by S. C. Emmett
In Khir, she would have had a pun in reply. In Zhaon, however, she was not so adept— but she was not helpless, either. “Or both,” Yala replied, equably. “He tends to arrive just as one is pouring.” The proverb was slightly different in Khir, meant to describe a guest eager for his host’s table, but she could still play upon it well enough and rob it of any impolite connotations by reversing the position of the two verbs.
Takyeo’s laugh cut itself to shreds in the middle. He cast a half-guilty glance into the garden— and how strange, that she understood that shame. To speak wittily, or to laugh, while wearing mourning— it could hardly be avoided, and yet it invoked a certain amount of guilt. “He has ever been so.” Sober now, and with his Zhaon stripped of levity, the Crown Prince took up his cane and joined her at the table as a bustle in the hall announced that her presence had been remarked and dinner could now commence. “Tell me, how is…how is my wife’s house? Is all in order?”
He could not visit until his own mourning was finished; the Zhaon customs were so different. “Very much so.” She halted behind the chair he indicated, her hands clutching each other inside her sleeves. Hopefully, no twitch of fabric betrayed the sudden movement. “There is nothing left undone, Crown Prince Takyeo. You may rest assured.”
“Good, good.” His mouth tightened, and his left hand tightened also upon the cane’s silver-sheathed head, bright with royal metal. “I am glad you came.”
As if she could refuse? Yala gazed at the table. Three settings, the small bowls of black raiku ware; the triangular plates for bones or other uneaten matter; the tiny bright-yellow stands to keep the tips of the eating-sticks from touching cloth or table; a lidded, sweating, unglazed pitcher of crushed fruit; the fan-shaped bowls that would hold crushflower-scented water for dipping one’s fingers between courses bone-dry and empty. If she stared hard enough, she could pretend the third place was Mahara’s and that she had been sent ahead to bear a message or prepare some small item for her princess’s advent. She could not find a suitable reply, and yet he seemed to expect one. “Yes, Crown Prince.”
A shadow filled the doorway. “Ah, she is so formal.” Third Prince Takshin, in his usual Shan-black long tunic— in Zhaon’s southron neighbor noblemen disdained any bright fabric, leaving it for merchants or women, and its severity suited him— stepped into the room. The pale slash of a mourning-band upon his left arm glowed, but his expression was much the same as usual— sardonic and closed, admitting no observer purchase upon his cliff. “Crown Prince this and Third Prince that. We should have her teach proper address to the young eunuchs.”
“Takshin.” Another half-shamed smile lit the Crown Prince’s triangular face, peering through his mustache and smallbeard. At least his younger brother’s manner eased him, in its own strange way. “We were discussing how late you tend to arrive.”
“How else shall I make you miss me?” The Third Prince bowed, a mocking fillip at the end of the movement including Yala in its communication, though such politesse was unnecessary from a prince to a mere lady-in-waiting. “The tea is hard upon my heels; you shall pour for us both, Lady Spyling.”
Abruptly, Yala’s hands relaxed. Takshin was very much like Komori Baiyan; her brother had the same rough, sarcastic way of showing affection. There was nothing to fear from his direction, at least, and he would hold the Crown Prince in conversation if he was not in one of his deep, silent scowl-moods.
“Must you name her thus?” The Crown Prince exhaled harshly, adding a tch-tch at the end, tongue clicking against teeth like a disapproving auntie. “I apologize for my brother, Lady Yala.”
Takshin actually grinned, and the expression did wonders for his lean, scarred face. “No doubt she has some choice names for me as well, Eldest Brother. And if you were not kept busy apologizing for me, what would you do with your day? Now, come to table. The lady is pale, she may collapse.”
“I most certainly will not.” It was somewhat cheering to bristle at him, much as Yala would carefully wait until nobody was looking and make a face at Bai. Yala’s liver settled easily into its accustomed place, and the relief was too deep to bear close examination. “Your concern is better directed at the Crown Prince. Have you forgotten he is wounded?”
“Recovering, Lady Yala.” Takyeo held up a single finger, making a babu water-clock’s tha-thunk with its sideways motion as a warning. “Do not tempt Taktak, he might throw me into the garden pond instead of coming to my aid.”
“Only if you steal my dumplings.” Takshin’s smile faded; he watched his eldest brother tap-step for the table. Once the Crown Prince seated himself, Yala paused, and the Third Prince motioned irritably for her to sit. “Do not wait upon me, little lure. My temper is uncertain, I will pace before dinner.”
Still she hesitated, so he dragged his chair free and dropped into it with a mutinous glare. Yala sank into her own with satisfaction she did not let show, arranging her hands decorously in her lap. The tea arrived, soft-slippered servants moving with quiet alacrity, and Yala poured with her pale sleeve held aside, losing herself for a few moments in that most ordinary of acts. If worth doing, it must be done well, the maiden aunts of Hai Komori had cautioned her, over and over again. Even the very smallest task should be accomplished neatly and thoroughly; a noblewoman’s breeding showed not in the large gestures but their opposite.
Their silence warned her; when Yala finally filled her own cup and set the teapot down she decided that while rude, it might be permissible to approach the most pressing matter before a bite had been taken. It would save the Crown Prince any unease while preparing to digest. “Has it has been decided, then?” She busied herself arranging her sleeve, picking up her cup, and studying the tea. “What to do with me?”
“Forgive me for asking, Lady Yala, but do you wish to return to Khir?” The Crown Prince gave his cup a quarter-turn before picking it up, for luck. “It is an ill-mannered question, I know, but events are moving quickly.”
“So I have heard.” Yala let her eyelids lower halfway as if she was lost in the liquid’s bright, fine aroma. There was much she might have liked about Zhaon, had it not been so hot or so cruel, and if Mahara were still here to enjoy it with her. “Is it possible for a lone noblewoman to cross the border? There are bound to be many…difficulties.”
“Not so many.” Takshin lifted his cup, took a token sniff, and set it back down. His scars were pale, but the kyeogra in his ear gleamed, a circle of rich mellow gold. Perhaps its loop, trapping the voices of ancestors calling a descendant who had walked too close to their shadowed country, was also keeping some of his sharp ill-temper at bay. “I will take you myself, should there be need.”
“I doubt her countrymen would look kindly upon such a visit, Taktak.” The Crown Prince glanced at the door, motioning in a fresh batch of servants. The dishes and tureens were arranged efficiently, and the room cleared again. “Would your father send an escort to the border for you, Lady Yala?”
“I must write to him.” She stared unseeing at the white of polished rai. Strange, that the staple of life should bear the mourning-color. Other words trembled upon her tongue.
I would not say no, Zakkar Kai.
“There may not be time. And…” The Crown Prince bent his gaze upon his brother. “There is something else.”
What else could there possibly be? Yala watched the tea tremble inside its clay prison. “Am I to be imprisoned again?”
“Of course not,” Takshin snapped, stretching his legs under the table with perfect disregard of civility, though he gathered them back soon enough when she glanced at him. “What my Eldest Brother is attempting not to mention directly is the assassins. They have halted their attempts to dance.”
“Yes.” Yala raised her head slightly. Of course they have. She felt nothing but an agonized, guilty relief that such was the case. “There is little chance of an heir now.”
“I do not think that is quite the reason.” Takyeo bent a worried gaze upon his brother, but it was she w
hom he addressed. “Lady Yala, when the kidnapping was attempted, you were to be taken to the man who hired it done. Did they mention anything about their employer, anything at all?”
“They simply called him the Big Man.” It was almost a relief to think upon that event, for it was over now and her princess had been alive, then. Placing herself in that dark, smoky, remembered cellar and hearing the men who thought they had kidnapped a princess discuss her fate was preferable to much that had happened since, though she had not thought it possible anything could be worse at that particular moment. “Perhaps my knowledge of Zhaon was not sufficient; I think that is the term they used.”
No, that was untrue, for even then she had suspected worse and been groping with bound hands for her yue in case the kidnappers decided to attempt…dishonor.
Had they done so, and Yala opened her own throat to avoid such a fate, would her princess have lived longer, or not? It was a chilling question, one she suspected would return late at night as she lay abed in the smothering heat.
“Nothing else?” Takyeo persisted, his tone very gentle indeed. No nobleman who deserved the name would enjoy forcing a lady to remember such events.
“I will think more upon it, Crown Prince. But no, nothing else.” Now she raised her head a little more, the meat inside her skull returning to some version of its usual agility and order. Just what was he thinking, or implying?
The two might not necessarily be the same.
“Eat,” Takshin said, and picked up his bowl. The thick greenstone ring marking princely status upon his first left finger glinted sharply, no less than his dark eyes. “And you too, Elder Brother. You are both walking shadows.”
“Eat, eat, you grow thin. You sound like a maiden-auntie,” Takyeo muttered, but began his meal.
Yala stared at the rai. Suddenly, the thought of chewing and swallowing nauseated her. Certainly some assassins’ attentions had ceased because an objective had been achieved. That did not mean there would not be more, for Takyeo’s station would certainly draw them, but a not-quite-new thought stole into Yala’s head, like a dull-glowing lightstick used to kindle lanterns and the wicks of flame-flowers.
Somewhere in Zhaon, most likely in the Palace itself, Mahara’s killer— and whoever had paid for the deed— was well satisfied with their work.
Anger was a warp to the weft of grief. Such a cloth was ugly and quite unfeminine according to the Khir, but she was helpless to halt work upon its weaving.
“Does nothing tempt you?” Takyeo’s tone was gentle, and his expression— damp eyes, tight mouth, stiffness in the neck bespeaking a heavy invisible yoke— was a sharp fresh pain, because she suspected her own was similar. To be mannerly, she was required to place a portion in her bowl and attempt to consume it with her stomach closed into a knot and her eyes smarting.
“It is an awful subject to contemplate at dinner, I know,” the Crown Prince continued, somewhat anxiously. It was a mark of great generosity to trouble himself so over a lowly foreign lady-in-waiting, a now-useless woman in his house. In Khir, there would be little but sharp words for such a creature. “Forgive us, Lady Yala. But I would see you placed safely, and so would Takshin.”
He was truly kind, yet it was not a stone she could put weight upon— he was a prince, after all, and she merely a foreign woman at a somewhat hostile court. None of her father’s letters, usually prompt in response to her own, had arrived for several weeks. She could have perhaps hinted to Mahara of her worries in that direction, but her princess was dead.
And Yala found she had decided, quietly but thoroughly, that as long as she was trapped in Zhaon she would seek some means of finding out just who had paid for the killing deed. Against her thigh the warm metal of her yue rested, sharp and slim, and if the heavens were kind and justice offered a chance, Komor Yala would take it.
“Eat, Lady Spyling.” The Third Prince all but jabbed his eating-sticks at her, a rudeness not quite startling— for such was his manner— but curiously comforting. He was the same as he had ever been, and at least that was a rock that would not turn underfoot. She was lonely here, yes, but not entirely without allies. Even Zakkar Kai could be counted among them. “Or you truly will collapse, and I shall be forced to sit at your bedside again.”
“A hideous fate, having Takshin glare at you while attempting to recover,” Takyeo agreed mildly, but a small amused gleam had entered his dark gaze. “I should know.”
Yala forced her lips to curve in an approximation of a smile. Merriment was out of the question, but at least none of them were weeping openly. “Has he nursed you before, Crown Prince? He does not seem quite fit for it.”
Takshin snorted a brief, jagged laugh, and Takyeo’s startled smile erased some of the fresh lines graven upon his face. Yala bent herself toward the conversation and found her appetite had returned somewhat.
Decisions were difficult. But once made, it became only a question of how.
And Komori Dasho’s only daughter was well accustomed to solving problems.
POOR BEAST
Many leagues from Zhaon-An, near the southron border with barbarous pierce-towered Shan, a procession accompanied by bright fluttering pennants step-clopped its weary way up a slight rise and down into a broad valley starred with the mirrors of rai-patches looking up to Heaven. Heat shimmered over the road’s ribbon; corvée labor in this province was performed punctually and thoroughly. Summer filled every meadow with flowers, every hedgerow with fresh juicy green, every dress-fold with sweat, and painted uneasy moisture upon every nape, especially under armor or a noblewoman’s heavy braids.
She had refused the palanquin, and Garan Daebo Sabwone, First Princess of Zhaon, kneed the black Shan mare into a canter. The horse was a wedding gift, deep-chested and long-legged, with a fine, intelligent gaze and a sweet disposition.
Nevertheless, Sabwone took perverse pleasure in reining the beast savagely at the top of the hill. None of her riding boots had spurs, which saved the mare’s sides; behind her, confusion spread in ripples as servants, guards, and ladies-in-waiting, not to mention the Shan delegation sent to ferry her to her new husband, realized their captive had broken the cage and fluttered past its gilded confines.
The restive mare, annoyed at rough handling, arched her neck and pranced. Sabwone let her, then touched her heels to the beast’s sides. More than willing, the mare shot down the long hill-curve. The breeze, likewise startled, sought to comb hair trapped in tight braids and stabbed with pins holding jeweled decorations, and Sabwone’s veil, stripped away by impertinent, invisible fingers, tore with a sound like freedom.
For a few moments, as the horse’s brazen shoes chimed and the gallop-thunder echoed through her body, she prayed something would happen like in all the novels. If she was one of Lady Funai’s heroines, the horse would be a faithful steed swift as the Five Winds, bearing her away from this degradation. If she was in one of Lady Surimaki’s novels, there would be a prince disguised as a poor fisherman or a wandering bandit to rescue her. Even Lady Kunhawae’s historical warrior-women, closing around her with a hedge of bright Heaven-blessed spears, would be most welcome.
They thought her a spoiled child; some of them even said as much openly, for what girl would not wish to be a queen? But Sabwone was a First Princess, of Zhaon no less, and the jumped-up merchants from Anwei who held Shan’s young throne— only a bare hundred-and-half-again years of dynasty, after all— were unworthy of a girl in whose veins flowed the ancient blood of Daebo. Her mother was only a concubine, true, but their clan had ruled Daebo and slices of neighboring provinces during the Blood Years. And while her father had only just reunified Zhaon, his was the house of Garan, old enough to be included in Murong Har’s List of the Kingdom.
Besides, Father had the blessing of Heaven. How else could he have won all those battles? And how could a girl of such parentage allow herself to be sold to…to merchants?
“Princess!” someone called. Sabwone bent over the mare’s neck, urging her on. H
ow many of them would gallop after their prisoner?
For a few moments it was as if she had truly escaped, as if the black mare could outpace guards upon swift chargers and the group of Shan noblemen with their crude laughter and dark clothing. Shan noblemen held bright colors only fit for women and the merchants they sought to separate themselves from, and no doubt this Kiron would be like her brother Takshin— mocking, cruel-mouthed, and impervious to pinches, teasing, or any of her other strategies.
He had probably taught Takshin to be so idiotic. Of course, when Taktak was a boy he had been easy to direct. Don’t cry, Sabi. Who hurt you? I’ll make them sorry.
Except when he came home from Shan the second time he was silent, and now he was scarred and singularly unhelpful. He didn’t even listen when she tried to tell him how much she hated the very idea of this marriage. No, he’d been busy going out and drinking with those dark-clothed barbarians, and—
The mare stumbled, slowed. Sabwone clung to the reins, but no amount of applying her riding boots to the beast’s sides would make it do more than a bone-jarring trot, favoring its left hind leg. Such a stupid, silly animal, just like the rest of them.
Just like Sabwone herself.
There was silk in her sewing basket, all she required was a beam strong enough to bear her weight. And wouldn’t her mother be sorry then? There was the paring-knife for hard rinds, and the latest wedding gift— they were brought out punctually as certain towns were passed and the distance from Zhaon-An grew— was a light, gorgeously inlaid bow of the type Shan rabbit-hunters used along with a quiver of beautifully fletched arrows. Any of their well-crafted heads would be sharp enough to slice a wrist. She even knew the proper way to do so, since she had filched The Story of Anwone from the First Queen’s library and read it late at night with a single candle burning, ready to thrust the book below the covers if a servant alerted her mother to the stripe of fitful light under Sabwone’s door.
