by S. C. Emmett
But the lord of Zhaon, her most august husband, the man who had taken her from Hanweo and her home, would not see it.
“— and so I said, I think I could use it well enough.” Jin beamed, his lean young face alight.
“Move your elbow.” Luswone could not help but smile in return, a fractional curve of lips. This part of the Kaeje had been very quiet of late with Sabwone gone. Hopefully her daughter was over the border, safely in the care of her prospective husband. Of course she would not entirely relax until she had word that Sabi was past her husband’s threshold…but it was comforting to think upon that prospect, and to be relieved of her largest worry.
Jin took his elbow from the table without missing a single step in his tale-dance. “I picked it up, and it’s very like a xia pike; the blade is shaped so with a serration on the back side.” His hands shaped the air.
“How very…” It sounded like a terrible thing, but he was alight with joy. Ever since his first weapons practice at four summers high he had loved the implements of cutting, bashing, bruising, and killing; for such a sweet-natured child, it was faintly unnerving.
But this was a world of such things; a son who enjoyed weaponry and a daughter married to a king were far from the worst insurance against becoming an impoverished dowager aunt hunching in an unlighted shack, like a few unfortunate crones she had seen in her youth.
“Terrifying, I know.” Jin all but bounced upon his cushion. The table was laid for light luncheon; early, but then, Luswone disliked heavy meals in the damp season. Later, in autumn when the rains turned chill, it would be time for hearty midday fare to keep the stoves of the body supplied. Now that her children were older, she could, perhaps, allow herself some relaxation of her regimen— nia oil, cups of serenity tea morn and evening, every bite or sip measured and calculated. “But if used properly, a fighter can hold off three or more. It’s amazing, if you’re fast enough.”
“And are you quick enough, my son?”
“Of course,” he beamed.
Then I am content. “And this is different than the weapons you were so enchanted with at dinner not so long ago? The…with the balls, the round—”
“The uye-gua? Oh, yes. Very different. Those are flails, this is a spear. But a broad-bladed one. There are some with tassels, but that does not seem quite serious.” Jin warmed to his theme, but his mother had ceased to listen. Another sound intruded upon their early luncheon, a deep sonorous tolling drifting through the open door to the verandah. Long strings of threaded nut-shells and beads swayed gently in the uncertain, fitful breeze to ward off insects.
Though that was a thankless and impossible task, rather like being a concubine to a warlord.
How strange. The bell— but Wurei-a Kanbina’s pyre is past.
A spear of ice went through her, hairpin to slipper-toe. She rose, brushing the table as she did so. Plates and tea-cups danced, eating-sticks clattering, and later she would find a bruise upon her knee, her humors rising in defiance.
“Mother?” Jin outright gawped at her, his mouth irritatingly loose.
“Hush,” she said absently, and the spear became a bony fist closing about her heart. She gazed down at her boy, the son she had finally brought forth after enduring sale to a conqueror, a daughter’s difficult birth, and yet more visits from Garan Tamuron. The warlord had not been abusive, that much was true, but she had endured him much as a peasant would corvée labor, or clouds of flying spearmouth metuahghi intent on stripping entire crop-fields.
Her only recompense was the boy who sat staring at her, and now his brothers would consider him a threat. Especially Kurin, who was likeliest to win the coming contest. The Second Prince had been cruel even as a child, and with his mother whispering in his ear was likely to become even more so.
“Mother?” Jin whispered. “What is it?” Color drained from his cheeks; he looked very young again, the sweet boy who would climb into her lap and lay his head upon her breast to listen to her heart. It speaks like mine, he would say, and smile.
“It is your father,” she said, numbly. Oh, it could turn out to be some other royal death…but she did not think so. “He is dead.” And now I must protect you, my son.
Heaven grant she was equal to the task.
“You look like a nun in that rag.” Mother clicked her tongue, but absently, for which Gamnae was grateful. She had a headache, and her mother’s distraction over Kurin’s behavior of late was a welcome reprieve.
“It is too hot to wear more,” she murmured, hoping Mother would ignore her daughter and the pretty but very old summer gown of light blue silk. Her hope seemed to be answered, for Gamwone tilted her lacquered head and stilled, her resin-painted fingernails resting upon the small table where she had been occupied in writing letters. Brush, paper, inkstone, seal-wax, and an unlit candle; she would be at this chore for quite some while yet.
Which meant that if Gamnae was lucky, she could steal away. The only problem was where to find refuge. If she visited the Jonwa again, Kurin would find her afterward and ask about Lady Komor— oh, sometimes indirectly, other times with the smile that meant he knew she would tell him everything because otherwise there was worse than one of Sabwone’s pinches or Sensheo’s other torments to fear.
The worst was not even knowing what he wanted, so she could give it— or a facsimile— and make him leave her alone. Mother would only begin one of her tirades against Takyeo’s dead mother if she found out, and that was uncomfortable but not outright awful.
Perhaps she could visit the Blue Tower. Mrong Banh was often stuffy and distracted, but he would show her how to make small figures from folded rai-paper and would allow her to sit in a corner with a scroll or an approved flatbook, one dry as dust but useful if she wished to hide.
Yes, Gamnae decided, the tower was the best place to hide today— but what was that noise? It was a tolling, over and over again, of the Great Bell. Its voice lingered sometimes in her bad dreams, because nothing good came of its ringing.
For a moment she thought Garan Wurei-a Kanbina’s pyre had been a nasty dream, or that she had somehow forgotten to attend that event. That could not be true, though, for she remembered her pyre-gift— and she wondered if Kanbina was, despite Takshin’s assurances, angry that something used instead of new had vanished into the flames.
Mother rose from her seat, arranging her skirts with quick flickers of her plump fingers, and tilted her head again. Her face lit with bright, almost youthful satisfaction, and Gamnae felt a faint swimming horror.
“At last,” her mother said through clenched teeth. “Are we finally free?”
Gamnae then realized what the tolling meant. It was not an attack upon the city or another royal pyre, though one would follow in its wake. There was only one other reason the bell would ring upon a day not marked upon the great wheel-calendars as a festival or ritual meant to bring Zhaon and Heaven closer together.
No, it meant that Gamnae’s ancient, eternal, remote, but always kindly father was gone.
She stood, hands clasped inside her sleeves despite the heat. She watched the First Queen close her eyes as if savoring an exquisite, expensive treat, and her stomach revolved.
Gamnae managed to reach her own quarters before bending and retching violently, but thankfully nothing escaped, and there were no servants to see.
A HOLY TASK
Any other man— noble or common— would leave his body in the care of his family or the nearest temple. The body of Zhaon, however, required special care.
“If it was poison, there is no record of such a toxin in any of the annals, or familiar to any physician or apothecary in Zhaon-An.” Zan Iyue finished laying out the implements, and cast a nervous glance at his father.
Zan Fein was not a physical father; that avenue was closed to him. Still, he was responsible for those under his care, and Two-Face would forgive him for yearning after a role not ordained him by Heaven. At least, the head eunuch was relatively certain of forgiveness, so he simply gave
a brief, eloquent glance of not-quite-assent and moved about his own work, soft slippers shushing over stone floor.
They did not wear their jatajatas in the innermost sanctum, for the hush was not to be broken by sharp instruments. At least it was cooler than aboveground, stone gathering icy humors from the earth itself; likewise, this space did not freeze in winter. Great vaults and ribbon-arches hewn from the blue northern mountains and set with a cement whose recipe had been lost in the Second Dynasty stayed an even, slightly chill temperature year-round.
The constancy was to be admired, if not always emulated.
Zan Kaian, round-faced as a woman and with a clear, sweet voice often quietly ribboning into whatever popular tune had captured palace attention lately, looked pale and perspiring. It was not his first time attending to a body whose occupant could well be invisibly lingering, watching the preparations and ready to find fault— but it was the first time the body was of such high estate and merit.
The great seal of Two-Face, that god of thresholds, two-souled, eunuchs, and crashing gongs, frowned in flickering torchlight. No mirrors brought the sun’s gaze here; this work was performed in earth’s belly and lit only by the uncertain glow of bare flame.
“It was not poison. The physicians agree it was an illness, but not a communicable one. Perhaps a blockage of the humors.” Zan Kaian glanced at his superior as well. It was a high honor to be Zan Fein’s deputy, and to be chosen for this most solemn of tasks was indicative of high merit.
Like any pinpoint position, however, the seat was sharp and the fall considerable. “All evidence has not yet been viewed,” the chief court eunuch murmured. “Careful, my chicklings. This is a holy task, and must be undertaken in solemnity.”
“Yes, Head Eunuch,” they chorused, like the good children they were.
Others would be washed at the House of Bees, but an Emperor must not be exposed to common eyes even in so holy a place as that dome with its carven spirals and channels cut into stone flooring to take effluvia away.
To unclothe the body of majesty, to gaze upon the frail dregs of one ascended to Heaven itself, was not a task taken lightly. The Garan Tamuron he was accustomed to was no giant, though his carriage made him seem so and his piercing eye seemed to lay bare all before him. In death he was reduced to normal dimensions, but the change was deceptive.
To offend an ascended Emperor’s shade was a daunting proposition indeed.
He should have been concentrating upon the task at hand, but instead, Zan Fein’s hands moved with reverential precision while the rest of him was occupied with something quite different. The Great Bell had sounded; the Emperor’s queens, remaining concubine, and children were now alerted. The Golden, those bright-armored palace guards, were under the standards of a triumvirate so they did not unite behind a single leader and hold Zhaon hostage, but the danger lay elsewhere.
Tamuron’s hair was thin and grey-streaked; Zan Kaian washed it lovingly with long, delicate fingers. He even hummed as he did so, but quietly, an old lament at the death of a father. The sleeping-robe Tamuron had worn as he slipped away was cut free with paired springblades, and Zan Iyue washed the feet and hands. There were not nails to trim; the bath-girl Tamuron had been so kind to kept the royal talons short and smooth so he would not scratch his blotched, itching skin.
No, the danger was that the Emperor’s chosen heir had not yet shown the steel in his guts. In some men that glow never surfaced, in others only late; a prince’s life was not hard enough to strike sparks from most, even if the prince had ridden to war with his father and acquitted himself well enough to earn a true device. The snow-pard was cunning, brave— and it hid its claws behind pads like a common house feline until the time was right.
Of course Garan Takyeo was the proper heir, but Zan Fein doubted he was the one who would eventually warm the throne. Rule required not only majesty but ruthlessness, and the eldest son had shown little of the latter.
The fact that his brothers were still alive, especially the Second Prince, was proof enough. That fellow left no stone unturned and no lip unlifted to shore up his own position. Even when a stripling he had proven himself both intelligent and vicious. And while the former quality was needed in any quantity a ruler could muster, the latter was best in moderate doses, lest it turn an emperor into a black stain bereft of Heaven’s mandate.
It was a shame the Third Prince had no desire to rule, and a double shame that Zakkar Kai could not have been born to one of Tamuron’s wives. Of course, the First Queen’s long-term attention would have shaped either boy into something truly repugnant, and the Emperor, much as Zan Fein admired him, had largely let her blemish both her sons— Kurin by attention and Takshin by neglect. The Mad Queen of Shan had merely scratched what Garan Gamwone had already marred.
Many times Zan Fein had raged against the fate Heaven had decreed for him, but it seemed a blessing now to be observing the game instead of playing in deadly earnest. Whoever graced the Throne of the Five Winds would need his services, and he could simply let Heaven’s many inhabitants decide who they favored.
And yet, Zan Fein thought as he arranged the linen for wrapping the body of a man who had in the end been struck down by a malady instead of an assassin’s or fellow soldier’s blade, such waiting carried its own risks. Who better than the disinterested observer, the silent watcher of the court’s follies and the subtle voice weighing policy in deep discussions, the one Garan Tamuron turned to when answers were needed and the Art of the Tongue necessary to extract them— who better, after all, to look clearly at the competing princes, and decide which should be pruned?
His pride was perhaps overweening. Zan Fein set to mixing the unguents and resins to keep the body from bloating before it could be placed upon the pyre— and, not so incidentally, make certain the flames would devour flesh cleanly and utterly— and thought of which branch he would prune to keep the garden of Zhaon whole and healthy.
It was not until the work was done and the trio took the long weary climb up the servant’s stairs— the body would be lifted as it had been lowered into this sanctum, by winch and pulley up into the small private shrine in the heart of the Kaeje, ready for its ceremonial procession to the pyre-ground— that he found other eunuchs waiting for him, their beardless faces drained of much color and excitement fluttering amid their sober robes and elongated fingers.
It seemed the game had already begun, and an opponent had taken the first move.
Zan Fein hurried for his bath, to wash the ill-luck and stink of death away. Then, he decided, he would visit Mrong Banh.
He did not like the astrologer, and was certain the feeling was mutual. Still, Honorable Mrong would have some ideas, if Zan Fein was truly to tilt the board.
DEEPLY WANTED
The Jonwa was full of activity, but what he wanted was not in his spare but very comfortable quarters or the small suite across the hall from the Crown Princess’s sealed rooms. Nor was what he wanted in the gardens, walking desultorily with her head down and a kaburei hurrying to hold her sunbell, or being fussed over by said kaburei and a few young noble ladies after a terrible incident. Which left the sitting rooms, and the two larger ones were empty.
He did not scratch at the lintel of the third and smallest as was his wont, because when he glanced into the room it was empty except for Komor Yala at the partition to the verandah, facing the dry-garden. In a fresh green dress, she leaned against the doorway as if her legs were not quite certain, and her face was buried in her hands. Her slim shoulders shook.
There was nobody about, not even that kaburei girl who should have been attending her mistress. Takshin did not remember crossing the room; one moment he was peering from the hallway, the next there was bright green silk under his hands as he turned her— gently, so gently, afraid that if his fingers bit too deeply he would shatter something fragile.
A startled grey gaze met his. Her eyelids were reddened, and her nose— too sharp for beauty, as her face was too thin and the res
t of her likewise edged instead of plump-perfect like her princess— bore pink at nostril-rims. Blotches stood out upon her cheeks, and a few stray hairs had escaped her braids.
His chest hurt. For a moment he thought she had, startled by his sudden appearance, stabbed him with that claw-toy of hers. Then he realized the pain was otherwise, and cupped the back of her head with one hand, callused fingers catching in smooth, silken braided loops. “Hush,” he said, as he guided her into his arms. “Oh, my lady, little lure, hush. All will be well.”
She fell into him like a tired stone into a well, and Takshin rested his chin atop her head as she shook with silent sobs. He would have preferred some sound to escape her, but she wept as if she was used to keeping such an act from inconvenient ears.
He knew that skill, and used it himself. He longed to deal with whoever had taught her such a harsh necessity.
“All will be well,” he repeated, knowing she would not hear him, precisely, just a soft voice rumbling in a chest built for sonorous echo instead of graceful song. She sought to escape his grasp once, twice, then gave up and continued shaking.
He had not thought this morning that his Shan-style black longshirt would soak up tears, but it was welcome. He was not quite happy she was distressed— but he could soothe her, and that was a duty he found he particularly liked.
Her storm did not last nearly as long as a summer downpour. He produced a small stack of folded rai-paper squares from his sleeve-pocket but did not turn her otherwise loose.
“I am s-sorry,” Yala began, wiping at her nose with one of the squares. “I have r-ruined your tunic.”
“I have others.” His arms stiffened to draw her closer, but she leaned away. There was some awkwardness, but his strength told and she went still again, regarding him somberly, her chin tilted up and the color in her cheeks fading. She tried once more to step away, and since he had already made it clear he did not have to relinquish his hold, he let her go. “There is no shame in tears, Yala. Not for you.”
