by S. C. Emmett
“Hanweo Haesara.” Gamwone’s pretty, plump hands lay in her lap, but her fingers had tensed the tiniest fraction. The sheath over her smallest nail on the left hand sent back hard darts of light, pure silver filigree pressed into service upon a common paw. Did it feel the sting of insult? Metal was held to be above such feelings. “I shall be very plain, since you seem rather uncaring. When our husband ascends to Heaven, that common-whelped brat from his spear-wife—”
“You are referring to the Crown Prince,” Haesara murmured. You could never be too certain, especially in her rival’s part of the Kaeje. And of course the First Queen would address the Second by her clan-name, as if she were a court lady instead of a fellow wife.
Still, she enjoyed seeing ruddy crushflowers bloom in Gamwone’s round, zhu-powdered cheeks. They faded quickly; the woman had much experience in strangling her own humors as well as those around her.
“And when he orders your precious Makar to open his veins after some manufactured intrigue, will you still be so polite?” Gamwone did not bother to murmur, though any true noblewoman might well blush at her bluntness. “What of your youngest, too?”
“Our husband has ordered the line of succession; ministers and eunuchs have received Red Letters.” Haesara turned her gaze to an atrocious though no doubt very expensive illustration scroll hanging upon the opposite wall. It was a violently untalented treatment of Niao Zhou’s famous fording of the Enshuan, the brushstrokes clotted and the sage-general’s face somewhat blotchy. Even the garden here was overdone; a certain amount of aesthetic untidiness was to be expected in living, growing green. “When he ascends his sons will behave as men; that will please Heaven and grant us all merit.”
Gamwone’s jaw worked for a moment. Haesara felt a completely reprehensible, not very noble burst of hot satisfaction, and made certain her face showed none of it.
All along she had known this day would come, and mused at length upon how to face it. Garan Tamuron’s first queen was of a rich family, yes— but she was a merchant’s brat, ersatz antiquity purchased and scribbled upon goatskin rolls. Yulehi was an old name, to be sure, but their true descendants had died out in the Second Dynasty, waiting for a grasping tradesman to resurrect the form but not the substance.
Not like Hanweo, with their genealogy carved into stone stele for the entire world to see. Haesara had been sold to a warlord, certainly— but even that warlord’s ancestors were noble. The Garan had the blessing of Heaven, besides— how else to explain her husband’s success?
“Do you truly believe that?” Gamwone, clearly, hardly credited the notion of merit.
“It is our duty to see that they do so,” Haesara answered smoothly. “Do you think your eldest will act…unbecomingly? Or perhaps it is the Third Prince you fear for? He was sent to Shan so very young.”
Oh, it was not polite of her, certainly. But this tradesman’s daughter had been placed far above her natural station and no doubt thought she would never be toppled from such a heap. Heaven, sooner or later, had a remedy for all such creatures, and Haesara wished to live long enough to see it applied.
“I know my sons.” Gamwone’s eyes had narrowed slightly. “I thought to help you, Hanweo Haesara, because your scholarly Makar fools nobody. He slinks about like an impresario, and that younger brother of his is even worse.”
Even for her this was insulting behavior. Haesara’s smile, gentle and remote, creaked with the strain of holding her own feelings in abeyance. Still, it was worrisome— had Makar been tempted into an intrigue? He was normally wiser, her first and most winning child. Or was he continuing to tidy Sensheo’s messiness again, without telling his anxious mother? It was so like him to insulate her; he was a filial child.
Impresario was a troubling term, too. Was the First Queen attempting to insinuate Makar had bought the last round of assassins troubling the court?
The First Queen was waiting for Haesara’s reaction. The Second Queen of Zhaon let her brittle smile stretch a fraction. “Your nerves seem somewhat disarranged, First Queen. Perhaps you should engage a better physician.” Of course, her last chief physician was rumored to be in some poor health now; Tian Ha, called the Grinning Skull by some wags, had lost his patroness’s protection. It could be a coincidence, certainly…but nobody within the palace complex thought so. She gathered her skirts, rising fluidly. The fall of glittering crystals from her hairpins, with their subtle pink sheen, echoed her gown’s rosiness. “I could recommend one, but I hardly think you will listen to me.”
Gamwone’s mouth fell open slightly. This was visibly not how she expected this interview to go. “Are you leaving so soon?”
“I have no desire to endure more of your shameful displays,” Haesara said, very softly. A noblewoman should never shout. “You have thought yourself strong, Garan Yulehi-a Gamwone, all this time. Others have too.”
“I am strong,” Zhaon’s First Queen hissed in return. “I have had to endure rival after rival, and I am still First Queen.”
“No, Yulehi-pau.” The extra syllable denoted a shoddy, tradeworn substitute instead of a quality item, and Haesara rather liked the implication. It was a bitter pleasure to say out loud what she had thought for so long. “You are not. It is merely that all this time, those you thought enemies have disdained you. Friends would have served a First Queen better.”
The effect of her retreat from Gamwone’s over-padded, stifling burrow was somewhat marred by her rival’s deadly silence and the scurrying in the hall when she opened the partition; she had hoped to actively catch the servants listening. Still, the satisfaction of seeing them scatter like rai chaff at the far end was wonderful, and so was the sense that Garan Hanweo-a Haesara had— finally, blessedly— left Garan Tamuron’s first wife quite bereft of words.
SAY THE WORD
Zhaon’s great palace complex held an artisans’ warren, where those with patent or patron could tempt the hive of royalty, nobility, minister, and eunuch with bauble, necessity, or luxury. Those Zhaon merchants who could claim a small closet to display their wares had the right to display a small crimson and yellow banner at their shop outside the palace complex, a sign of quality— or of possible influence. The prettiest youths and most winning wares were dispatched to the Home, of course, and if a nobleman took notice of the former more than the latter, well, good luck and merit flowed from those closer to Heaven, as the proverb ran.
At a discreet hour— junior court ladies secluded for daily lessons and pondering the serious, vexing question of what to wear for the afternoon social calls, young noblemen instructed by private tutors, ministers attending Council and eunuchs presumably busy upon scribal duties— the most respectable of the elder court ladies often visited the Artisan’s Home, its name so archaic it was sometimes simply called the Home, with a pleasant intonation to make it a proper address.
The light had not yet turned to the deep unhealthy bruise-color of summer storming, so the lady in dark blue carried a cerulean sunbell; her kaburei, following at the proper distance, held an oiled cloak in readiness should the weather decide like a peasant farmer that earlier rain was better. Lady Komor Yala was hardly remarked upon, though one or two brightly clad Zhaon court matrons slowed their pace or quickened just enough to keep her in sight but not nearly close enough to politely greet. One could not ostracize a silk-wearing woman, but it was far safer to wait and see where she would land like a forlorn falling leaf— and at least the foreign woman was well-bred enough not to press her company upon any who avoided her.
It took a short while for Yala to find the proper room in the confusing passages of the Buneju-bird House, that largest wooden structure of the Home divided over and over until it had become a maze of lease, sublease, sub-sublease, arrangement, percentage, and licensing. These were the rooms for merchants who had managed to wheedle a moment of notice or been summoned with civil but complete imperiousness, given a pass for the day and enduring much waiting and many cupped hands to cross with an alloy sliver or two to ensure
proper treatment.
One such room was pleasant enough, narrow but long, with bright mirrorlight and an air of brisk use— they were not allowed to stand empty much, these tiny vesicles of commerce. It had the proper character upon its door, and as Yala entered, she almost froze in shock.
A man in a dark but very fine merchant’s robe bowed deeply, welcoming her in fluent but accented Zhaon, and his leanness was surprising. Most merchants softened early; this fellow showed shoulders which rivaled a Golden Guard’s but a complete lack of middle-padding. He also looked much older now, and instead of a dark, secretive Zhaon gaze, his eyes were as grey as Yala’s own, and dancing with familiar merriment besides.
It was Ashani Daoyan.
Recognition burned through her, a jolt like kaibok stick meeting ball, and Yala might have stumbled except she was already lowering herself into a small, intricately carved, backless chair set next to a similarly restrained table with a carved apron edging its polished top. Anh hovered solicitously, her arms full of sunbell and oiled cloak; Yala glanced at her, hoping the girl could not see her mistress’s sudden discomfiture.
“Do not crowd so, Anh.” Yala’s tone was kind enough but very firm, though her throat was dry and her hands shook inside her sleeves. “I wish to examine the wares without being breathed upon.”
The girl colored, bowed, and retreated to the door, where she settled upon the mat placed for just such personages. The merchant motioned to his own pair of assistants, and they began fussing among what was presumably a stack of wares behind a painted screen, for no noblewoman would wish to gaze upon crates. The presentation was just as important as the item itself when dealing with the rich, and a successful merchant was one who understood that fact.
Among others.
Yala’s mouth barely moved, but her Khir was as soft and crisp as ever. “How is it you are here?” It was a relief to speak in her own tongue again, and a double relief to see a familiar face. He had lost some little weight as she had, and there was no pale armband upon his sleeve. Of course, a mere merchant could not mark a foreign princess’s death, here in Zhaon.
Dao’s gaze was somber, though his mouth curved in an obsequious smile. It was the same expression he had used once or twice upon some noble Khir he disdained but had to endure, and could be mistaken for cheerful placidity. “I had to come see what they were doing with my sister, and my Yala.”
So he had hied himself forth into the center of Zhaon? It beggared belief, yet he was here before her. How long had he been in the city? The urge to touch his arm, perhaps even to pinch and make certain he was real, made her fingers tingle. “How…” She sought for appropriate words, found almost none. “It is dangerous here, Dao.” How long had he been waiting to slip her a message? She could not ask, and the shock threatened to maze her wits completely.
“Every place below Heaven is dangerous.” Her childhood friend spread his hands a little, mimicking even a merchant’s expressive gestures. Perhaps it was a grand game to him, akin to accomplishing mischief at a feast among imperious Khir nobles who could not openly disdain him but made their feelings plain in many little ways. “Already scolding me, and I came all this way.”
So you did. “How did you come here?” She could not decide what to ask first. “What news of my father? When did you leave Khir?”
“One moment.” His bright, oily merchant’s smile faded slightly; he clapped his hands before bellowing in Zhaon. “Tea, and kou bah for the noble lady! Hurry!”
Two large needles pressed inward from Yala’s temples; she realized it was because her jaw was clenched so tightly. “Dao.” She could not address him in more than a whisper. What was this, some manner of fever-dream?
“Here.” He laid something small and round upon a pad of blue velvet spread upon the table to show small sparkling wares to advantage. His smile was now exactly that of the shy boy Bai had brought to meet her when Yala was merely five summers high. This is my friend, Bai had said, with the particular tilt to his chin that warned her even at that young age not to disagree.
It was only later she had found out exactly who the boy was, and why her father did not acknowledge his presence with more than a nod. It was all very well for Bai to graciously notice a noble youth his own age, and some might have thought it was Komori’s ancient fidelity to Ashani covering even an illegitimate sprig of that clan, but her father could not publicly countenance it— and Yala could never meet Daoyan without her brother’s presence.
Until Bai was gone at Three Rivers, and Dao had been dragged from the field in a rage to keep the Great Rider’s clan alive.
Yala dropped her gaze to the silver gleam, and the sensation of being trapped in a dream just about to slide into nightmare folded over her like a hawk’s wings beating to disorient small prey.
Even worse, for a moment she was reminded of a ring in another man’s palm as well, but this circle of silver bore no resemblance to the evil, stone-metal shinkesai.
She had never asked what Kai had done with the assassin’s ring.
No, this was the great seal of Hai Komori, from her father’s own hand. She touched warm metal with a trembling fingertip. There was the small chip on the edge of the flat face, one she had run her thumb over every time she was allowed to hold her father’s hand. The komor flower and the setting sun, carved with brief, spare strokes meant to be pressed into wax, stared at her. “Is he…”
Daoyan did not let her linger in uncertainty. “He was alive when I left him. There is also a letter.”
Relief burst inside her, and she was surprised she did not sway upon the chair. “When did you leave?”
But the tea had arrived with alacrity, and they must pretend to be merchant and lady, him spreading small glittering things upon a roll of blue velvet, she deigning to glance at intervals. The tea was even good, though one could not drink it while boiling here in the lowlands. Small, exquisitely flaky kou bah sat, shiny with honey and starred with salt, upon a fine Gurai slipware plate.
She could no more taste the delicacies than she could swallow stones; her stomach had closed to a pinhole.
“I could not wait,” Dao said, his own lips barely moving. They were both well practiced in this method of communication, engaged in at the theater or during a festival-feast. “I left two full moons ago, and I still arrived too late.”
“An assassin lay in wait with ihenhua.” She tried not to shudder. “Even before that, there were so many of them. I did all I could, Dao.” Was she pleading with him, or with her father? “I tried to protect her.”
“I know.” Dao’s genial smile faltered for a mere moment but his clear grey gaze did not, and the forgiveness there was enough to ease the sharpness inside her. At least he would judge her kindly; he always had. “We do not have long, especially with your chaperone at the door.”
“A kaburei,” Yala murmured, but he was right. His finely honed sense of what was permissible to one in his position had not dulled in the least. “We must arrange some other way to meet.”
“Tell me, and I shall do what is required.” As always, he did not bother to clothe the offer with any pretty, meaningless words. Ever direct, her Daoyan— and now it was not merely her brother Third Prince Takshin reminded her of, but also him. “My blood burns at the thought of what you have endured, Yala.”
You wrote as much, several times. “It is nothing.” Before, the letters had made her uneasy. Now, they were a comfort. “Only…my princess.” Her eyes stung, and she had to look away at anonymous, glittering things laid next to the seal. The plain, heavy ring outshone them all in value, though anyone else might not know as much.
“Do you know who ordered the foul deed yet?” Dao’s tension was as familiar as her own, now, the constant readiness of a boy who knew the precariousness of his own continued survival.
“No, but…” Of course that failure could not be judged kindly, and she dared not glance at his face. Dao was Mahara’s elder brother, after all, though the Great Rider had kept the son bor
n of an honorless mother away from his daughter lest the taint spread. “I already work to discover it, though. As I am trapped here, there is little else to do.” It felt good to say it aloud.
None of the Zhaon would understand her duty to a princess’s shade. Not even Zakkar Kai, as affectionate as he was.
“You are no longer trapped.” The small, definitive line between Dao’s eyebrows— an old friend, and a mark of his stubbornness— had returned. “Say the word, and I shall take you from this place.”
I cannot see how such a miracle may be attempted, let alone brought to pass. “And return to Khir?” What would her father say, were she to return unchaperoned with the Great Rider’s only remaining son? Even were her honor unstained, the implications dizzied her and would force Komori Dasho to complete severity with an erring girlchild.
“If you like.” He turned aside as one of his helpers scurried to the table with another armful of implements— hairpins, eardrops with bright ribbons, and a thin roll of silk holding a fine chain necklace of Ch’han silver. “Ah, the very thing. Here, my lady. The seal is too large for your small fingers.”
“You are too kind,” she murmured in Zhaon, a warning.
He used Zhaon as well, and his tone was all bluff heartiness. “Who can be cruel to a lady such as yourself? Consider it a gift, Komor Yala, and my thanks for your patronage.” And, cheekily, he winked at her.
Yala had to swallow a small laugh. He was ever the same, Ashani Narikh’a Daoyan, and her liver turned within her, settling easily. Her heart followed suit.
Now she was not friendless in this place. But it was so dangerous for him— and what madness, to leave Khir and his duty to his father.
