by S. C. Emmett
Soon Kiron waited for a reply, but she did not grant him one. After a short while he sank down, as one of the ladies— Gonwa Eunwone, a much-junior cousin of the falcon-eyed Lady Gonwa and her eternal heaven tea— hurried to find a cushion. It must have been uncomfortable to sit so with his boots on, but he managed, and once settled he waved the girl away.
She went willingly, a tiny slip of a thing in a very ugly primrose cotton dress edged with black silk, which no doubt she thought was rather fetching but would earn her endless ridicule at any proper court.
“You are trying very hard to ignore me.” The king of Shan sounded amused. “I might even take insult, ekanha.”
That word again. Did she care what it meant? Nijera was studying the Shan dialect, no doubt Sabwone could find out if she wanted to.
She did not. She studied her knuckles instead, and thought of a knife. A very sharp one, not meant for peeling fruit. She would have to choose her time carefully, of course, but there were instances, both in history and novels, of an insulted woman freeing herself from a tormentor or two.
Very fine instances indeed. In fact, Sabwone was willing to admit that her first mistake had been not using such a tool upon a man rather than her own soft wrists.
“In any case,” he continued, as the ladies fluttered just out of earshot, “you shall have to do without me for some short while.”
Good. Sabwone raised her head slightly, now gazing at his hands. Callused at fingertip and across the palm, they were quite fine, and if they had not belonged to such a man she might even have liked them.
“There is trouble between here and Anwei.” Kiron settled himself more comfortably upon the cushion. “Do you know of the Tabrak, wife?”
A direct question, and one she could not avoid. Sabwone let her gaze rise still farther, to his chin. He had a fine jawline, she might admit, and like his hands she might have liked it except for its bearer. He looked handsome indeed, but his lack of any proper breeding meant he was more a laborer than a prince, and she was trapped beneath him.
“Barbarians,” she said, flatly, taking care to make her Zhaon as soft-lisping as any Palace lady. Some few of the ladies imitated her way of speaking, sounding very much like the First Queen’s companions; others let the burr and buzz of Shan creep into their speech like the little harlots they were. No doubt those would find husbands among the merchant pretenders here. “They come like storms, pass through and melt away; they are said to have skin pale as polished rai, and to eat babies when they have slaughtered their parents.”
“She speaks.” His chin changed shape, he was smiling, the wretch. “And of such pleasant things.”
“You asked,” she flared, before she could stop herself. “Should I lie?”
“There she is.” His hands lay upon his knees, loose and easy. Even at night, they did not bite her very badly. She bore no bruises, not upon her outer skin. “I think I might grow to like you yet, wife. In any case, it seems they have ideas above their station, these yaman, and I am to kill them.”
Unless they kill you. The prospect cheered her. If he died against some bandits— it was, after all, what merchants did— what did that leave for her?
A queen had ruled Shan before.
Her interest piqued, Sabwone raised her gaze, studying his face. Slightly triangular, clean-shaven, with a narrow nose and eyes deeply folded, he was not entirely objectionable. In fact, were she to dream of a proper prince, he might look very much like this, leather half-armor and all. If he was uncomfortable sitting in its sausage-case, it did not show.
“That pleases you, does it?”
Sabwone longed to tell him it did, deeply, but it would ruin the image she had spent weeks carefully cultivating. “A wife should not be pleased at her husband’s departure,” she quoted, and his dark eyes lit from within.
He actually laughed, this pretender, a merry bark very much like Takshin’s when he returned from this hellish, threadbare place. “And she is well-read, to quote Zhe Har to me. Well, will you bid me goodbye, and wish for my safe return?”
If I must, but I’d rather not. “A good wife should.” She fastened her gaze over his right shoulder. Auntie Nijera was at the door, listening to one of the Shan lords— the large-nosed one, Suron, who barely glanced at Sabwone except to sneer. Now he was speaking rapidly but in a low tone, and several ladies had drifted closer to listen to his tidings. He was in leather half-armor too, and Sabwone thought it quite possible the maiden aunt had set her sewing-basket to catch his needle.
Well, after being passed over by a nobleman and a merchant, she was no doubt desperate. It served her right, too. They made a comedic pair, him long and lean and her a round eggbird. At least both of them were ugly, they could match that way.
“Then do so. You have behaved quite well, Sabwone of Shan.” But Kiron’s expression hardened, and so did his tone. “I will leave the city in your care, as is traditional. If anything goes ill, the council will appeal to you for decision.”
“What?” She could not hide a start. A council? Appealing to her?
“Our queens are not kept immured, as in the North.” Suon Kiron leaned forward slightly. “Continue to do well in this, and we may yet find some accommodation between us. Would that please you?”
What would please me is to return home. And yet, this was intriguing. Sabwone realized her expression was perhaps singing too loudly, and composed herself. “It would please a good wife, would it not?”
“So they say.” He nodded approvingly. “I shall take my leave this afternoon. You will come to the palace steps so all may see you bid me farewell, and know who their mistress is while I am gone.”
Her jaw threatened to loosen, and a hot satisfied tongue uncurled in Sabwone’s belly. “Truly?”
“Oh, the old men will take care of everything. You must simply sit and smile prettily, ekanha, and wait for your husband to return.”
Sabwone could not help herself. She smiled, and no doubt those who watched avidly to sense discord between the newlyweds would be disappointed. “Oh, yes,” she said, and kept her hands firmly clasped. “I shall do as you ask.” She watched him depart, and her liver, somewhat stunned these past few weeks, had regained its proper place within her.
It would be no trouble at all to attend this council.
And, she thought grimly, we shall see what a queen may do in Shan.
SAFE AS A FOAL
A small, disused storeroom in the Jonwa held a lamp, a hurriedly undraped table, and a quantity of shrouded furniture standing silent witness to three hushed figures. “I do not like it.” Banh rubbed at his face, stubble bristling against his palms, then picked up the brush and bent again to his work. “Lady Yala, you are brave, but—”
“Your disappearance would be remarked as well.” The lady accepted a small bundle from her kaburei, who was deathly pale, her leather-wrapped braids trembling as much as the rest of her. “The guards at the Palace gates, and at the city—”
“The Third Prince will take you from the palace to the North Gate.” Mrong Banh chewed at the inside of his mouth, added another mark to the map on the broad sheet of sturdy paper made from pressed rags instead of noble rai. “I gather he has his own methods, and a horse for you as well.”
“He is most resourceful,” she murmured. In the trousers and Shan tunic— one of Lady Kue’s, and much too long for her— instead of her riding habit, she was a child playing dress-up. It was almost shocking to see her in such ill-fitting clothing. “Now, Anh, when asked where I am—”
“I am to say you are ill with grief. And I shall bring your meals to your room, and…” The girl glanced at Mrong Banh, who nodded encouragingly, careful not to splotch the map. “My lady, I cannot.”
“You must eat from the dishes, so my absence is not discovered,” Lady Yala said, in that particular tone of soft command. “It is only a few days.”
“What of the young ladies?” Anh’s fingers quivered as well; she bent to checking and retying the laces on Lad
y Yala’s outer tunic. “They will ask.”
“The Third Prince will have Lady Kue keep them occupied while I am ‘ill.’” She sounded like she doubted the ease of that task and shook her head slightly, testing two braids running in parallel. It was an odd hairstyle, especially as the ropes hung free down her back instead of being pinned. Her boots were indigo leather, a remnant of her riding-habit, so at least her feet would remain dry. “Did you find what we require?”
“Certainly, and I stole it from the storeroom with no trouble at all.” Anh’s cheerfulness returned, albeit somewhat muted. “My lady, is it really…” She stole a glance at her mistress’s face, and the picture they presented— brave lady, faithful servant— was touching. If the kaburei was literate, no doubt this was novel-worthy excitement. “I wish I could go with you. I could cling to the saddle.”
“No, my Anh, I must travel very swiftly indeed. You will be quite occupied in helping the Third Prince and Honorable Mrong.”
The kaburei shook her head much more vigorously than her lady. “Great lords should not let you go alone.” But she did not say it very loudly, and said lady gave a quelling glance, all the more sharp because she so rarely employed such a measure.
“I do not like this plan either,” Mrong Banh said. “But it is for Takyeo, Lady Yala, and I owe you a great debt for the attempt.”
“You are kind, Honorable Mrong.” She smiled at him, and Banh’s cheeks were unwonted warm.
“You will please do me the greatest honor of addressing me as Banh, my lady, now and evermore. And if there is anything a poor astrologer may do for you, consider it accomplished. Come, look at the map.”
Her shoulder almost touched his as she bent close, a breath of jaelo from her bath much nicer than Zan Fein’s perfume. “There is Zhaon-An, and there is Zakkar Kai. At…Tienzhu Keep.” She indicated with a well-manicured fingertip, her accent turning the name almost into a stand of cedars instead of a plum orchard, and he nodded.
“Indeed. You are in luck, the North Road will take you very near; this is Haeso, where you must strike north and east. The great bridge will warn you, mind that you cross and then turn away from the Road. Follow the river for an hour’s trot, then turn north. There should be cart-roads for the army foragers, and any peasant will be able to tell you where the old keep is.” What else could he tell her? “Beware of any rider upon the Road, and when you reach the army, do not leave the saddle until you see Kai.” The thought of soldiers ringing a defenseless lady was chilling, and the plan held so many risks it was hardly worth undertaking.
And yet, having seen Komor Yala and her greenmetal blade, he thought it likely that she would sell herself dear if any importunate commoner, armed or not, ventured too close. “I will think of a thousand things to warn you of once you leave,” he finished, staring dully at the map. It was a poor, hurried piece of work indeed.
Lady Yala ducked through the strap of a sturdy leather and cloth marketing-bag, settling it diagonally across her body. She studied the map, and pointed at a particular character. “Ku-ri-he-on-guah.” She sounded out the phonetic script. “What lies there?”
“Kurheong. A very large town; if you see their gates, you will know you have gone too far east.”
“Ah, very useful.” She smiled, momentarily pleased, then sobered. “And it is wooded through here, and here is the ravine I must enter to reach the keep. You have a fine hand, Honorable, and an even finer brush.”
He mumbled something self-deprecatory, heat rising to his cheeks, and her returned smile was rain to thirsty earth. At least the dry season was approaching and she might not be caught in a downpour if her luck held.
A flicker of motion at the doorway was the Third Prince easing past the partition, and Banh pressed his hand to his galloping heart. “Takshin! Make some noise.”
“I enjoy testing your liver, Banh.” But there was no smile upon Takshin’s scarred, remote face, set as if he contemplated an unpleasant duty. “If we delay much longer dawn will force us to waste another day. Have you all you need?”
“If not, I shall have to make do.” Lady Yala took a deep breath, and Banh suspected she was not as calm as she appeared. “I am in your hands, Garan Takshin.”
Banh busied himself with blotting the map and rolling it securely, clipping it into a small scrollcase, and handing the result to the lady, who accepted it gravely with both hands.
“Then you are safe as a foal under its dam, my lady.” Takshin nodded at Banh, gave a dark glance to the suddenly pale kaburei, and let the lady precede him through the door. “I need not threaten you,” he announced to the air over the kaburei’s head, “or tell you the consequence of an inadvisable word, do I?”
“Of course not.” Banh almost waved the ink-freighted brush at him; there was no use in frightening the poor servant. “She is canny and brave, our lady. She will arrive in good order and we will speak lightly of this in years to come, with Takyeo laughing loudest.”
“May you be right,” was Takshin’s parting reply, and then they were gone. Banh sagged at his table, and the kaburei girl breathed part of a prayer to the god of servants.
Mrong Banh hoped, very badly, those august beings were listening.
EARNING EXTRA SLIVERS
Leaving the Palace was a minor trick indeed; the larger was returning unremarked. Sixth Prince Garan Jin, his head humming pleasantly from sohju and his leg bruised from a brutal drillyard practice that morning, was considering his options when two shadows dropped over the wall, the larger landing with the ease of one trained in the lightfoot and the other slim, slight, and graceful though it lacked such a closely guarded skill.
He watched as both figures— the smaller one muffled with a head-wrapping, the solicitous larger with a hilt protruding over his broad-muscled shoulder— kept to the shadows along the skirting, pausing to allow a pair of Golden to march past with servants carrying lanterns. The guard schedule seemed unusually heavy tonight.
And why shouldn’t it be? The world had cracked in half. Leaving the Palace to drink had seemed a fairly reasonable reaction, all things considered, especially after news of the attack on Takyeo spread like fire. Now Ah-Yeo was immured in the Jonwa, and nobody knew how badly he was wounded or where. Father’s body was being wrapped and prepared; even Mother, busy with arrangements, had little time for him.
It occurred to Jin through the sohju’s haze that these could be assassins or other mischief-makers, escaping after a long day’s work. Jin drifted after them, using the lightfoot himself, but they rounded a corner not too far away and he had to hurry or lose sight of their indistinct shadows.
He was very nearly stabbed as he rounded the corner in a rush, and only a short, horrified exclamation stopped the blade-point pricking at his throat. “Jin?” Takshin snarled, his breath carrying a hint of alcohol— so even he had needed a little bolstering. “What are you doing here?”
“It is the Sixth Prince?” Lady Komor pushed down the cloth muffling the lower half of her face, but those grey eyes were unmistakable. “Oh.”
“I almost killed you.” Takshin sighed, and his hand upon Jin’s shoulder gentled. The knife— a short, curved Shan blade, very nice indeed— vanished. “Well, little brother? Are you part of this?”
“Part of…” Jin blinked several times. What, under Heaven, would these two be doing out at night, and dressed so strangely? “Where are you going? What’s happened now?”
“Nothing.” Takshin never looked particularly merry, but tonight he was positively dour. “Forget you saw us, or I swear I will—”
“Sixth Prince Jin.” Lady Komor’s hand rested upon Takshin’s shoulder, and it seemed that small appendage was stronger than it looked, for it halted Taktak as surely as a chain at a watchdog’s throat. “We are engaged upon a particularly pressing matter, and require your silence. It is for Takyeo.”
The constellation assumed quite a different shape inside Jin’s head. “Oh. You’re going for Kai.” It was the only thing that made sense.<
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Takshin tensed, but Lady Komor nodded. “Yes.” Short, and simple— she had much presence of mind, this lady, and Jin liked that about her. “And if you are discreet, we may have the General here in a short while. Please let us pass, and say nothing to anyone.”
He was nettled at the caution. “I never told anyone about the Market, did I?” he pointed out. “Let go of me, Takshin. Is that a Shan dagger? It’s curved.”
“Little longtail.” Takshin almost shook him, but at least the hurtful gleam had left his elder brother’s eyes and he was not one to pinch or slap like Sensheo. “Go home and sleep. This is not for you.”
“Are you sending a rider? You are, you have to be. They have the mews and cotes watched, the Golden are muttering about having to stand guard for birds now.” A fabulous idea struck him. “I could ride. I could ride faster than anyone.”
“You are needed for the funeral, Sixth Prince.” Lady Komor, as usual, sounded kind. “Leave the rest to us.”
“But you’ll need to get through the gates, and I can—”
This time Takshin did shake him, but not very hard. “Do you think I have not considered the gates?”
Jin wished he wouldn’t interrupt, but such was the way of elder brothers. “Oh, the posterns are open, but that’s not the trouble. There are guards posted on every highroad a few bowlengths from the walls. Stopping everyone and examining their papers.”
Takshin regarded him in the dimness, tense as a drillyard opponent with a new weapon to master. “And how do you know this?”
“I was drinking with some of the city watch; they like earning the extra slivers for additional guard duty.” Jin had the satisfaction of seeing Takshin’s expression change once more through the gloom, and Lady Komor stilled, her hand still upon his shoulder. Normally Taktak would have shaken away such a touch. “How badly is Takyeo hurt? Let me help.”
“You may indeed help.” Perhaps Lady Komor’s slim fingers squeezed, for his third-eldest brother finally let go of him completely as she spoke. “But it will be in the manner you like least, Sixth Prince. By being discreet, keeping your ears sharp, and bringing anything strange you see or hear— no matter how small— to me or to the Third Prince. Will you do so?”
