The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, 2013 Edition

by Rich Horton

  The look of veiled contempt she gives him sears him to the bone. “You’re less than a man, then. Unable to give voice to your desires.”

  He doesn’t understand. “I have no desires.”

  “Not anymore, I guess.”

  Liang Pao rubs his hand against the bulge of his belly—feeling the child twist and turn within him, wondering if the heartbeat he hears is his own or the baby’s. “I’m carrying.”

  “I can see that,” she says, again. “Husband’s child by—”

  He shrugs. She knows the ritual as well as he does: Husband donated the sperm, and one of the thousand thousand eggs in the huge vaults of the Ministry of Rites was unfrozen, fertilized—and transferred into him. That’s the way it works, with caihes.

  Wives, of course, are different, and the transfer is much easier. Natural, one of his teachers at the Ministry said, once, in an unguarded moment—before closing his eyes and forcefully changing the subject. For most of New Zhongguo, wives are an unattainable dream: sold for fortunes by the Ministry of Rites, and all but reserved to High Officials.

  Fourth Spouse laughs, a quiet, pleasant sound, the tinkle of a chime over a waterfall. “Carrying or not, you can’t change the fact that you’re a man.”

  “You’re mistaken,” he says, calmly, carefully, in the same tone mandarins use to explain things to off-worlders. “I’m not a man.”

  Fourth Spouse smiles, shaking her head in disdain.

  This is ridiculous. He’s First Spouse of the household, carrying Husband’s child within him—and here she is, all but flirting with him, taunting him for what he is not. “I would seem to be disturbing you,” he says, as stiff and as formal as he can manage. “I will leave you to your rest.”

  He goes away: walking as quickly as he can, feeling the languor in every fibre of his being, the regulators struggling to keep up with the quickening of his breath, with the tight feeling in his chest.

  Caihe, he is caihe, he has to remember that.

  Liang Pao never goes into her room, after that. He has his life and she has hers, and he won’t think on her words or of the images she’s conjured in him: memories of a distant childhood when he flew steel-yarn kites just like his own children are doing in the courtyard—just like the boy in his womb will do some day.

  Still, he wakes up every night, in the privacy of his quarters—his heart beating madly for a few, interminable seconds before the yin-humours kick in and he sinks back into sleep again. In his dreams, in the waking world, he aches with a desire he can’t place, a need that seeks to supersede even the pregnancy.

  Fourth Day comes round again: the moment of his moonly examination. The doctor arrives at the gates of the household, prim and on time, and is shown into the examination room, where Liang Pao sits hidden behind a chromed screen. The doctor takes his place near the entrance of the room. His caihe assistant goes back and forth behind the screen, observing Liang Pao’s symptoms and reporting to the doctor. As the cool, capable hands rest on his wrists and on his throat, taking one by one the twelve pulses of the heart, Liang Pao remembers other hands against him—wielding knives and injectors, gently pressing their blades until the skin broke and blood pearled with the first prickling of pain. He remembers the firstyin-humours within him, the sickening taste in his mouth and the unfamiliar languor, as constricting as the cangue restricting a prisoner’s arms . . .

  He comes to with a start. The caihe assistant has finished; behind the screen, the doctor is busy reporting. He’s been droning on for a while, about the rate of metal-humours and wood-humours in the body—nothing out of the ordinary, it would seem. Everything is going as well as expected, and within a few moons Husband will have a young, healthy boy.

  Then he’s gone, but Liang Pao doesn’t move for a long while—not until the memories fade into harmlessness, and his hands stop shaking.

  He’s never had dreams like those before; but then he has never been so close to a woman before. He’s been taught to be a good caihe: to sing and recite poetry; to walk in fast, mincing steps that make it look as though he’s swaying; to play soulful songs on the qin until his fingers are numbed to the pain from the strings. But he has never been taught what he should do with a woman—or what to do when his yin-humours struggle to keep up with the pregnancy.

  Carrying or not, you can’t change the fact that you’re a man.

  Is that all there is to it?

  On a whim, he rises and walks to the freezer, and orders it to open. In the first drawer is a beaker engraved with phoenixes and dragons sporting among clouds—and within, hanging suspended in nitrogen, is a single egg, due to be transferred into Second Spouse’s womb at the next Moon Festival.

  The second drawer . . .

  In the second one are three elongated pouches, encased in layers of insulation, enough to keep them well below freezing point for a day.

  His hand hovers over the leftmost one—the one bearing the characters of his own name, entwined on a background of peach blossoms. After a while, he withdraws it from the drawer, and holds the cool surface of the insulation in the palm of his hand.

  It’s an old, old custom, dating back to the days of Old Earth—before the space exodus, before the colonist ancestors. Long before there were caihes on New Zhongguo, there were eunuchs—and they kept the excised parts with them, so that they might be buried with everything their parents had given them.

  Here, resting snug in the palm of his hand, is proof that she was right—that he wasn’t born a caihe, that he will not die as one. That he is . . .

  He doesn’t know what he is, anymore.

  “You look thoughtful,” Husband’s voice says, behind him.

  Liang Pao doesn’t start, or show surprise in any way—only small children are still impulsive enough to display what they feel.

  Rather, Liang Pao turns, slowly, and bows to Husband, the precise depth required by ceremony. Today, Husband is wearing a robe shimmering with moiré; his hair is done in an immaculate top-knot, with the eight-metal pins denoting his status as a fifth-rank magistrate.

  Husband shakes his head. “No need for that,” he says. Gently, he picks the pouch from Liang Pao’s hand, and turns it over. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you take this out.”

  Liang Pao doesn’t quite know how to answer. It’s never been his place to bother Husband with his own problems, just as Husband’s troubles at the tribunal stop at the door of the house. “I—was curious,” he says finally.

  Husband stares at the pouch, as if, like a poem, it might twist and turn on itself and reveal something else. “Something is on your mind,” he says, and he looks distinctly worried. “Isn’t it?”

  How does he know? “It’s been—difficult, lately, for me,” Liang Pao says.

  Husband’s eyes freeze: a minute expression that Liang Pao isn’t sure how to interpret. “You have a good life, Pao. Don’t you?”

  The use of Liang Pao’s personal name is almost as shocking as the hunger with which Husband watches him—and Liang Pao doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say to make things go back to the way they were. “Of course,” he says, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. “Fourth Spouse . . . ” he starts, and can’t finish.

  Husband still watches him.

  “Fourth Spouse is . . . unexpected.”

  Husband relaxes a fraction, though his gaze is still harsh. “Yes, of course. I should have known. She’s not here to supplant any of you, Pao. I just—” He hesitates, but then goes on. “You should have seen her in the willow-and-flower house. You should have heard her make up verses to cap the poems of the customers—and such talent, when she played the qin . . . ”

  Liang Pao doesn’t speak. He doesn’t dare to. He’s never heard such contained emotion in Husband’s voice. He loves her, he thinks, and it’s a bittersweet thought, because he’s not quite sure how he should react to this.

  “They go back to the government, when they’re too old to procreate,” Husband says. “They’re sold to
High Officials as ornaments—as pretty things, exhibited before one’s friends at receptions and festivals. That’s . . . That isn’t a life for her. You understand?”

  Liang Pao isn’t sure if he does, but he nods all the same. “You rescued her?”

  “Yes. Rescued her. But she’s not here to take your place. She isn’t here . . . ”

  To carry his children. Liang Pao shakes his head. “I understand.”

  “Good. Good.” Husband smiles, looking relieved, and puts the pouch back in the freezer.

  And then it occurs to Liang Pao: Husband didn’t know. There is one time in his life when a caihe receives his pouch—for the last few breaths, the last few heartbeats, that he might die as he was born.

  No, he wants to say. I didn’t want to commit suicide. But Husband has already moved on. “You should go and see her,” he says. “Be friends with her. For the harmony of the household.”

  Husband’s words are commands, of course, even if he doesn’t always realise it. “I will,” Liang Pao says, but the last thing he wants is to talk to Fourth Spouse.

  That evening, Liang Pao goes into the garden, and stands for a while, listening to the plaintive accents of a qin wafting from inside Fourth Spouse’s quarters.

  It’s a song he knows, a poem about the pain of parting:

  “Two regal daughters are weeping

  off within green clouds

  They went along with the wind and the waves . . . ”

  He should go in. He should enter her quarters and talk to her, as Husband has asked.

  For the sake of the household, if nothing else. But he can’t . . .

  He can’t go in there again.

  “ . . . the Xiang may stop its flow

  only then will the stains disappear

  of their tears upon bamboo.”

  The qin falls silent, and nothing moves within. He hears the scuffle of the valets withdrawing from the inner chamber; her evening is over, and she will be preparing herself for bed.

  It’s not too late, he tells himself, but he knows he’s only lying to himself. His swollen breasts hang over his chest—his nipples tingle, and the same feeling climbs from his womb, mingling with the baby’s heartbeat within him. He aches with need.

  That’s when he hears the door slide open—and sees her shadow slip out of the quarters.

  At first, he thinks Fourth Spouse is only there to enjoy the moonlight—but something in the way she walks tells another story. She looks left and right, pausing every few steps to make sure no one is following her. That’s no mincing, womanly walk, but the careful step of someone on reprehensible business.

  Surely she wouldn’t—

  Liang Pao starts walking faster, heedless of his body’s protests—his muscles ache, and his breasts, unhampered by any underwear, shift up and down on his chest, to the rhythm of his race. He takes care to stay hidden, but she’s running now, heading towards the back of the garden and the small passageway that opens only for the Moon Festival.

  Surely . . .

  She stands by the door—and then she reaches inside her wide sleeves. She throws a last, furtive glance behind her—Liang Pao presses himself harder against the trunk of a willow tree, tries to merge with the night . . .

  She doesn’t see him. With a shrug, she slides a card into the door and it slides open, infinitely, heart-wrenchingly slow.

  That’s not meant to happen, Liang Pao thinks, standing frozen where he is. The door can’t just . . .

  There’s no time to think about all of this. One more moment; and she’ll pass through into the passageway, through the door at the end, and she’ll slip outside and they’ll never find her.

  Fine, that’s his first thought. Let her be gone, her and her disturbing presence, and the feelings she evokes within him. But then he remembers Husband’s voice when he spoke of Fourth Spouse—brimming with an emotion Liang Pao has never heard from him. Her flight, he knows, will break Husband’s heart.

  He moves before he can think. He runs—his head spins, and the unaccustomed weight of his belly forces him to bend backward, but he doesn’t stop. He has to reach her.

  She’s squeezing herself through the door, pressing against the metal panels even though they’re not open yet—and he’s not fast enough, not strong enough to catch up to her before she goes through. So he does the only thing he can do.

  “Stop,” he says. His voice echoes against the walls of the empty garden, triggering a flood of soft lights from the garden walls.

  But that doesn’t work—she’s still pressing on, still hoping to pass the second door and lose herself in the deserted streets of the city. “Stop”, Liang Pao says, again. “Or I’ll call.”

  She freezes, then. “You wouldn’t. You don’t want me here.”

  “I already told you. I have no desires,” he says.

  Fourth Spouse watches the open door, her face half-turned away from him, washed smooth by the soft, swirling light emanating from the garden walls—and he stands, already out of breath and waiting for the adrenaline to leave his muscles. Thankfully, each garden section is independent: the light will be small, and barely visible from Husband’s quarters. For now, it’s just the two of them.

  Her face is unreadable under the harsh neon light. “Surely you can understand.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “I will humbly remove herself from your presence, and the house will return to harmony.”

  Liang Pao puts both hands in his sleeves—standing away from her, both feet firmly planted in the muddy, fragrant earth of the garden: a gesture of disapproval.

  The door is closing again—between that and the door at the other end of the passageway, that’s two sets of doors now, two barriers against her escape. He doesn’t move, though, to stand between her and the panels; that would be showing weakness.

  Finally, Fourth Spouse says, “Let me go.” Her voice is shaking now. “You have to.”

  “You’ll break his heart,” Liang Pao says. “Why should I let you go?”

  She shakes her head, in that oddly disturbing way. “I’m not meant for him.” She looks at him, and some of the same freezing contempt creeps back into her face. “But you don’t understand, do you?”

  “I—” Liang Pao says, and she’s right: he doesn’t understand a word she’s saying. But her voice—her voice is like an electric tingle in his body, and he can’t seem to focus on anything but the carnation of her lips, and her wide eyes.

  She bends her head towards him, gracefully. “We didn’t only have New Zhongguans, at the willow-and-flower house. We had navigators and engineers, and other people sailing the space between the stars.” Her voice is oddly reflexive. “Some of them were women—we used to lie against each other afterwards and whisper sweet nothings on the pillows—” and it’s all too clear she’s not talking about women, but about one woman in particular.

  He doesn’t want to hear that. Women sleeping with each other—it’s as unnatural as a fish out of water, or Heaven under Earth. His throat is pulsing again; he fights an urge to come closer to her.

  “I—”

  Fourth Spouse’s smile is malicious. “Rubbing each other’s nipples, and pleasuring ourselves with tongues and fingertips . . . ”

  The tightening in his womb has become unbearable. “Stop,” he whispers. “Stop.”

  “She’s out there,” Fourth Spouse says. “Waiting for me—waiting to take me away from all this, to a place that’s meant just for me. Let me go.” Her voice is low, urgent, and the odd, frightening smell of her spring-scents saturates the air. “Let me be free.”

  He gives her the rote answer, the one they taught him at the Ministry of Rites: “A woman’s true place is in the house, with her husband.” As is a caihe’s place.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She’s not smiling anymore. “You were a man, once—before you changed. I thought you’d understand. I thought—” She looks at him, tears glistening in her eyes. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  “I—”

&n
bsp; Her eyes are wide, and he feels himself falling into them, a fall that has no end.

  She whispers, “Don’t you remember what it felt like, being a man? Don’t you remember the life you were promised—the fight against the shenghuans on the boundary, the grand merchant adventures in space—dreaming of what it would feel like, kissing a wife? Don’t you remember?” She moves closer, and her scent enfolds him, an intoxicating tingle on every pore of his skin.

  Like the kites, her words mean something to him—stir the same indefinable longing in his womb—but this is wrong, all wrong, those are selfish dreams. “This doesn’t matter,” he says. “This isn’t my place.”

  “Then you’re a worse fool than I thought.”

  But he’s had enough of being dominated by her—woman or not, she’s still the most junior member of the household, and he’s still First Spouse. “No. You’re the fool, Daiyu. You think that all you have to do is walk through that door, and you’ll be free.”

  “More than you.”

  He shakes his head. “You and your—lover . . . ” He spits the word, ignoring the odd taste it leaves in his mouth. “You wouldn’t go past the first street. You’re still in seclusion, remember? You owe a tax, and you haven’t paid it in full.”

  Her lips purse, and he can well imagine what kind of fire she’ll be hurling at him. He forestalls her, quietly. “You may think her clever enough to evade the patrols. But the guards at the space-harbour—they won’t overlook you. Two women, without any kind of travel permit? You’ll stand out like Buddhist monks in a crowd.”

  “You’re wrong,” Fourth Spouse says. “We have the papers.”

  “Faked papers?” Liang Pao says, slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “Is that what you think it takes to leave? For an off-worlder with a New Zhongguan? The first thing they’ll do is call this house, to check that you do have a travel permit.” He takes a deep breath to steady the erratic beat of his heart, and says to those wide, entrancing eyes, “And even if they don’t call . . . I’ll make sure Husband knows you’re missing the moment you run through those gates.”

  He doesn’t move; he simply watches her, trying to ignore the fluttering in his womb.