by S. C. Emmett
The Second Prince dared his younger brother to object with a familiar expression, half amused, half watchful. “The old one was boring.”
In other words, Kurin thought there was a chance he might not win. Makar denied a faint smile, freeing one hand from his sleeves to stroke at his chin. He could grow no beard and rather liked the lack, but was still punctiliously shaved each morning by a servant chosen for steady hands. “It took us three years to arrive at its particular configuration.”
“And neither of us would move so much as a soldier afterward; this is much better.” Kurin made an elegant motion, indicating the guest’s chair. “Should you prefer, though, we may return the board to its former state.”
“No,” Makar said, thoughtfully. “You are correct. There is no turning back, not after some things.”
The Second Prince still waited for his brother to be seated, a host’s politeness if not quite royal protocol. “Is that conscience I hear troubling you, or old age?” The babu in the courtyard rustled its secretive song; some sages said there was wisdom to be had from attention to that noble plant’s quiet play. It was like no other green thing, indeed— not a grass, not quite a tree, definitely not a shrub, and some strains of its clan grew so quickly in certain places one could almost hear the stretching of its wooden tubes on warm, still nights. It uses were many, its secrets sublime and useful at once.
In fact, it was so useful it was often taken for granted. Makar’s smile, now allowed to bloom, was rather gentle. “I defer to my elder upon that question, of course.”
“Ai, but I have not your scholarship, elder though I am.” Kurin, his fulvous house-robe balanced decorously with a simple topknot-cage of carved horn, touched the chessboard with a fingertip. A hurrying in other passages was the bustle of a well-regulated household stirred into motion to provide for a noble guest; somewhere on the first level a sathron sounded, repeating certain passages as if the player was at her lessons. Perhaps a mistress, or a pet artisan— Kurin had exactly as many of either as suited his position, and availed himself with moderation.
Or so the rumors went. Makar suspected his second-eldest brother played at mistress or artisan much as he played at anything else, with consummate skill but very little real interest. Were they ten years younger, Makar could perhaps have named what Kurin was truly interested in. Nowadays, though…well, children were simple; princes could not afford to be.
Especially if they wished to survive.
Tea was brought by silent, slipper-soled servants, along with small cakes of pounded rai with various fillings. Makar wished it was Zakkar Kai he was playing against; the Head General’s cook was superior to the Second Prince’s. He dutifully complimented the cakes, though, and Kurin’s favorite chu-an tea was a trifle too sweet but otherwise strong enough and served scorching to make the sweat rise and cool its drinker.
They inquired after each other’s health, bemoaned the amount of losses real or fictional at the races in the Great Bowl, exchanged compliments. One could never hurry Kurin; the Second Prince always wished to lead the dance and Makar was content to let him.
For now.
Finally, Kurin set his hand to one of his chariots, and eyed Makar speculatively. “I suppose we have been polite enough.”
“I suppose.” Makar poured a fresh cup for his elder brother and set the fine Gurai slipware pot aside. “Is that your first move? Untraditional, and interesting.”
“I have not moved yet.” Kurin’s tone was gentle, all things considered, and he wore the sleepy expression of a man in command of his situation, whatever it might be. “Nor have you.”
Ah. So that is what we are discussing. “Of course not, I always play the West.” It put him at a disadvantage in the beginning, or so his opponents thought.
“Why East and West, I wonder?” Kurin’s fingernail caressed the chariot’s side, precious ivory harvested so as to leave its great toothed mountain of a beast-bearer still alive. It was said those who performed the task also guarded the great quadrupeds, and that their warriors knew a secret art allowing them to strike an opponent with as much force as their sad and intelligent charges. “Why not North and South?”
“Tradition, I suppose.” Makar considered the series of moves that would flow from Kurin opening the game in this manner. It was so easy, but he had long ago discovered not many of his fellow men possessed the ability to do so. At first he had suspected the capacity was innate in all, and only laziness or the crushing burden of daily work kept most people from developing it.
Now, however, he was not so certain.
“We are modern princes.” Kurin, for once, remembered that another of Garan Tamuron’s sons was a prince just as surely as he. Of course, with the First Queen whispering in his ear his entire life, he could be forgiven for thinking himself utterly unique. “Tradition should not hold us.”
“It has an iron grip.” Makar adopted a thoughtful tone, his gaze upon the board. It would not be difficult to win if Kurin insisted on moving his chariot first. Idly, he wondered at the chances his elder brother would do so. Calculating such things was a sure way to stave off boredom, keeping the mind sharp and engaged. “Sometimes I wonder whether it keeps much worse at bay, like a roof in winter.”
“You are philosophical today.” Kurin chose a soldier, and the first move of the game was, despite his play at the chariot, utterly orthodox. “It must be the weather.”
“The afternoon storms have come.” Makar considered the board afresh. Kurin either intended to say nothing new, or wished to lull his brother into a false sense of security. Makar’s own move was orthodox as well, a cannon moving slyly forward. “Expected, and yet an inconvenience.”
“So many expected things are.” Kurin paused. Now would come the entire point of his invitation, the matter he truly wished to discuss— or its handmaiden, preceding a mistress into a hallway, smoothing the way and announcing one of great import. “The physicians are in agreement. Father’s health is failing.”
“Ill news indeed.” All at once Makar was weary of double or triple meanings, of subtle games, of careful, cautious maneuvers. It was a feeling akin to impatience, and a man could lose much with a single inadvisable movement or word. Still, there was some utility in a direct approach. “What do you think will happen,” he continued, keeping his fingertips upon the cannon in case a better move presented itself at the last moment, “when he ascends to Heaven?”
“Is that where you think he’ll fly?” Kurin’s smile didn’t change, a faint curve of his balm-rubbed lips. He took the usual care with his appearance, no more, no less. Servants did not respect a shabby master, or an overly kind one. “And is that your move? I only ask because your hand seems to have forgotten its duty.”
Makar would not be hurried, in this or any other game. “Do not all Emperors ascend to the Celestial Halls, especially the just? You must agree he has unified Zhaon.”
“The god with the Five Winds in his keeping would agree, of course.” The garden-breeze touched Kurin’s hair, mouthed the board. The babu continued its observations in its own sibilant tongue, a constant rubbing counterpoint to the sathron’s meandering. Practice was over and the player was amusing herself, snatches of melody shifting from one song to another. “Otherwise, why would he be so blessed? An empire— and a multiplicity of heirs.”
Indeed. Makar was largely uninterested in gods beyond the lip service that must be paid to keep the uneducated from rising to trouble their betters. He was, however, curious as to Kurin’s purpose in addressing the fact of Father’s approaching demise, that child’s nightmare. “Do you think Heaven blind to Father’s faults?”
“Ah, you say the Emperor has faults?” Kurin’s grin was that of a fox with a mouse under its paw, and the gleam in his sleepy gaze sharpened. “Quickly, fetch Zan Fein, someone has uttered treason.”
A jest in very bad taste, elder brother. Makar arched an eyebrow. “We cannot speak wisely to each other?” He would not say openly, since one rudeness did not
balance another.
Not at the moment, at least.
“Of course we may, Makar, but perhaps only by accident.” No doubt the Second Prince thought it a stinging reproof. “If it is wisdom you are seeking, perhaps your old tutors are still available.”
It would be quite satisfying to tip his general over, let the tiny carved thing hit the board, rise, and leave without a further word. Quite theatrical, and also stupid. Kurin, like many a cat and some sawtooth fish, tended only to pursue prey that struggled or bled.
Instead, Makar made a tch-tch sound, like an old maiden-auntie remonstrating with a spoiled child. “You are in a terrible mood.”
“No, merely thoughtful, and I did not think you so delicate as to take offense.” Satisfied that he had perhaps unsettled his conversational partner, Kurin pressed a fraction further. “Is that truly your move?”
“Do not hurry me, Second Prince.” Makar allowed his tone to sharpen, but only slightly.
“Ah.” Kurin made a mock-repentant face, still possessed of a childlike facility for mimicry though he rarely exercised it. “Now I’ve truly hurt your feelings.”
Unlikely, Elder Brother. But I will let you think so. “Assuming I have any.” Or assuming Makar was foolish enough to allow whatever feelings he did have to become dependent upon anything his brother said.
“Just think, when Father was your age, he had already won his first battle.” Finally, Kurin was moving onto the floor. It took two to dance or spar, and Makar was a willing partner— at least for a few babu-clicks of music.
“And when he was your age, he had lost the next two and married our First Mother.” The most archaic term used by a child addressing the first wife in a household was polite, but hardly common; nowadays, a significantly shorter honorific was employed.
Kurin’s smile was, for once, unfeigned. “How she would rage to hear herself referred to so.”
“Would she?” First Queen Gamwone, Makar reflected, would rage no matter what. She seemed rather fond of her explosions, given the regularity with which gossip whispered she’d had a new one. “I thought she liked me.”
“Only because she considers you unthreatening.” It could be compliment or insult; Kurin’s tone was excessively neutral. He rubbed his hurai with his thumb, a thoughtful, habitual polishing.
“And happy to be so.” You cannot know how happy, brother mine. “I have a pleasant life; ruling Zhaon would disturb my brush practice.”
Kurin sobered. He was finally ready to arrive at the point. “You think disinterest will save you?”
Makar took his fingers away, let the cannon stand. His attention sharpened and the thrill of a game finally joined in earnest ran down his back, suppressed before it could become even close to visible. “I think my brothers are too wise to consider me a threat.”
“Or not wise enough, if they think you do not have plans for your own survival.” Kurin adopted an attitude of profound thought, watching the board as if he suspected its dimensions would change of their own accord.
Perhaps he found it easier to speak directly if he did not meet his opponent’s gaze.
“Every man wishes to survive.” Each choice upon the board limited the range of possibilities, and paradoxically widened several individual probabilities within certain narrow confines. The world hung in balance between those two motions, breathing in and out, the cold and warm humors that made the physical and subtle bodies as well as everything around them. It was a great, complicated machine, and the Fourth Prince of Zhaon wondered that others could not see the interlocking parts as clearly as he seemed to. “There is no shame in such a desire.”
“Exactly.” Kurin exhaled heavily. “He is weak, Makar. You know as much.”
Not weak as you think, nor in the way you obviously wish him to be. This particular conversation was an old acquaintance, and Makar usually turned the observation aside with a witticism or a refusal to engage. Today, however, his forehead wrinkled as he stared at the board. There was no servant within hearing; nothing but the wind and the board to witness this. “Perhaps he will step aside.”
Would Kurin pretend agreement? Abdication was a dream, like Hanjei the Monk’s seven veiled women before the Awakened One descended upon the sage, either driving him mad or granting him absolute clarity according to which interpreter you believed.
Many things were permitted to a prince, but neither escape nor surrender were among their number.
Kurin touched one of his own cannons, then a junior general safely behind the front lines. His nails were buffed, and very clean. “And if he does? What then? Legitimacy is fragile ice upon a winter puddle, and any noble family not satisfied with their place may apply to Takyeo for relief or raise their banners as our lord father did. Instead of one Emperor, there will be several, all jostling over Zhaon like dogs at a dead curltail. No, there is no way but the most traditional, Makar. I am surprised you do not see as much.”
“Takyeo is too kind.” The kindness had been obvious all his eldest brother’s life, and would not change for wishing it otherwise. “But he is far from weak, Kurin, and he has aid. Takshin, Kai—”
“Oh, those two.” Kurin’s hurai glinted as he waved aside both the God of War’s beloved general and his own mother’s second son. “My brat of a little brother and a lowborn granted a prince’s ring. Staunch allies, I am sure. When Takshin’s pride is touched over some trifle and he returns to Shan, and Zakkar Kai is fighting Zhaon’s war in the North or elsewhere, how will Takyeo rule? Even Banh is more fit for it, and he a tavern-boy turned astrologer.”
“Mrong Banh is very learned,” Makar murmured. He had suspected Kurin could be induced to speak more plainly than usual today, and the dull dissatisfaction of being proved right in such a matter threatened to bind his temples with a headache. “You are quite harsh, Kurin. Takyeo may prove ruthless with Zhaon’s enemies and mild with its friends. Is not such a ruler to be desired?”
“With the Pale Horde sending envoys and Khir’s princess dead within months of marrying our brother?” At least Kurin did not snort in derision, though it sounded perilously close; the question of what exactly he had to do with the latter event he listed— if anything— was not even close to answered to Makar’s satisfaction. “I do not wish for a may-prove, Makar. I wish for a certainty.”
And you think you are that certainty? “So do we all wish.” It was depressingly obvious, Kurin was nerving himself to take the step from complaint to action, or perhaps already had. Valuable information, certainly, but not unexpected or unplanned-for. The Fourth Prince kept his gaze upon the board, almost wishing his brother had not sunk to expectation. Still, it was better than a nasty surprise when a piece upon the board rose above the anticipated. “Is there such a thing as certainty under Heaven’s halls?”
“Do not philosophize further, Maki. Listen to me.” Kurin leaned forward slightly, his fingertip tapping the board before his front lines— a god striking before an army, an omen for the small pieces if they chose to interpret it. “If Takyeo were strong enough to cause me sleepless nights, I might almost welcome the inevitable when Father dies. Instead, I sleep like a child dosed with nightwort, unless I think upon the scrolls and flatbooks written thirty winters ago after the Horde came riding, smashed the Three Small Zhaons before our father was granted a miracle by Heaven to turn them back, and vanished with their spoil. Have you ever considered that perhaps our father is not strong, it is simply his opponents who were weak? Have you?” Kurin scowled at inert, voiceless pieces arranged and moved at the pleasure of larger beings. “I know you have. So answer me, younger brother. When Father dies, what will you choose?”
It was almost an insult that his brother thought Makar stupid enough to make any declaration at this particular point. At the same moment, he understood the Second Prince’s dilemma, perhaps better than Kurin himself did. “I have not yet considered the possibilities, since Father is still alive.” It was almost a lie— he had considered much, but found it profitless to move wit
hout a few more prospects ripening. Makar leaned back in his chair. “Takshin was adopted by Shan; he may not take the throne. I am uninterested, so is Kai, Sensheo is too stupid, Jin— ah, he is beloved, but he is a child still.”
“Are you so certain Kai is uninterested, my brother?” Kurin settled against his own chair-back, stroking at his well-trimmed smallbeard. His hurai gleamed again, and an observer could be forgiven for thinking he habitually arranged himself in such a way as to let it show. “Our father was a warlord, and Kai has the favor of the peasants despite the misery war brings them. They think him the God of War.”
Makar could have argued that they thought him blessed by said god, but that was unhelpful and besides, not quite accurate. The blessing and the celestial being merged in peasant-simple minds. “You have ever disliked him.” And more so because he does not seem to care.
Kurin’s eyes narrowed; he looked rather like Sabwone when they did. “Not as much as Sensheo.”
“That is true.” The Fifth Prince’s antipathy to Zakkar Kai was a tree rooted in childhood and nourished assiduously, near-daily, by Sensheo himself. Makar’s worries lately centered upon that fact, and he wished the noxious plant could be uprooted and burned, if only to ease some of his mother’s concerns. The Second Queen deserved a tranquil old age, and it was her eldest son’s task to provide as much. “But, Kurin, Takyeo is young and fit. Father expects this of him, and he is ever Father’s faithful servant.”
“Not so faithful lately.” It seemed the event pleased the Second Prince immensely. Any discord between the Crown Prince and the Emperor would be nectar to his mother, too. “Do you think he will truly retire to the countryside?”
That is the wrong question, my brother. Makar was beginning to wish he had never accepted the invitation to play a game and pass an afternoon. So far, this conversation was depressingly as foreseen. “I think he wishes to, and may even prepare his household for the eventuality.”
