The Poison Prince

by S. C. Emmett

  “Bumbling? You—”

  One moment Garan Makar was slump-shouldered, standing tired and almost defeated at the threshold. The next, he had Sensheo’s robe-front knotted in his fists and had driven his younger brother to the wall between two spindle-legged tables holding paired Ch’han vases— expensive only because of the cost of dragging them step by step from that far land, not for any aesthetic consideration— with bright crushflowers painted upon their vulgar sides.

  “Shut. Up,” Garan Makar hissed, and his face contorted terribly. “Suborning soldiers in the Northern Army? You idiot. Your attempts to kill Kai have gone too far, and I will not save you this time. It is a wonder he hasn’t guessed and extracted your coward of a liver.”

  Sensheo struggled and sought to strike again.

  Makar slapped his fist away with contemptuous ease. “You have not practiced lately, brother. It shows.” He brought a knee up, and sank it where it did the most good.

  The Fifth Prince— oh, once Kurin ascended the throne and ordered the succession their titles would change, and Makar was almost too exhausted to consider the prospect— promptly wheezed, and every inclination he may have had to fight drained like water through the westron sand-wastes. Makar propped his mother’s second son against the wall and waited for him to catch his breath.

  He did not like losing his temper. He especially did not like that his stupid, silly, graceless younger sibling had provoked the event.

  “Now,” he said, when Sensheo had ceased to moan imprecations. “Stay in your house, little brother. Leave the arrangements to me, and I will see you freed soon enough. But you must cooperate, and I warn you now, should Kai find enough evidence of your recent indiscretions, I will not lift a finger to gainsay him.”

  The scholar prince turned upon his heel, left his brother to rearrange his untidy clothing, and exited what was now Sensheo’s prison.

  For Garan Makar was called to show his support and filial reverence by aiding Banh and Zan Fein with arrangements for the enthronement ceremonies, and he would have to move carefully to keep himself— and his mother— from the First Queen’s endless petty vengeance or Kurin’s simple, thorough tidying-up.

  ASCENSION IN PEACE

  The palace boiled like a yeast sponge or a rai-pot, the ferment not spilling free but nevertheless chattering a lid upon its rim. Garan Kurin, his hands shaking— small tremors imperceptible from outside, and strenuously ignored from within— stood in the middle of the room he slept in when he visited his mother’s part of the Kaeje.

  It was not as congenial as his own estate outside the complex walls, and the clean mourning robe placed upon its stand, a coil of freshening incense slowly perfuming its folds, was alternately a leering shade and a prosaic piece of cloth. But the room was convenient, and was furthermore exactly where he was expected to be, changing his sickroom-contaminated clothing before the great machinery of custom and ritual came to drag him to the place he was born to occupy.

  First would come the eunuchs, sober and dark-robed, and Kurin would send them away. Next would come the court ladies, wailing, lingering upon his mother’s steps in their grief for an Emperor they had not time to applaud the seating of. Some of them might even have liked Takyeo personally, but when it became clear Father would not countenance a marriage to a mere Zhaon girl, the mothers had turned their sewing-baskets to catch other princely prey.

  After that the Golden would come, and pound specially shod spear-butts upon the stone steps and broad avenue before the First Queen’s part of the Kaeje, producing a rolling thunder. They would do this between one watch-gong and the next, the exhausted consigning their spears to fresh hands at regular intervals. It was considered lucky for a Golden to partake of this ceremony; there would be no shortage of performers. The night would pass with that noise and various other ceremonies, while Kurin prayed for guidance— or appeared to— before a hurriedly prepared altar with both his father’s and Takyeo’s names painted upon wooden stele.

  Finally, in the morning, a group of notables and beggars— the former richly robed and selected by formal Court lottery, the latter counted through the traditional northern gate of the palace complex and eager for the feast that would be served them as dusk rose— would take their stations and begin their cries for him to come out. That was when Kurin could appear in mourning, making the traditional signs of refusal thrice more before being lifted on a litter borne by a few husky Golden and taken to the chambers of state in the southeast part of the Kaeje where the ceremonies would begin. Just a few walls separated him from the small stone room, hastily cleaned of his father’s belongings, where he would spend tomorrow night in prayer to Heaven to make him fit to steer Zhaon’s course.

  In all reality, he would lie awake in the dark for a short while, considering various moves and countermoves, before dropping into the black well of well-earned sleep.

  Quite different from how Sensheo would spend his evening hours for the next few days, Kurin presumed. A slight smile lingered upon his lips as he smoothed the sleeve of the fresh mourning-robe. His mother’s few male servants crowded the hallway, waiting for the call to aid in dressing. One or two of the junior close-maids would arrange his hair, and he had a visit from his mother to look forward to as well.

  A hidden pocket of the robe worn to Takyeo’s death-room held a small, heavy object. He drew the small porcelain vial taken from another brother’s sleeve on a hot dusty day free, and gazed at its rough, unglazed belly, its soakwood stopper.

  Yes, Sensheo was probably in a lather. His little brother’s many intrigues, some clumsy, others approaching subtlety only by accident, were more often than not at cross-purposes with each other. The fellow simply did not know how to wait, and that was the most necessary skill of all.

  Easy enough to make the men guarding Zhaon’s egress points think they were serving one prince when in fact they served Kurin’s ends, and doubly easy with the use of a few impresarios— thoughtfully arranged by his uncle, who would be attended to in some little while— to make the hired riders think they had discovered a great secret about their shadowy patron.

  The question of just what to do about Sensheo lingered in Kurin’s head-meat; he paced to the partition that would reveal a low porch and one of the Kaeje’s many gardens if he slid it aside.

  He did not. These few moments of unguarded, unwitnessed thought were probably the last he would have for some time.

  This particular tincture was not what he had sent Sensheo into the Yuin to fetch, but it would do. Using it, and pointing yet another damning finger at the most usefully idiotic of his brothers, was satisfying to contemplate— but did he want that chess-piece taken from the board so soon?

  Someone had been sent to fetch Kai, and it galled Kurin not to know precisely who. A Golden, most likely, one beholden to Takyeo or to Kai himself. It wasn’t like his dear, departed eldest brother to make such a move— no, the act of sending a rider had Takshin’s characters plainly stamped onto its surface. Had the rider been sent before or after Taktak offering his services? His Shan-adopted little brother was indeed a blade to be pointed in a safe direction, and Kurin looked forward to finding out which court lady had caught that prickly pard’s eye.

  He suspected the Khir girl, which was deliciously fitting indeed. It would send their mother into convulsions of rage, and in that event Takshin’s chosen lady had best beware.

  Or maybe the marriage endorsement was a feint. At least Taktak, like Makar, never disappointed. And at least either of them were too wise— or in Taktak’s place, too utterly removed from the line of succession by adoption— to move against their new Emperor.

  Well, Makar was probably more indolent than wise on that front. And Jin, of course, was no threat.

  Not yet.

  “Kurin?” A soft scratching at the hall partition. Of course Mother would not leave him alone to contemplate his ascension in peace.

  Garan Kurin, soon to be Emperor of Zhaon, tucked the unglazed vial into the slee
ve of the robe waiting patiently upon its stand. His smile, for those few moments, was almost that of an orange-ruddy brushtail, and his exhaustion-heavy eyes glimmered. It made him quite handsome; he adjusted his hurai, his sickroom-tainted robe, and touched his topknot before striding across the chamber to the partition, halting feline-soft and listening to his mother breathe.

  “Kurin?” she repeated, querulously. “My beautiful eldest, are you there?”

  For the love of Heaven’s many gods, leave me alone. For once, for just once, leave me alone. The thought submerged as soon as it crossed his head-meat, a reflex so swift it barely caused a ripple. Only a shadow of irritation remained.

  He stood very still, breathing through his slightly open mouth, ready to lay a hand upon the partition and stop its opening. Mother was a problem he could not solve just yet.

  He knew the solution. It was clear, and yet…

  In any case, he told himself, he had a few moments remaining of blessed solitude and quiet. The smile faded. Kurin stared at the partition, breathing deeply and bracing himself for what came after a man had won a victory that opened new vistas instead of halting the war.

  His father, warlord and peerless general, might not be quite proud of his second son. But what took a warlord to create would need a different manner of lord to consolidate, and Garan Kurin was made for the task.

  “Kurin?” his mother breathed again. “Oh, my beautiful boy, please, answer me.”

  I will, Mother. Thoroughly, and in my own good time. He stood where he was, digging his toes through soft palace slippers into mellow-varnished wooden floor, and waited for the inevitable.

  PITY OR REVULSION

  The Jonwa was strangely silent except for brief bursts of wailing in its depths as grief loosened the voice of a kaburei or other female servant. The sound traveled through corridors absent of their master, and this small room was a bubble of peace amid the buffeting.

  “A glancing blow.” Yala’s lips were dry-cracked, and the great hollows under her pale eyes glared at him as she clasped her hands before her. Her hair, free of all braid and hairpin, was a river down her back; nobody had noticed one of Zakkar Kai’s dun-cloaked fellow riders with an indifferently wrapped topknot being carried into the hallway and slipping a slim arm over a kaburei’s willing shoulders, vanishing into a side-passage. “Nothing more. I am well enough.”

  “You must eat,” Anh fussed. “And have crushed fruit, and a proper bath, and—”

  “Then be about your work.” Takshin exhaled sharply as the girl hurried for the door, carrying the muffling cloak. Now freed of its heavy length, the hastily found tunic Yala wore showed. Cut for one of the smallest of Zhaon’s soldier-sons, it was still too large, and tightly belted. The trousers, hastily hemmed, were also baggy enough to swallow her. “Where, and how, little lure?”

  “My side.” Yala moved, stiffly, to a cushion near her writing-desk. Takshin strode across the room and caught her elbow, helping her sink without her usual grace. “Here.” She indicated her lower back on the right, wincing as the movement pulled strained and sliced muscle. “Honorable Kihon has examined; he pronounced it cleaned well and sewn well enough, though not with a noblewoman’s skill. The physician at the keep was rather in a hurry.”

  Takshin knew very well who had sent riders north to keep word from reaching Kai. They had come close enough to grant him a nightmare or two; he should have planned better. He should have gone himself, no matter if he would be missed or not. As it was, Takyeo’s condition had merely been a fire delayed by a ditch, but they could not have known as much when she was sent.

  He should have, though. His own failure was a hot-metal wad in his throat, a sword in his vitals as well.

  A coronation and two funerals would proceed. Custom would enthrone an Emperor and free two bodies, father and son, from the clutching of physical life at once. He should have felt grateful, he should have felt liberated, for without Takyeo to keep him nailed in Zhaon-An he could go where he pleased.

  Instead, there was only a raw aching inside him. Her bravery, her daring, and his own actions— all for nothing.

  Well, not quite. He sank down upon the cushion next to hers, his legs finally deciding they could bend. “I will never risk you again.” He heard his own weariness, and the finality of the statement.

  “I risked myself.” Yala’s hands folded decorously, though they rested against rough cotton instead of a silk skirt. There were red marks upon her soft palms, and a harsh-looking scrape across her knuckles.

  He could not help himself. Takshin reached for her right hand, scooped it delicately from her lap. She did not resist him, merely gave a startled but somewhat apathetic glance. She was too fatigued to gainsay him, which was all to the good.

  “And I failed,” she said, dully. “Again. Had I been swifter—”

  “No.” He did not squeeze as he longed to, grinding small bones together to halt whatever else she would blame herself for. There was no gentleness in him, but at least he would avoid harming her in that fashion. “You did all you could, Yala. There is nothing more. Listen to me.”

  “I am listening.” She did not seek to pull away, which was for the best, since he would not have let her and she deserved forbearance. “I am merely very tired, my lord Third Prince, and would very much like to have a bath, and to rest.”

  “Soon.” He turned her hand over, examined her palm. The rein-marks glared at him, and he could not stab or bludgeon them. “Did the Tooth bear you well?”

  “The tooth? Ah.” A faint smile crossed her wan face. He could not even appreciate seeing her hair unbound, a sight normally granted only a brother or husband. “His name is Archer, and yes, he is a fine beast. If not for him I would be full of arrows, and resting in a ditch besides. He is the best horse in Zhaon, my lord.”

  “Then he is yours.” The thought of her broken and tangled in a peasant’s water-channel frayed his temper even further. “And, Yala, there is one other thing which is yours, and will be given to you. Can you guess?”

  “I should not accept gifts.” Her mouth trembled slightly, and that small quiver was another spear to his liver. “I did not bring him in time, Takshin. Even to bid the Crown Prince farewell.”

  “You brought him at the right moment,” Takshin lied. “Here.” He dug clumsily under his Shan longshirt’s main side, drawing thick unsealed paper free of the internal pocket. “Read.”

  It was awkward; she had to use her left hand since he would not relinquish her right. She opened the sheets and glanced through the inmost one, her eyebrows drawing together. “You are to be…” She glanced at him, obviously gauging whether felicitations were in order, but returned to reading, with palpable, weary puzzlement. “It is unfinished.” She smelled of heat-haze, dust, and the sourness of hard riding, but a breath of jaelo clung to the mix, drawing it tight with a silver thread. “The bride’s name is missing.”

  “I did not know what characters you would choose.” And I was afraid you would say no. But now you will not.

  In fact, she could not. With Takyeo gone, she was forced to find whatever safety she could.

  Garan Takshin had, at long last and irrevocably, won something he wanted.

  “This is the Crown Prince’s hand, and his seal.” All the breath seemed to have left her, for her voice was a mere whisper. “He…brushed this? As he was…”

  The wishes of the dying could not be disregarded. It was hardly fair, but then again, life itself did not play upon a level board, and with Takyeo gone he was forced to do what he could to gain her safety.

  “He wished you cared for, Yala. And I am not so bad.” The other endorsement, Kurin’s careful brushwork and heavy seal, was hidden in Banh’s tower, still the safest place for any treasure a son of Garan Tamuron might need held. If the new Emperor made any trouble about a marriage endorsed by his predecessor, Takshin would win anyway. “Am I?”

  This was not how he had expected the interview to go. He should have waited, but he was utterly
unable to. Patience might bring a man all he needed, but it had its season, and that time was past.

  “My lord…” She touched the stamp at the bottom— Takyeo’s device, closely akin to the banner from the storerooms she had taken to announce her presence to the keep— with a trembling fingertip. Her nail was cracked and broken, and it hurt to see. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Simply say, yes, Takshin.” Nothing more was required. “And I will do the rest.” Unless there is someone else you prefer. In which case, speak his name so I may kill him, and quickly.

  But he swallowed that truth, as he had so many others. There was no need to voice it.

  Still Yala hesitated. She searched his face; he suffered once more that probing, delicate glance. He hated to be looked at, hated the flash of pity or revulsion at his scars.

  But her clear gaze was free of either. She studied him as she might a horse or a character upon a scroll, searching for meaning, and he longed to show her the curves or straight lines, angles or dots she wished most to see.

  “My father—” she began, tentatively.

  “Is not here, Yala, and you are unlikely to see him until Khir and Zhaon reach an agreement. It could be years, and another war in the meantime.” The hunt was over, he had the creature caged, and it would take much to free its bright fragile plumage from his grip. He could lose much else and remain uncaring— it was, after all, a matter of pride. This one small, simple thing he would keep. “And would he grudge you a prince? Do you dislike Zhaon I shall take you to Shan. Or to your own father, and woe to the Khir who raises a blade to me. This I will do for you, little lure, if you ask it.” And more. Simply ask.