The Forbidden City

by Deborah A. Wolf

  I almost miss the mymyc, he confided to Ruh’ayya. They were not half as bad as this.

  They were bad, his kithren replied. I feel as if my sire picked me up by the scruff of the neck and shook me until my bones popped.

  Ismai rolled his torn shoulder. They were pretty bad, he agreed, but at least they did not lecture us before attacking.

  “… could be forfeit by your actions, do you understand me, boy?” Sareta said. “I do not believe that you understand the severity of your trespass. What you have done is—”

  “I understand.” For a mercy, his voice was steady. It stung that she had called him boy. “I understand that my duty as a warden is to protect even the least of my people.”

  “He is right.” Ismai stared wide-eyed as Jasin stepped through the crowd of elders. He planted his feet and scowled fiercely, but Ismai noted that his fellow Ja’Sajani, too, kept his hands tucked out of sight. “The stone table stands within our borders, and Hannei Ja’Akari is still of the people.”

  “Hannei Kha’Akari.” Sareta spat. Her face was stone. “She has been named exile by her sword sisters, and the face of Akari has turned from her. I am of half a mind to exile you, as well, boy. Were I first warden…”

  “But you are not.” Hadid stood easily, face smooth, hands on his hips, and he did not flinch as Sareta rounded her furious gaze upon him. Ismai supposed that the mastersmith had faced hotter fires than even that stare. “In the… unexpected absence of Askander Ja’Sajani Akibra, I am acting first warden, Ja’Akari, and I say the boy has not broken our laws in any meaningful way. He is young and misguided, yes, but his intentions were true, ehuani, and by our most ancient laws allowances for such must be made.”

  “So he will face no punishment?”

  “He will lose a friend this day, First Warrior. Is that not a harsh punishment? Have we not lost enough of our people, that you would throw this life away, as well? Would you, yourself, end the line of Zula Din? The boy has lost too much. We have lost too much. Let the bloodshed end now.”

  “His kithren,” Jasin blurted, then he blushed a deep red as all eyes turned to him. “I mean… his vash’ai… she has not deserted him, when so many others have returned to the wild. Surely that means something.”

  “Young Jasin has a point,” an older warden agreed. “We should heed the wisdom of our kithren. My own Avahha has been gone this fortnight past, and I can only hope to be worthy of her return. Let us not in our haste offend the vash’ai further than we already have.”

  A murmur ran through the small crowd and Sareta frowned. Ismai saw her eyes dart this way and that, weighing her options, then she shook her head in disgust.

  “As you say… First Warden. Truly, it is not I who will end the line of Zula Din, or incur the wrath of the vash’ai.” She turned. “Very well, young Ismai, I commute the sentence of death for your actions this night.”

  Commute?

  “You will not be killed,” she continued, “nor yet exiled. Hannei Kha’Akari will not be killed… but neither will she be fully pardoned and allowed to return to the people. Your actions, and not her own innocence, allowed her to survive her night of atonement.”

  Ismai opened his mouth to protest, but a rapid shake of Hadid’s head stilled his tongue. Be wary, the mastersmith’s eyes warned. Be’ware.

  Best keep still, Ruh’ayya agreed. That woman smells of the hunt. She is being deceitful. She will kill you, if she can.

  The people stirred and parted as a fist of warriors, led by Lirya, arrived bearing bundles of dry wood. Ignoring him completely, they began to build a fire at the base of the stone table, very near where Ismai stood. He shivered in the dry heat of morning as chill sweat ran down his spine.

  “Hannei has survived atonement, and by law I cannot put her to death for the murders of Nurati’s children.” Sareta leaned forward and spat into the sand. “However, I know in my heart that she is guilty. Guilty! And though I cannot put her to death for these crimes, I can—and I do—banish her from the pridelands forever. Ja’Akari no more, I name her Hannei Kha’Akari, abandoned and despised by Akari Sun Dragon and by his true people. She will be taken from the pridelands and sold into slavery in Min Yaarif, never to return, upon pain of death.”

  Another fist of warriors arrived, and another.

  Hannei, still seated upon the stone table, curled into herself and collapsed, sobbing.

  “And you, young warden, you will be among those who will escort the prisoner to Min Yaarif, to see this sentence carried out. You will see what manner of life your actions this night have bought your… friend.”

  The younger warriors built the fire high, higher. Lirya took out a long knife and laid the blade in the flames.

  “This Kha’Akari wears a warrior’s braids, and she used her warrior’s tongue to speak lies,” the First Warrior continued. “Neither of these things belong to her, now. They will be taken from her and fed to the flames. May the scent of their smoke please Akari and buy us favor in his eyes once again.”

  “No!” Ismai shouted. An older warrior grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him away from the stone table, kicking and yelling. “No! You cannot do this!”

  “Sareta—” Hadid stepped forward, but Sareta stopped him with a hand to his chest. The warriors made a ring around the stone table and the weeping prisoner, hands on the hilts of their swords as if they would fight their own people.

  “This is Ja’Akari business,” Sareta informed them. “The rest of you may leave.” With that, the crowd was herded away—some protesting, most not—by a fist of older warriors.

  Their faces are stone, Ismai thought, and their hearts, as well. They follow their First Warrior more truly than they follow the way of the people. He tried to look back, but a shove between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling forward.

  “Keep going, little man,” the warrior who had pushed him said roughly. “You do not want to piss us off any more than you already have.”

  Little man, indeed. Ruh’ayya, pressed to his side, snarled. Ismai opened his mouth to protest.

  Then Hannei began to scream.

  THIRTEEN

  There came a tap, tap, TAP upon the bamboo screen.

  The dammati jumped to their feet. Those who had survived their Inseeing had without exception been shattered and scarred, inside and out, and wore violence as once the pearl diver’s boy from Bizhan had worn his new yellow silks. Jian looked up from his calligraphy and nodded to Perri, who stood closest to the door.

  “Enter,” he called out, voice breaking on the second syllable. His voice had been doing strange things since… that day. Nobody laughed. There had been many changes among the Yellow Road princes, still new to the ways of Daechen, including the loss of laughter.

  Come the next Nian-da, he and his fellows would move into the Red Palace—Jian did not wish to dwell upon what fresh pain the Red Road might have in store for them. A new horde of yellow Daechen would take their place.

  A troop of lashai marched in, nodding first to Jian’s dammati and then to him. There had been changes among the pale servants, as well. As the ranks of Daechen had dwindled, so had the numbers of the lashai grown. Jian forced himself to meet the white-powdered, blank-eyed stare of one who bore a silver pitcher. Hakkuo had been among his dammati, and Jian had failed to protect him.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered as the other boy bent to fill his cup with fragrant water. He had grown… less… since leaving them, Jian thought. Thinner, certainly, and shorter, if such a thing was possible. “Hakkuo…” Their eyes met, and Jian recoiled. The thing wearing Hakkuo’s face smiled with his mouth, and laughed at Jian through his eyes, but Hakkuo was no more.

  “Sorry for what, Sen-Baradam?” Xienpei laughed, swaying into the room. She came on a dancer’s feet, every move of her body, every turn of her head calculated far in advance and carried out like a battle plan. The yendaeshi spun round, taking in the room full of sullen young men on the brink of violence, and her grin widened, jewels flashin
g in the candlelight.

  Jian fought the urge to jump to his feet, to apologize, to hide. Had he once thought her smile motherly? If she was a mother, then she was as the daemon mothers in the old stories, the ones who swallowed children whole and gave birth again to monsters.

  The nib of his pen broke, splattering black blood upon the parchment’s fine white skin. He blinked at the ruined pen for a moment, then laid it beside its fallen comrades. Jian went through a great many pens these days. Picking up a stained square of silk, he wiped ineffectively at his fingertips.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated, “I seem to have forgotten that you were coming today. I had thought to spend the time in contemplation of the philosophies of General Yu Fengui. The man was a brilliant strategist.” Yu Fengui had, indeed, been a distinguished general. He had also been one of the worst traitors in Sindanese history, whose betrayal had ultimately led to the defeat of the Red Emperor.

  Her smile hardened. “You walk a sharp road, Daechen Jian. ’Ware it does not cut your feet.”

  “If I walk this road, it is because you drew the map,” he countered, pressing his hands hard against the table to hide their shaking. But there was no hiding in the Yellow Palace, certainly not from the eyes of the yendaeshi.

  “Leave us,” Xienpei said, sweeping the room with her gaze. The lashai turned as one and departed. The dammati looked first to their Sen-Baradam. Jian nodded his assent and they sauntered from the room, unhurried and arrogant. Perri went last, shooting half a dark and displeased look at Xienpei as he did so.

  “Sen-Baradam…” he began.

  “Go,” Jian told him. “You should work on your penmanship, as well, Daechen Perri. Your calligraphy reminds one of a drunken chicken dipped in ink.”

  It was not a lie.

  Perri nodded and turned to go, every line of his body stiff and reluctant. The screened door banged shut behind him, and Jian was alone with Xienpei. He finished wiping his fingertips with the silk cloth, and tossed it aside.

  “You wished to speak with me, Yendaeshi?”

  “You walk a sharp road,” she reiterated, “and a dangerous one. Are you certain you wish to continue? It may not end as you expect. What lies has Mardoni been feeding you? That he and others of the Sen-Baradam will seize power from the emperor, and make the world a safer place for young Daechen?” She swayed closer and plucked a blood orange from a bowl at the edge of his table. “Mardoni has the courage to confront the emperor, perhaps, but he does not possess the strength to challenge the might of Daeshen Tiachu. Such an army does not exist in this world.”

  Jian lifted the ruined parchment and regarded it. Even before the spray of ink, it had not been a masterpiece of calligraphy. In truth, his hand was little better than Perri’s. He crumpled the paper and tossed it aside, even though the paper and ink had cost as much as a villager’s life might be worth.

  “What choice have I?” he asked, voice low and soft. “If I walk this road, it is because you set me upon it. If I run to my doom, it is because you crack the whip at my back. We both know that I have less choice in this than a farmer’s ox on its way to market.”

  “You speak a great many words, Daechen Jian, for one who knows so little.” Her teeth flashed, her eyes flashed, bright and hard as knives. “This road leads, as you say, to slaughter. Your own, most certainly. One such as you does not defy the emperor and expect to live. Would you throw away your life, then? It seems such a waste.” She raised her hand, and Jian could see that she had crushed the orange in her palm. As her lacquered nails tore into its flesh, a sweet fragrance filled the room, and juice ran down her forearm like blood, to stain the silks of her twilight robe. “I have worked so hard to get you here, it would be a shame to see you throw it all away. Will you not choose another path?”

  “What other path?” he demanded. Pleaded. “I see no other way.” Cold sweat trickled down his spine. How much did she know of his plans? Too much. She always knows too much.

  “Then let me draw you a new map, Daechen Jian. A map of the middle way, the path of compliance.” Xienpei laughed, lovely and light as a girl gathering flowers. “Life can be bitter.” She brought her hand to her mouth and bit into the mangled orange, rind and all. “But it can be sweet, as well. Would you like a taste?” She moved the ruined orange toward Jian’s mouth.

  “You have drunk deep of the bitterness of pain, and death,” she continued. “Now you might choose to bend to my will—and the will of the emperor—and discover what sweetness this life has to offer. I ask you again, Daechen Jian. Would you like a taste?” This close, the rent fruit looked like bloody meat. It smelled wonderful.

  Jian closed his eyes and swallowed bile. If I do not bend, or at least make a pretense of it, he thought, sooner or later I will break.

  “I would,” he replied. “Very much.”

  “Excellent,” she whispered, close to his ear. “Excellent.”

  * * *

  Jian was bathed by the lashai, scrubbed to within an inch of his life and with his hair scraped back into a severe prince’s knot at the back of his head. He wore yellow silks—not the peasant’s silks his mother had sewn for him so carefully, stained with her tears and blood, nor yet the finer, if plain, yellow silks worn by a prince in training. These were the heavy layered robes of a Daechen prince, stiff with embroidery, laced tight at waist and wrist and ankle, and so thickly padded they might make a serviceable armor.

  Xienpei herself assisted in dressing him. Hers were the hands that looped the strings of amber and jade around his neck, and the string of midnight pearls that whispered never forget. Hers were the hands that charred his lids with kohl, and pinched his cheeks with rouge, and—to his surprise—fastened the shongwei’s tooth at his waist as a soldier might wear a sword. When at last Jian was prepared for the feast, his yendaeshi stood back from him, clasping her hands before her breast and beaming with delight.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He would sooner try to ride a mymyc than trust that jeweled smile.

  His fears were not eased as Xienpei sent the lashai about their business and slipped him from the palace grounds. Many times now they had walked or ridden the paths to the river Kaapua. It was a treat to breathe the free air, to sit beside the restless waters, listening to them sing of wishes and flowers and mountains. If Jian had especially pleased his yendaeshi—usually through some feat of violence—he might even be allowed a swim. These were the times Jian felt almost himself again, almost the boy who had walked, wide-eyed and dreaming, and whispered those dreams to the sea.

  Jian had read—in a book he was forbidden to possess—that in the heartless, waterless Zeera, visions hovered over the desert sands, ghosts of mountains and water and shade, of all things the heart might desire. It had occurred to him that these trips to the river might be such visions, that these brief tastes of freedom were tricks and shadows. If he looked at them too closely they might vanish, leaving him with a scarred back, an empty life, and a mouth dry as sand.

  A mirage, they called it.

  A trap, his heart warned.

  Such a thing, he thought, would make her smile so. Best be ’ware. But it was one thing to tell the heart to remain quiet, and another altogether to stop it from singing.

  When they arrived at the river’s edge, they were not alone. Tsa-len stood there, his mouth twisted in a grimace that suggested he had been eating green guava. Before him stood a slight figure, clad in a simple yellow robe and hood. A thin silver leash ran from a wide leather collar to the yendaeshi’s fist, and he kept tugging it so that the figure would stagger back with a gasp.

  Another fight? Jian sighed. He often won, but had wearied of this game long ago, and this little raggedy prince was surely less than a challenge. Still, the prickles at his nape bade him be vigilant. See how Xienpei smiles, his gut urged. See how the other one scowls.

  Xienpei made a motion for Jian to stop and his feet froze of their own accord. He burned, to know that she had him so well trained, but what choice
had he? What choice, if he wished to live?

  To live, the river sang, to live. It is a fine day to die, Daechen. It is a better day to live. His yendaeshi strode on, ignoring Jian and the river and the beauty of the day. She stopped just short of Tsa-len, every line of her body drawn with victorious strokes.

  “As agreed?” she asked, holding out a hand. Tsa-len yanked the leash hard, and the slight figure dropped to its knees.

  “As agreed,” he growled, “though it be your doom, Xienpei. This is foolish, even for you.” He handed his end of the leash to Xienpei, bowed stiffly, and turned to stomp away.

  “To a fool, the great seem foolish,” she said after him, and she laughed. “It is done.” She twined the silver chain around her fingers as if it were a string of jewels, and gave a small tug. “Stand,” she crooned. “Stand and face me. Ah, very good. Jian, here!”

  Jian came to heel, ever her well-trained pet. Get it over with, he thought, and maybe she will let me swim in the river when I have defeated this opponent. Perhaps this time I might stay beneath the water long enough for my song to reach the sea. Maybe his sea-king father would hear his song and come for him, after all these years.

  Or maybe this time I will drown, and my whole life will have been a mirage. He stopped at her side, head bowed, giving the slight figure not so much as a glance. “Yendaeshi?”

  “I have a gift for you,” she purred. “Greater than salt, young prince. Greater than those pearls you wear. If you had but one wish, Daechen Jian, what would that wish be?”

  Freedom, his soul whispered.

  ’WARE! his heart screamed.

  “I would wish to serve the emperor, Yendaeshi.”

  She snorted. “A good answer, Daechen. It is a lie, but a good answer none the less. And you will serve the emperor—in a way. Let me grant you your wish, Daechen Jian, though you were not wise enough to ask for it.” She reached forth and plucked the hood from the yellow-clad figure.

  “I know you,” Jian blurted without thinking, and he did, though he had seen her only the one time, when both of them had just escaped death. He had dreamed of her, more than once, that pale face like a painting of grief, and those big, dark, sea-deep eyes. Those Issuq eyes blinked against the harsh light, and snapped as angrily as the sea after a storm.