by S. C. Emmett
“This is no insult, Mother.” Kurin still did not move. His shadow was a familiar shape, tall and broad-shouldered. The screen watched her, glowflies caught in daubs of yellow paint. Brief lives, ending in dark snapping maws— normally, it pleased her to contemplate its artistry. “It is quite a serious matter.”
“She raves upon her deathbed, and I am supposed to quail?” Gamwone did not shake her head— he would not see the gesture, why bother? “I think not.”
“It is well known she had no children.”
“So she was barren. What of it?” And Gamwone had not lifted a finger. No, with her pet physician so eager to please, a hint sufficed. Thank goodness that fellow had recently eaten something indiscreet too; his belly had swollen and fellow physicians had been called to his bedside. The Honorable Tian Ha, once chief court physician with her powerful patronage magnifying him, now lay raving in agony, not expected to last long.
Yes, Gamwone had done nothing. If others felt moved to smooth away wrinkles in folded cloth, as the proverb ran, why should she bother deterring them? And she could easily find another physician to attend her household’s needs. There was no shortage in Zhaon-An.
Kurin made a short, irritated noise, much as he had when a childhood toy had been broken beyond repair. “Can you not simply pretend to care?”
“Why should I?” It was time to turn her attention to Haesara, that nose-high Hanweo whore spurning a higher queen’s offer of friendship. She would have to move carefully, there.
But it could be done. All manner of things were possible with the Palace in such a state.
“Because she mentioned hrebao.” Each of Kurin’s words held a crisp edge, not quite a remonstrance but very close.
Gamwone’s fingers did not halt their dabbing. They merely cooled a bit, her resined nails held delicately free while the soft pads massaged. “She had a favorite tea?”
“If you do not cease being obtuse, Mother, I shall leave you to your fate.”
She had just been thinking what a good child he was, too. Well, he could be allowed his little rebellions, since he was always so winning afterward. “And what fate is that, my son?”
“Poisoners suffer the Hell of the Blue Waters, or have you forgotten?”
“What are you saying?” Gamwone’s legs were strangely numb, and her stomach took it upon itself to quiver just a fraction. What did he know of a mother’s sacrifices, a mother’s attempts to keep her children safe and her own position secure? “And to your own mother. First you throw dishes, now this.”
“You are determined to be obtuse.” Movement brushed behind the screen, cloth shifting. Her son’s shadow swelled and changed shape, briefly monstrous against the screen.
“Kurin.” Gamwone set aside the jar of attar. When she struck the small gong, her close-servants would creep in to finish the work of pampering and preparing a royal body for bed just as usual. Tonight, she could lie in the dark and think upon the death of a rival with no little satisfaction. Or at least, she could have before this conversation. “Exactly what are you implying?”
“Everyone knows.” He sounded weary; her son paused at the edge of the screen as if he meant to peer around its edge, as he had often when a child. How soft and easy he had been, how attached to his dear mother. Why, he could not stand to be sent to Yulehi, even, to reside with her uncle for a week or two in summer, despite the healthfulness of retreating to the country when the season of dust descended. “Father will be forced to act.”
“What, from his own deathbed?” She touched a comb, another small jar of crushflower attar with a slight stinging portion of jellied jau to cool small inflamed dots upon the skin. “He has little time to punish me, even if I did anything worth it.”
Garan Tamuron had, after all, ignored her for years. Much trouble could have been avoided if he had treated her with some bare consideration, but he had not, and what she had been forced to was his fault.
“He might leave such a matter for Takyeo to attend to.” Kurin shifted again, as if he was preparing to rise.
Oh, it would be just like him to let others do the foul work while he shuffles into Heaven. Gamwone exhaled sharply. “And will you defend your mother, if that brat decides to blame me for something unproven?”
Kurin was silent for a long moment. Gamwone quelled an uncharacteristic, unwelcome shiver.
More motion behind the screen. She glanced at the shadow-shape. Kurin was not merely stretching to ease an ache or pour a cup of sohju. Instead, her son had risen, and he turned from the screen, his darker self shrinking but no less misshapen by movement.
“I will not be providing a pyre-gift for you this time,” he said, finally. “I counsel you to think deeply upon what to send. It should be something you value, to avert a shade’s anger.”
Gamwone’s scoff burned her dry throat, but she did not move. She watched her son’s shadow, her eyes narrowed, and had any servant been present they might well have found reason to cower or swiftly find work elsewhere in the halls. “Are you so superstitious?”
“They say she died as the storm moved over Wurei.” Kurin’s tone was colder than it had ever been. “There is much gossip, Mother, and it makes matters difficult for me.”
Oh, so now he admitted he was used to her smoothing his way? The problem with sweet boys was that they became men, and those creatures were deeply ungrateful as a matter of course. “Do you think it is ever easy for me, Kurin? Do you?”
“All you must do is refrain from making it worse. I warn you, Mother—”
“Warn me?” Her hands were cold, her feet numb, and the idea of sweeping the jars and pots from the beauty bench with a single violent motion was satisfying in the extreme. If he could throw dishes, what stopped her? “A worthless brat, speaking to his mother so.”
“It is because I value you that I bother to warn you.” Kurin’s shadow shrank still further. He had not asked her leave to depart, either— his rudeness was increasing. “A fine pyre-gift, Mother, and keep your tongue still. Or I will not be responsible.”
He was gone before she could reply, the partition to her dressing-chamber sliding shut with an authoritative click. Gamwone stared at the painted glowflies upon the screen, her jaw working as her teeth— still good, since she cared more for meat than sweet things— ground together.
She was still plump, still pleasing, and her hair held no betraying pale strands. She did not look old enough to have such a son. Attempting to scold her, to warn her, what next?
Yes, she decided, taking a deep breath and staring unseeing at the beauty bench’s crowded, cowering inhabitants. Now that her husband was moored in a deathbed, Tian Ha was attended to, and one of her rivals finally, irretrievably gone, she could turn her attention to other matters. Like the Hanweo bitch.
Or even a certain spear-wife’s brat.
THE INSULTED MAIDEN
My lady,” Daebo Nijera said, softly. “There is a visitor.”
Sabwone rather liked this new side of the Daebo maiden aunt. The elder woman crept quietly in, gave her news, and fussed over her princess’s silence. It was far more enjoyable than being trapped in a palanquin all day. For one thing, the bed was just as soft as her own despite being a Shan-style box with no short compass-pillars at the corners; the rooms were the best for several miles and the innkeeper’s family was relegated to the stable while their royal visitor recuperated. For another, several of the physicians could be bribed to send letters home.
“A visitor?” Sabwone took care to make her question tentative, despairing. It was more than worth a few moments of pain and a fraction of her humors splattering a palanquin for such a satisfying turn of events. She should have done this before the border, maybe she could have been sent home.
“Yes.” Nijera hesitated. “There must be a screen.”
So. The visitor was a man, maybe one of the Shan lords. That would be entertaining. “Of course. What does this visitor wish of me?”
“I am sure I cannot say. I have written t
o your mother.”
“Have you?” Sabwone wriggled her toes luxuriously. The rai was not sticky now, and when Nijera brought it she offered each bowl with both hands like a servant. There had even been walanir with breakfast, sharp and pungent so early in the season but very welcome in both greens and tiny red-rimmed slices. Imagining Mother reading shakily brushed characters and bursting into tears was satisfying, but highly unlikely. Still, she might have a pang or two of conscience at sending her daughter off in such a fashion. My baby, bleeding in a palanquin— just like in a novel, indeed.
“The dispatch rider carried little else; it will be swift.” Nijera’s skirts rustled as she moved. Travel did not agree with her, she was losing whatever pleasing plumpness she had found as a poor cousin eating another family’s rai. “They will see to the screen now, First Princess.”
In short order, servants had hauled the plain but serviceable item into the darkened bedroom, arranging its joints around the bed with Nijera supervising with a sharp word or two and plenty of tiny tch-tch sounds, like a peasant girl preparing for motherhood by play-wrapping a doll. With that done, the maiden aunt went to the door and spoke softly into the hall; a man’s footsteps and the creaking of leather half-armor— a familiar, tame sound, reminding Sabwone of her brothers— intruded on the bedroom.
“First Princess Garan Sabwone.” His Zhaon was quiet and cultured, but the burring of the Shan dialect would win him no prizes. “You brighten Shan with your presence.”
“Many thanks for the compliment.” She could afford to play the wilting reed now, and made every word soft and melting at its edges. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing, my lord?”
He was silent for a moment. “I bring news, and a question.”
“Is the news your identity?” In a novel, he would be here to rescue her, a true prince instead of the descendant of merchants she had been sold to.
“Do you really not know?”
Put that way, the answer was clear. Sabwone’s entire body, chafing at enforced rest, turned cold. She watched the blurred figure behind taut, waxed rai-paper— there hadn’t even been an attempt to brighten the screen with drapery, or with paint-daubs. A number of things became clear, and she began to suffer the strange, altogether unsettling feeling that this interview would not end well. “You must forgive me for being unable to rise, Suon Kiron, King of Shan.”
“Hm.” A half-amused sound, cut short, was a trader’s laugh. “You are not wise, but at least you are not stupid.”
The insult was delivered in such a quiet, thoughtful tone it reminded her somewhat of Takshin. “You sound like my third-eldest brother.”
“I would prefer to have him here, true.” Faint creak of leather— had he chosen a chair? Or was he shifting in his boots, scuffing the ground like a boy called before his betters? He was speaking to a princess, but he did not sound as if he knew as much. “I will ask you one thing, Garan Sabwone, and after your answer, I shall know how to proceed.”
Very high-handed of him. Well, they called him a king and all of Shan bowed despite his ancestors, so she supposed it would be up to her to teach him his place, should she deign to. “Very well, then. What would you ask of your betrothed?”
“Would you prefer me to marry your sister? Takshin told me plainly she is far more agreeable. If you prefer, I will allow the dispatch riders with news of your…display…over the border into Zhaon. Your father will be embarrassed, of course, but such is the love Shan bears Zhaon that I will take the younger daughter instead.”
For a moment she was uncertain of having heard correctly. He wanted Gamnae? Who in their right mind would want that brainless, soppy little pudding? “How dare you—” she began, in a tight, colorless whisper.
“Do not play the insulted maiden, First Princess.” The Zhaon title sat uneasily in his mouth; his handling of her native tongue was too accented for its proper deployment. “In Shan, the only reason for a woman to slit her wrists in the bridal palanquin is because she already has a lover, and desires not to be parted from him.”
The insult was so huge she could barely grasp its tail. Sabwone fought the urge to surge upright. The screen was a thin barrier, but as long as she played at being too weak to move, they would not drag her farther from Zhaon. “My virtue is—”
“Oh, you’ve been very careful in this caravan, no doubt. But before, at your father’s court, who knows?” There it was again, that faint creak of leather, the pressure of a booted foot upon a floorboard. What a barbarian, wearing army hooves in the presence of a sick lady. “There were no rumors my lords cared to listen to, but I’m sure some could be found.”
A cool bath of dread slid down Sabwone’s spine. Was this truly a Shan custom? She’d never heard of it. “There is no—”
“Spare me the protestations, princess.” Stripped of its honorific inflection, the word was a chopped-middle, broken-backed nag. “I will have only yes or no, from your royal little lips. Do you wish me to take your younger sister instead? I will return you to Zhaon with all speed if you do.”
“You cannot be serious.” Was the man mad, as his mother was rumored to be? Surely Takshin would not have let her marry a madman— but then, the Third Prince might have caught some madness himself.
Certain types were held to be infectious, after all, slipping from body to body like a thief in a row of houses.
“I have no time for childish antics.” Now Suon Kiron dared to speak as if to an inferior, his intonation brisk and curt. “My lords have watched you and found you wanting; you have shamed your father deeply.”
How dare he speak of her father in that manner? “I am First Princess of Zhaon—”
“Of course, this will give me an excuse to have you beheaded later, should one be necessary.” The indistinct shape behind the screen shook his head, shadow swelling and shrinking like an exorcist’s opposing, only half-tangible monster. “Or immured in a tower, with the entrance bricked. That might suit you. Answer me now, Garan Sabwone. Would you prefer me to take your younger sister? They might even find a husband for you among Zhaon’s nobles; one who does not mind the feast’s leavings.”
Sabwone lost the battle with her indignation and sat bolt-upright, the linen and light summerweave blanket pooling at her hips. “Are you finished insulting me?”
“Insulting you? You spilled your own blood in the bridal palanquin, and you say I have insulted you?” A bitter little bark of a laugh— that must be where Takshin learned it from. The Third Prince had come back scarred, abrupt, and mocking as this fellow; they were two of a kind, indeed. “You are lucky I do not give you to my bloodriders for amusement. Answer me, girl. Shall I take your virtuous sister?”
“You are the son of merchants,” she hissed. “I am a princess of Daebo and Garan, and you are nothing.”
“Very well. We shall send you back to the border.”
“No!” Sabwone almost yelled. She could not start from the bed, but oh how she longed to. “You cannot!”
“Oh, I can, and I will.” Now, to insult her further, his tone had the same steely timbre of her father’s voice when Gamnae or Jin went crying to him over some little game. It was not Sabwone’s fault that they could not take a joke or were too stupid to avoid a poke or pinching, but Father never took her side— not until she had learned to arrange things more deftly. “Should you make it necessary.”
Sabwone groped for an appropriate insult to match his. “You rode all the way from the capital to—”
“To see my new wife, and what did I find but a spoiled, selfish little ekanha.” There was a slap of leather— was he carrying a sudo? Did he mean to push the screen aside and strike a princess? “So you do not wish me to take your sister, very well.”
Now she groped for the sheet, clutched it to her chest. It was a thin protection indeed. Her bandaged wrists— she had not managed to cut very deeply, after all— ached abominably. “I will make you pay for this.”
“Will you?” Now he laughed outright, instead of barkin
g. The note of true amusement was another deep insult, and she suspected he knew as much. “If I had anything you could take from me, Garan Sabwone, I might almost be worried.”
“I will stab you on the wedding night—” she began.
“Why not now?” He waited, and Sabwone writhed within her own helplessness. “That is what I thought,” he continued, finally. “If you do not wish me to send you back to your father as a stripped flower, then you must behave appropriately. My lords will be watching, and your servants too. It ill befits a queen of Shan to act as you have.”
Another faint creaking noise, and his shadow changed shape once more. Perhaps he was a numiao or a humor-sucking hua-wone’gia, and had murdered the true prince before taking his place? He stood, and now she understood the slapping sound, empty gloves against a rein-callused palm. “You will begin for the capital once more tomorrow. I suggest resting, for you will not see the palanquin you dishonored until you enter the city. If you misbehave again, my lords will send you from Shan without hairpins or robe, and your sister will receive the honor of a kingly husband.”
Sabwone set her jaw. Tears swelled hot as a smoking summer downpour in her eyes, and she despised them. The hate was a dry rock in her throat. Oh, he had no idea who he was insulting.
“I shall take your silence as agreement. Goodbye, ekanha.”
She did not know the word, but it could not be complimentary. “Merchant pretender,” she said in Zhaon— but softly, and only once the door had closed.
Her wrists ached, ached. And tomorrow she would have to ride. It was insupportable.
“Nijera?” she called. “Auntie Nijera?”
There was no answer, of course. The bitch was probably bowing to that merchant prince right now, murmuring Your Majesty, and there was nothing Sabwone could do. Worst of all, she had not considered that her grand gesture could be…misinterpreted.
Soon, though. She would find soon a way to make them all pay.
Sabwone sobbed, rage and fear curdling in her chest along with the unhappy, bile-laced knowledge that she had miscalculated.
