by S. C. Emmett
Why had she not taken the edge to her wrists, yet? Surely it could not hurt that badly.
The mare halted, spraddle-legged, and dropped her head. Even pulling at the reins would not make her move. The beast was lucky— if Sabwone tried such a strategy, the ladies-in-waiting her mother had sent would bundle her like laundry, and Lady Nijera, a poor Daebo cousin who relished such things, would coldly direct that the princess be placed in the palanquin since she did not wish to ride.
Yet another insult. A provincial cousin as her chief lady-in-waiting, since Sabwone had refused to choose any of her usual attendants— or her mother’s— to witness her shame.
Still, Shan had already been ruled by a queen in living memory. No matter that she was held to be mad, they often called a woman that when she did not do as she was told. Sold into a dishonorable marriage, a princess had certain methods of recourse, did she not?
After all, she was Garan Tamuron’s daughter. She would not be Suon Garan-a Sabwone; she would sign her name with the same characters she always had.
Hooves thundered and the advance guard surrounded her, spear-tips hung with crimson tassels gleaming under thick Zhaon summer sunshine. Sabwone sat, straight-backed, as the mare shuddered. Stupid horse, unable to even bear her rider from this trap.
“There you are.” Lady Nijera, upon a much uglier chestnut mare, drew rein and pushed aside her own veil. Her nose twitched, rather like a long-eared soup-rat’s, and her sober silk-edged gown, also ugly as befitted a maiden-auntie dependent upon charity, was in some disarray. “You’ve run your horse almost to death, wicked girl!”
Sabwone lifted her chin. That is quite enough. “She is lame, Auntie Nijera.” It was very little work to copy the First Queen’s icy, lisping address; Sabwone rather liked First Queen Gamwone. At least nobody would pack that lady off to Shan against her will. She ruled the Kaeje just as Sabwone’s own mother ruled the Iejo, first among almost-equals. “What a horrid gift, after all.”
“What?” Lady Nijera’s color was high, and her round face dewed with salt drops. “Surely you do not mean to insult—”
I am not five summers high, madam. “Fetch me a proper horse,” Sabwone snapped at the milling advance-guard. One of them— a squat fellow with a sly smirk and one eye larger than the other— spat sideways, a gob of dry phlegm splattering into dusty-leaved bushes. He muttered something she could not quite hear over the stamping of hooves and creaking of leather half-armor, and Sabwone’s irritation mounted another frustrated notch.
“Poor thing.” Another guard, a lean dark-skinned man with a provincial accent, dismounted with a creak and a jolt. For a moment Sabwone thought he would offer his back for her to dismount, like a Second Dynasty kaburei. Instead, the man reached for the mare’s bridle and clicked his tongue, soothingly. “Look what she’s done to you.”
Sabwone’s jaw threatened to hang unprettily ajar. It was only a horse. Nobody cared what had happened to Sabwone herself, of course. But the horse, oh, that was a tragedy.
Aunt Nijera glanced at the man, then at Sabwone, but she did not take the guard to task. Instead, she eyed the First Princess warily, and her back, soft though it was, could not be straighter. “Such a delicate creature,” she murmured diplomatically, but Sabwone wasn’t fooled.
“Are you hard-of-hearing, Elder Aunt? Get me another horse.” Sabwone could not stamp her foot, nor could she yank at the mare’s reins with the guard holding the bridle. “A proper Zhaon one that will not collapse after a single gallop.”
Nijera studied her for a moment, then freed one foot from the stirrup. Another guard hurriedly dismounted and offered his aid; the maiden-auntie landed with more grace than her wide hips and square shoulders should have allowed. “Of course, First Princess,” she said, kindly enough. “Please, take mine.”
Well, that was mollifying, but nobody moved to help Sabwone. She sat there, riding boots still fast in the stirrup; none of the advance-guard would quite meet her gaze. “Well?” she finally said, in the First Queen’s bored, sweet, lisping manner. “Have you all forgotten your manners?”
“Not nearly enough,” the spitting guard said, low but very clear. A rustle went through the men, and Sabwone realized, abruptly, that she was all but alone with them. There was Nijera, of course…but still.
“Thank you,” the maiden-auntie simpered to the guard who had helped her. “Please, aid our princess.”
White-lipped, Sabwone accepted the fellow’s grudging service in dismounting, and in short order was upon the chestnut mare. A commotion halfway up the hill was the delegation of Shan lords riding up the column to witness the disorder, and incidentally to find the prisoner being dragged step by recalcitrant step to the border.
And, to make matters worse, Elder Aunt Nijera’s little helper held the chestnut’s reins, trapping Sabwone all the more effectively.
“My lady,” the provincial guard at the head of the black mare said, “please, take my mount. I shall follow with this lovely girl.”
Yes, the horse received all their care, and Sabwone not a thought. In the palace, none of them would have dared disregard her.
“You are too kind, Honorable Tua.” Nijera inclined her top half— not quite a bow, since her status was so far above his, but still kindly acknowledging a subordinate’s merit. How, under Heaven, did she know the man’s name? Sabwone coughed, delicately, reached for her reins— and was denied their use, leather twitched free of her gloved grasp.
It was infuriating. The Shan lords appeared, Nijera remarking to their leader that perhaps their progress could be delayed some few moments while the princess was cared for after her adventure. The black mare was blamed, of course, and though Nijera protested, one of the Shan delegation took the story of a runaway horse with ill grace and demanded the beast be taught the price of folly.
Sabwone was drawn away, still without the use of her reins, and Elder Aunt Nijera followed upon one of the ridiculously large Guard greys. A halt was called, a wide meadow found for the business of feeding the nobles, watering the horses, and closing the princess in a hedge of restrictive etiquette once again, and as the borrowed chestnut mare was led toward the campsite’s seething bustle a high, wild equine scream pierced the air.
Elder Aunt Nijera turned sallow, almost pale as polished rai, and Sabwone twisted in her saddle to glance back. A hedge-screen hid the event, though, and the guards around the women said nothing.
It is only proper, Sabwone reminded herself. And only a horse, after all.
But her gloved hands were cold despite Zhaon’s summer heat, her head ached abominably after the rattling gallop, and she could not help but think that the mild, pretty mare was not to blame after all. It was an uncomfortable idea, and one she set herself to forgetting as soon as possible.
SNAG IN SILK
The Old Tower, its sides sheathed with sky-colored tiles, held no shortage of scroll-racks and bookcases for the study of history and other arts as well as strange appurtenances for decoding the motion of the stars. The tower’s occupant was held, consequently, to be somewhat of an expert upon the vagaries of the human liver— that seat of courage and instinct— as well as that most recalcitrant of organs, the human heart.
One visited a physician for the physical or subtle body, a fortune-teller for the avoidance of ill luck, an exorcist or monk of the Awakened One’s persuasion for most spiritual remedies. But for the great ship of state or the largest life matters Heaven’s blessing was sought, and who better to discover the celestial will than those who spent the nights uncouched and gazing upward?
“Strange, isn’t it?” The First Astrologer to the court of Garan Tamuron laid his eating-sticks down, pushed his quarter-full bowl away to indicate surfeit, and leaned back, lacing his fingers over his small but respectable potbelly. He belched comfortably, no doubt tasting pungent qur sauce again, and stretched his legs under the table, pointing his slipper-clad toes. “You would think I’d had enough tavern food to fill me to the back teeth, and yet in certa
in moods, eggfowl with qur and redleaf is the only meal I long for.”
“Is it tavern food if it’s prepared in a palace?” Zakkar Kai wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand— at Mrong Banh’s table, manners were somewhat relaxed, and he did not need to wear armor of any kind here. A small splash of qur lingered at the corner of his lips.
“Kitchens, whether large or small, are perhaps the same in every corner under Heaven.” Banh, his topknot no more askew than usual, gave a smile of complete, sleepy contentment, allowing a glimpse of the soft-eyed young man he had once been. “You are wearing a decoration, by the way.”
“It is a compliment to the cook.” Zakkar Kai scrubbed at his mouth again, and the fragment of qur vanished. “Impossible to eat such a dish neatly. One must swallow it whole, pay the bill, and flee before the stomach decides to begin speaking from both ends.” Redleaf was a particularly active cabbage; physicians even made a digestion tonic from its leaves soaked in a solution of water, charcoal salt, and slivers of noxious duruhan fruit.
“Ah, between friends, even a stomach’s speech is music.” Banh intoned this in his teacher-voice, his eyebrows wagging and one finger lifting from his midriff to provide an accent. “I am somewhat surprised you are eating with me, though. You must be busy.”
“I leave in four days. Anlon is hurrying about, his feet worn down like a kaburei maid’s.” Kai settled back in his own comfortable chair, its wicker seat curved by patient application of familiar buttocks over many years. His steward was visibly relieved to return to the familiarity of an army camp instead of the luxurious danger of Zhaon-An.
The assassination attempts, whether upon his master or the Crown Prince, had not helped Anlon’s nerves either. He was an old soldier, and of the opinion that the best way to solve an intractable problem was to administer a flogging— or run it through. Kai’s more indirect methods, involving the application of copper slivers and much listening to gossip in order to locate an evanescent enemy, were somewhat unfulfilling in the steward’s opinion.
If treachery had been afoot within the army, Kai more than likely would have been informed as soon as the impulse was voiced, let alone put into motion. Within the palace his servants had little recourse beyond wearying, constant vigilance, and Kanbina’s were not set to any task more challenging than keeping their own lady safe from intrigues.
Had he been granted a hurai years instead of mere moon-cycles ago, Zakkar Kai would have a network of clients and informers throughout the city and in varying parts of provincial Zhaon itself, ready to set their busy ears and fingers to the matter. It took time to build such a thing, and his patronage, while indispensable for any who wished an officer’s career, had not been thought to offer much in the way of political surety. The current rush of those who saw some advantage in testing his purse and his patience could not be sifted with any great speed.
“No doubt he is pleased to be so.” Banh spared a chuckle for Anlon’s current worries. “Food, fire, peace.”
“The soldier’s three wants, Huar Guin’s Book of Tactics.” Kai grimaced, scratching at the side of his neck with blunt callused fingertips. Even Takyeo’s network of clients and informers were bringing nothing to light, and Takshin was not likely to search with any subtlety. If Kai had more time, he could plumb Makar’s feelings upon the matter, always assuming the Fourth Prince would lower himself to plebeian speculation instead of keeping whatever knowledge he had locked securely in his head-meat. “Don’t quote at me, I have quite enough of that elsewhere.”
Banh’s laugh shook his belly, and the rest of him besides. “You cannot say your life has not been enriched by study of the classics, Kai.”
It was a pity the redleaf had not yet begun its work; Kai could have lifted a hip and made his true feelings upon the subjects of scroll-work and study loudly known. “As a field is enriched by night soil.” He eyed the teapot, weighing the wisdom of another cup. Harsh tavern-grade tea, while wonderful for cutting the richness of qur, also moved the innards to much activity.
“What wondrous creatures humans are,” Banh murmured, his eyelids falling halfway. An onlooker might think him ready to nap, but this was when his faculties were most active. Some men thought better hungry, but the astrologer had no use for such creatures or their asceticism. “Everything poured into them turns into fertilizer.”
“Except for women.” Kai’s own slippers were worn and comfortable, held in a rack by the front door and dusted punctiliously by Banh when the general was gone upon the business of winning battles. “Then it becomes new humans.”
“Wondrous indeed.” Banh’s dark eyes glittered under scanty dark lashes. His cheeks bore the pockmarks of a childhood fever, and bright mirrorlight picked out each crater’s edge. “Is this your signal that you are ready for marriage, General?”
“Banh, you are my very dear friend, but I must refuse your offer.” Kai could not afford to give so shrewd an opponent as the astrologer any information at all. Of course Banh would keep the matter under his robe, but no secret was safe once unleashed, no matter how trusty its receptacle. “I do not think we would suit.”
The astrologer made a rude noise, and their shared laughter ruffled threadbare hangings, the scroll-racks, models of fantastical machines or the constellations made of sticks and paper hanging from the high, cool ceiling. Said ceiling was broken by white-painted apertures for caught mirrorlight to pour through, and looked very much like the pierced towers of Shan might to an imaginative youth lying upon his back and staring upward, listening to an astrologer’s instructive nattering.
Of all the hours Kai had spent in his life, those were some of the most enjoyable.
“Of course,” Kai said, when their merriment had subsided into hiccups, “I am of age and eligible, should you wish to negotiate an alliance. Yet that is not what I am here to discuss.”
“Hm. I suspected a snag in the silk when you arrived bearing lunch.” Banh settled his shoulders, scratching luxuriously against his chair-back. His face turned into a thoughtful peasant’s, age settling upon his strong bones and stripping away youth’s fidgeting. “Is this a problem which requires my feet upon the ground?”
“No, merely your liver and head-meat in functioning order.”
“Very well.” The astrologer shifted, and after a short rearrangement his slippered feet rested where his dishes had. He leaned back, balancing upon his chair’s hind legs like a road-dog preparing to beg. “I am ready, General Zakkar. Proceed.”
Kai, alas, could not relax quite so thoroughly. Instead, he drew the tiny, silk-wrapped thing from an inner pocket and laid it upon the table. The wrapping was crimson, the color of wealth, luck— and protection. He untied a small knot, and revealed a ring made of a curious material somewhat between metal and stone, with a quiet, evil gleam.
It was a strange adornment modeled upon a flying serpent, the wings cruelly curved. It was heavier than it should be— and colder, as well. He reached across the table to lay it near Banh’s feet.
But not too near, lest it carry any ill-luck.
Mrong Banh looked to the left of his slippers, studying the gleam upon its crimson bed for a long few moments. His dark gaze was keen, sharpened by nights spent gazing upward, and the color drained from his rough brown cheeks under his wispy but well-trimmed beard. “Where did you find this?”
“Upon a fellow who meant me harm.” Kai took his fingers away from the thing with a certain relief. The assassin in the dry-garden, so soon after Takyeo’s wedding, was still causing a great deal of unease, and this was a fine place to begin solving some aspects of the mystery. “What can you tell me of it?”
“That such things are better left alone. It is an assassin’s mark…Oh.” Mrong Banh exhaled sharply. “I seem to remember a certain corpse, not too long ago—”
It is much safer for you not to finish such remembrance aloud, my friend. “What kind of assassin, Banh, and from whence exactly?” Kai settled in his own chair, but instead of resting his feet upon the
table he simply stretched them beneath, flexing his toes before forcing himself to stillness. “And please, do not take an overly roundabout way of explaining.”
“Shinkesai,” Banh murmured. The sibilants rasped each other, sending a shiver up Kai’s spine. “At least, that’s how I think you pronounce it. They have stories of them up North, coming from the wastes to pursue cattle in lean years. Venomous, and glides instead of…yes, look, the wings are short and not meant for more. I never thought to see one of these.” He did not move to put his chair-legs down, however, merely eyed the ring warily. “The ring is made of a stone held to be hungry for misfortune. The stories about that all caution that one must be rid of it before it begins to consume good luck as well.”
“Mh.” Kai merely made a noise to show he attended closely; now that Banh was engaging upon his answer in earnest more would arrive if the stick did not beat the carpet, so to speak.
“The Khir fear assassins who wear these; they are most dire ill-luck.” Banh’s left hand made a short avert motion, brushing aside misfortune. “They are said not to sleep or eat from the moment they see their target to until they achieve his death, and their services are most expensive.”
Kai’s own eyelids fell halfway as he unfocused, watching the small metallic gleam. Yala’s reaction to the thing made sense now. No wonder she did not wish to speak deeply upon the matter; Kai would not have even asked her, had he known the depth of the thing’s ill-luck.
“Passing strange,” Mrong Banh murmured. “Northern assassins, or assassins using Northern items. Unless the buyer was a very crafty— and very rich— Zhaon, the only other likelihood is…”
“Yes.” A single syllable of agreement, held in the back of the mouth and exhaled through rounded lips. A Khir, definitely rich, more than likely noble and perhaps even royal, had sent those of one Shadowed Path or another to rob the Zhaon of a princess-prize.
Was that why only a single noble lady-in-waiting had been sent with Princess Mahara? Had Ashani Zlorih thought Yala would keep his daughter alive even as Khir nobles intrigued for the mud and murder of another war? But why, by Heaven itself, would any Khir, no matter the stain on their so-noble pride, wish for as much?
