senses just as keen, but Tamuron did not mention Kai’s daily visits to the new tombs. “Have you not remarked as much several times?”
“If I have, I have forgotten it, though I will happily take a slight honor for the wisdom.” Tamuron indicated the table, underlining the invitation, and settled himself upon a high-backed wooden chair. That was new; he usually preferred his meals upon a much lower plank. Struggling to rise from table would be injurious to royal dignity, perhaps. “Your mother visited earlier.”
“Did she?” Kai waited as Tamuron arranged himself. Kanbina had said nothing of any plans to visit her lord husband. Perhaps it was a sudden urge, but she was not given to those, and it would have to be a caprice of startling power and durability to lever her from her quarters. “I am due at her house for dinner tonight.” He was looking forward to it; much of the rest of his day would not be nearly as pleasant.
Yala in the morning, his adoptive-mother at dinner— he could stand a great deal in the tent between those two restful poles.
“A filial son.” Tamuron’s smile was ironclad, the expression of a man who found some little amusement in his own pain but still must look at ease despite it. “She thanked me again for your hurai.”
“Any mother would be proud of such an honor.” Did Tamuron wish Kai to thank him for the greenstone seal-ring clasping his first left finger, denoting princely status but no place in the succession? Its weight was not a kindness, and well Kai knew as much. “No matter how undeserving her son.”
