by S. C. Emmett
She could not halt her smile. The heat of him at her side, at a distance not quite formal, was much different than the day’s breathless gasping as well. Much softer, and yet unsteady, as if it would shift within her and cut with little warning. “You are quite accommodating today.”
“It must be your influence.” What would it be like, to hear this warmth in a man’s voice daily and to know it belonged to you alone?
“Zakkar Kai.” Yala turned her back to the garden, her skirt swaying, and took the decisive step closer to him. Once they had stood like this, not so long ago, each facing a different direction. Then, she had been watching a garden pond and he the path, as if he expected reinforcements. “I would know who killed my princess.”
He did not move. “If I knew, you would as well. If the assassin has any sense at all, he has collected his ingots and left for a more congenial climate.”
Her shoulder, in silk, brushed his, in plain padded cotton. “I would also know who paid for the deed.” Yala, committed to her course, plunged ahead. “That is the standard practice, is it not? Someone pays, and someone in the palace dies.”
Kai was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, it was lightly but quietly, a man only half in jest. “Or someone pays, and someone in the palace is briefly inconvenienced.”
Yala’s hands pulled against each other again. Her finger-bones were likely to snap if she kept squeezing so, and the prospect filled her not with alarm but with a dry, unsteady feeling. She felt, indeed, like the strange powder flame-flowers were made of, that volatile grain that blossomed with fire. “Please do not mock me.”
“When I know— and have addressed the matter— you will know as well.” No trace of levity marred Zakkar Kai’s tone, now. “You may put the entire affair from your mind, Yala.”
If it were possible to do so, would she? The suggestion might almost be insulting, if she did not know he meant merely to ease her. “I may need allies, in order to uncover the truth.” Yala decided to press a little further. “When I rejoin court life, I may make quiet inquiries, and therefore—”
“No.”
Yala studied the small sitting room. There was the table she had been at, tea cooling and mirrorlight bright, when the news arrived of Mahara’s…misfortune. It was a lovely, restrained, noble room; all the same, she longed to see it aflame, or perhaps merely broken. A man could take up his sword in an excess of sudden grief and do what he wished; she had only her yue, hidden until extremity.
“Do not, please. Do not even think upon asking such questions. It is too dangerous,” Kai said. “I would have you kept safe.”
Safe? Or trammeled in a hutch, like fattened long-ears? She had been kept close-confined all her life, like any noble Khir girl. Perhaps she was infected with a Zhaon woman’s forward ways, for now the tight wrapping rankled. “Very well,” she murmured.
His own sharp exhale was not quite a word, and she suspected it might contain a phrase too pungent for a noblewoman’s ears, pulled back at the last moment to die in his throat. “It is not that I doubt your ability,” he said, finally. “It is that I fear for you, left here without friends. You may rely upon Takyeo, of course, and I have spoken to Takshin.”
Oh, thank Heaven he did not doubt her ability. It was, at least, some small comfort. “Have you, now?” She was being disposed of, much as her father and Bai would have discussed possible alliances. It might even have soothed her, if she had not…
If she had not changed. The difference had crept upon her unawares, like a well-wrapped thief slipping through an unsecured window while a household slept.
“He agrees you must be kept from trouble, of course; his methods of doing so might cause more than they soothe. He is not subtle, our Taktak.” The hilt of Zakkar Kai’s sword, its dragon-mouth open and snarling, regarded her sidelong. The creature did not look so fearsome now; instead, it seemed to yawn with sleepy goodwill. “I had rather thought to ask you to moderate him, since he will not listen to me.”
He has already agreed to help me. It would not be advisable to say as much, though, and no matter how like her beloved brother Garan Takshin seemed, he was not truly her damoi. Action and misdirection were called for, as in any hunt— or during those times she moved to save Mahara from inconvenience, or to achieve some mischief with Bai’s indirect aid.
In any case, Zakkar Kai could not yet quite forbid her to do aught, for she had not been dressed in crimson and carried in a palanquin to his door.
Yet it irked her somewhat. The men have discussed, Kai’s tone said, and it is decided. Had she heard her father or Bai use such a tone, Yala might well have bowed her head under the weight of custom, childhood training, and a certain measure of relief.
Yet she was leagues from Hai Komori’s dark walls and high hall, leagues from the high mountains and the ancestral strictures held in common by every person around her. She had traveled into the heart of Zhaon, and her yue had tasted blood defending her princess— and she had failed. The stain of said failure blemished her and her greenmetal blade, passed from mother to daughter since the First Dynasty.
I am Komor. This is my pride.
Despite any promise, the Third Prince might or might not tell her the result of any investigation as he saw fit. And Zakkar Kai, while he might offer for a foreign, friendless lady-in-waiting even after her princess was dead, was still Zhaon, and a man.
Neither would give her beloved princess the justice her shade would crave. Yala had appointed herself Mahara’s protector, and that was not a promise to be laid aside when faced with mere difficulty.
It was not a duty to be laid aside at all.
She did not speak, so he continued. “My adoptive-mother will take you into her household should Takyeo be forced to relinquish you for any reason. You may trust her, and Mrong Banh.” Kai’s padded left shoulder held a fine tassel to be drawn through the leather cup of half-armor as a security, moving softly upon the warming breeze. Even the breath of dawn was a kiln-blast, here. “You are not without some safety, but please, Yala, do not take yourself into any danger.”
“I will do my best,” she said, again quiet and soft. It was the exact tone to be used when propitiating uncaring, unbending authority, and she stole a glance to see if her feint had been noticed.
“That does not help.” He did not look at her, studying the garden as if looking for an enemy to outwit upon its map. “Now you are the only Khir in the Palace. No embassy has come, though one was promised once the Crown Princess’s bride-seclusion was done.”
That was news, and upon a point she had wondered some little about. A Khir nobleman in the palace could be appealed to, perhaps, if she was very careful. It would likely be a hidebound elder, though, and Yala forced to accommodate him as well as everyone else.
No, she was a solitary piece of grit within the shell of Zhaon. She had hoped, with Mahara, to be two small pearls lost in a glittering backwater.
But even a single grain of sand could turn underfoot; even the sages said as much. Perhaps all her small pranks and indiscretions at home had merely been training for this, as practicing with a blunted, weighted piece of wood prepared one for the yue’s sharp kisses.
“More than that, though…” Kai shifted uneasily, a restless hawk mantling upon a perch. “There are certain suspicions, ones I would not burden you with until I have more than an uneasy feeling. Will you trust me enough to make no move for the present?”
All trace of male command had fled. Instead, he eyed her sidelong, and his tone was one soldier to another, frank and somewhat rough. Or at least, so Yala might imagine words between soldiers, having little experience outside some no doubt sanitized passages in the Hundreds and other classics.
“Certainly.” When he spoke thus, she could understand why other men might follow him. And, truth be told, if he had put the matter to her in such a way to begin with, she might have agreed with good grace and that small, sneaking relief. “For the present,” she added, lest there be doubt or recriminatio
n later.
“Good.” He nodded sharply, and the gongs for the dawn watch began their brassy, ringing clamor upon the palace walls. All intimation of coolness had fled the breeze; Zhaon’s day had begun once more. “Now I would ask you something, Komor Yala.”
Was he about to exact a price for his offer, or for her inaction? It did not seem like him, but Yala braced herself nonetheless. “Then ask.”
“What is customary, in Khir, when a woman sends a soldier into battle?”
“Customary?” And do you expect battle? Her skin roughened and her knees softened. It was the same strange, atavistic feeling when Bai bid her goodbye before Three Rivers, his helm under his arm and his clear grey gaze locked with hers.
I must go, Yala. Keep your yue close and think of me often.
And oh, but her heart now hurt. The dowager aunties of her childhood had succumbed to illness and old age, and she had heard of misadventure claiming lives among other noble families, attended pyres when necessary to show Hai Komori’s respect. But Bai, and now Mahara…that was different, and the prospect of Zakkar Kai torn from the world, leaving only a frayed hole in the cloth of daily life, called forth a strange panicked feeling well behind her liver.
If this continued, all her internal organs might well change places.
He still did not look at her, but a high flush had risen along his cheekbones. “A sweetheart may send a Zhaon soldier away with a kiss, but Khir is no doubt different.”
Oh. “Very.” Yala’s cheeks were afire as well, a scorch to match the rising sun. “A hairpin is…traditional. I may send Anh for—”
“No, stay.” He freed his hands, shaking them loose, but did not touch her. They fell to his sides, empty but tense, and strangely, the refusal to reach for her was more telling than if he had. “Please. We have little enough time left.”
“In that case…” Her fingertips found what they sought, and she drew forth the plain, heavy fan from her left sleeve. “I carried this from Khir.”
“A well-traveled fellow; I shall show him the sights.” He accepted the gift with cupped palms and a bow.
“Zhe Har.” It was strange, to smile and yet feel a piercing high inside her left ribs. “You rather favor the Archer, my lord general.”
“A fine compliment.” He held the fan somewhat awkwardly, and if he thought its plainness less than his due, he did not show it.
Keep him here, Yala. They did indeed have little time left. “Do you expect battle, Zakkar Kai?”
“A general must.” He acknowledged the obvious with a slight shrug. “You have your yue?” His Zhaon accent turned the word into a half-swallowed syllable instead of the crisp sound of cloven air.
“My honor is safe.” What would it be like, to have a man— this man— keep it? Once married, with her own household…it was the summit of a noble girl’s desires, to make a good match. To not shame her family, despite the accident of birth that left her less than a son.
“Good.” His face changed slightly, distance like cruelty settling in his expression. It was armor, just as the stiffened leather he would soon be buckled into. “Takyeo would counsel you to tell people you have laid it aside. He might even command you to do so in fact. But, Yala…keep it sharp, keep it close, and do not hesitate.”
“Of course.” At least now he was encouraging her to do something she would in any case. The Crown Prince was kind and deserved much obedience as well as aid, but she had no intention of laying her honor aside.
Not in that particular way, at least. The temptation to perhaps…
There was a susurration in the hall. Anh appeared with a bow, and waited just out of earshot. Their interview was at an end, and Yala suppressed a quite uncharacteristic flare of irritation.
He did not turn, but Kai must have sensed it. “You will write?”
“Daily.”
“Weekly.” He ducked his head slightly, eyebrows drawing together again as if the garden displeased him— or as if leaving her did. “I do not wish to be known as the man who does not reply.”
“Weekly, then, unless something of great import happens.” Yala half-turned to face his shoulder and strove for a light tone, to put him at what ease she could. “Gossip, weather, a torn glove. Emergencies of that nature.”
His tight, pained smile did not change. Now he moved, facing and regarding her somberly, leaning forward by increments. His nose approached hers; he studied her eyes, her forehead, her mouth. “I do not wish to leave you, Yala.”
“I do not wish you to go, Kai.” Anyone who passed the sitting-room door would see them in deep conversation. Only the most obtuse would not guess at Kai’s intentions.
Perhaps her own were likewise visible. Silence returned, a fragile rai-paper lantern-shade holding them in its heart. Yala ached to move. Perhaps he did too, but there were voices in the hallway; Anh’s avid gaze and the paleness of Yala’s own mourning-dress kept her nailed in place, a longing statue.
“If you have need, send for me.” His pained smile didn’t ease. “I will answer, no matter what.” Then, he leaned swiftly the rest of the way and planted his lips upon her forehead.
Yala froze. The warmth pouring through her held no relation to Zhaon’s choking summer. Instead, it was a fire upon a spring day after a hard winter, when one’s cloak or quilted jacket could be laid aside without shivering and one’s fingers ceased their cold-aching.
Zakkar Kai stepped away, and he did not look back. Anh had to hop hurriedly aside as he passed through the door like a scorch-heavy wind during the season of mountain fires, smoke creeping from timber-clothed mountainsides. Yala stood rooted, her cheeks burning no less than her brow.
Of course a Khir noblewoman did not give tokens, even to a betrothed. A hairpin was a sister’s gift.
In the Hundreds, and in the books that were definitely not suitable for young noblewomen, lovers exchanged fans. And she had given him Baiyan’s.
Perhaps she was no true daughter of Komor. And yet, she did not feel she had done anything…incorrect.
Far from, in fact. Very far from.
“My lady,” Anh whispered, hurrying across the sitting room. Her braids bounced, and her eyes gleamed, dancing with restrained merriment. “My lady, you are blushing.”
Indeed I am. Yala stood, stiff and unbending, for as long as she could, careful lest the whirling inside her break free.
She did not wish to lose the feeling. It was the second time Zakkar Kai had kissed her as a brother might, and she wondered why this time she felt it all through her, top to toe.
SMALL PLEASURES
Daebo Nijera had not endured years of neglect after failed wedding negotiations without learning a few lessons. Chief among them was the ability to remain cheerful, pleasant, and so pounded-rai bland even the most fiery temper could not gain purchase upon her slopes. “We will reach the Shan border by noon,” she repeated. “You are most fortunate; your husband has come to greet you.”
The tent was supposed to be as luxurious as any room in Zhaon’s palace, but its fabric walls moved under a strong, steady breeze pouring from rich, fertile bowl-lands shimmering beneath the haze of beginning summer. Shan had its own fields and farms, and was affluent with trade from Anwei besides, but Nijera had not yet seen either southron land. A glimmer of river in the distance was the border, approaching in tiny steps like a staggering foot-wrapped Ch’han princess.
This far south, small pierced towers began to rise in every village and town, some gleaming-white with strange chalky alkaline wash and others a hard glitter of polished stone. Some even had crimson caps, usually where one of Garan Tamuron’s battles had been won or an attested miracle of heavenly intercession had occurred.
Nijera had her doubts about the latter, but the south of Zhaon was also the belt of great monasteries raised to Heaven’s nobles or the Awakened One, where shaven-headed monks chanted their prophylactic syllables in robes of saffron, dun, or blue; of course a Heaven invoked more frequently might well be moved to more activity, lik
e a bubbling yeast-sponge.
It was enough to make even a poor relative break off an alloy sliver or two to toss into a begging bowl, accumulating merit through generosity. Nijera made certain the poor were fed at each stop, the largesse expected from a princess dispensed in amounts carefully calculated to overwhelm the local notables with imperial generosity. Once over the border, the Shan delegation would take over that duty, and she was heartily glad of the impending relief.
First, however, the princess must be made ready, and only a fool would think Garan Sabwone likely to cooperate without a bright bauble hung before her, like Ghu Haijung’s ox.
The princess in her peach silk morning-robe, her round, beautiful, sharp-featured face set in a most disagreeable scowl, stared at her breakfast as if there were insects breeding in the polished rai. “So,” she said, softly. “There really is no escape.”
Nijera’s teeth ached, and her jaw. The ache spread down her neck most days; surely it was unladylike for her to clench her chewing-bones so tightly. She simply could not seem to stop lately, even to eat properly, and her dresses were looser than they had been at home. “Do you fear marriage so much, then? It is natural for a maiden to feel some trepidation, but—”
“I do not need your empty little platitudes.” The princess’s hair was dressed high, two ivory hairpins thrust into its morning nest; her mother was a celebrated beauty.
It will be unpleasant, Garan Daebo-a Luswone had told Nijera, staring at a point somewhat over her poor cousin’s bent head. My daughter is willful, and has already been troublesome.
The Second Concubine to Garan Tamuron, Emperor of Zhaon, had, Nijera suspected, politely understated matters. The child was a thoroughgoing brat.
“If you cannot tell the difference between empty platitudes and a sincere desire to ease your burdens, your married life will be difficult indeed.” Nijera kept her tone steady, pouring a single amber stream of haru-ah into an exquisite Shan bonefire cup. The cup did not appear to be a wedding gift, but there was some pleasure in the girl’s grimaces every time she drank from it. Apparently the princess hated everything from Shan, either because one of her own brothers had been sent as an adoptive hostage or because her intended hailed from that land.
