by S. C. Emmett
Crown Prince Garan Takyeo, who had faced battle at his father Emperor’s side and acquitted himself well, was somewhat at a loss sitting upon a tumbled bed with its curtains drawn half back. Not only that, he was hard put not to sigh with relief when the door slid aside and a half-familiar figure appeared. It was the Khir lady-in-waiting in a low-waisted dark blue dress, her hair braided and coiled high, a simple hairpin with a semicircle of dark shell accentuating the costume’s severity. She folded her hands, pale gaze upon the floor, and made a bow in the Khir fashion.
Relieved, he patted his new wife’s round, shaking shoulder. Her no-longer-innocent weight in his lap was pleasant, but his legs were starting to tingle with sewing-pins. “See? She is here, your Khir lady.” He cast a despairing glance at the other woman, and was relieved when she turned, gesturing others in the door away and closing it firmly. “Do you speak any Zhaon? You do, I think?”
The princess in his lap shook and sobbed, her round cheeks slick and flushed. Her shift, bunched and knotted around her, had ridden up to show lightly muscled legs, a pair of dainty ankles, the soft down of a well-born girl upon calves and under-knee.
“I speak some little Zhaon, yes.” Lady Komor turned from the door, regarding them both steadily. Her Zhaon was slow but accurate, and almost unbearably formal. “What is amiss?”
“I know not, she simply…” He kept patting the princess’s shoulder, awkward small motions like brushing a tiny dog’s fur. A lapful of crying Khir princess was not in any military manual he had studied, nor was there any breath of such a thing in the endless hours of weapons practice or tutoring that were a prince’s duty. It had not even been part of his semiformal education in the Floating District’s best houses. His own robe was not quite properly laced, but the Khir lady did not seem shocked or even overly concerned. Did her princess weep often? “I hope I did not hurt her. She awoke, and began to weep.”
The princess stirred, babbling in Khir with its sharp consonants and rolling rhythm. All he knew of that strange tongue was military—commands for attack, for retreat, a few obscenities.
The lady-in-waiting nodded, made a soft reply, and brushed forward. Her sleeves were far longer than the usual court lady’s, almost swallowing her hands, and her slippers were of the soft but point-toe Khir style, modeled upon a stirrup-boot. “Your Highness.” Another bow when she reached the distance prescribed by etiquette. “She says you did not harm her, she simply wishes to be sure that is… all. What is required.”
“Ah. Well. Yes.” A man did not blush, Takyeo told himself. His sleep-robe was inadequate armor for this field. “It, uh, yes.”
The Khir girl held her bow, a translator’s listening upon her severe, high-cheekboned face. “She wishes to know that she is your wife, and you are not displeased.”
“Oh. Of course I am not…” He tightened his arms, pulling the shivering, crying woman closer despite the tingling in his legs. “Oh, shhhh. No. I am not displeased at all. Please, tell her so.”
More Khir, liquid volleys back and forth with high sharp peaks breaking at musical intervals. The sobbing eased, and after a little while, the Khir lady approached and untangled the princess from him, setting Mahara gently upon her soft bare feet. “She forgot the speaking of Zhaon, in her distress,” she said. “Please forgive her, Crown Prince. It was a… trying journey, then everything happened so quickly.”
“Of course.” Relieved, he could now stretch and take himself to the water-closet. Sohju gave him a sour head, definitely not helped by the thick sweetness of traditional wedding-morning kouri, but Kai had surreptitiously drained Takyeo’s cup more than once to help him keep his balance. No doubt the general was feeling worse for wear this morning, and would be at weapons practice in a fine temper.
Takyeo might have even joined him, if there were not so much else to do. At least he did not have to worry about the wedding gifts; that was women’s work. Lady Kue would handle what his new wife could not, and he suspected the Khir lady-in-waiting would prove an asset there as well. Why had King Zlorih only sent the one with his precious daughter?
His father would know, but he also might ask, and Takyeo was no closer to a solution upon that front. The possibility of failing one of Garan Tamuron’s small tests loomed large any time he was in his father’s presence, and he had no desire to endure that prospect today.
More Khir, behind him. In women’s throats, it was not quite a barbarous sound.
It had not been that bad at all. He had done what was necessary, without harming her. Or so he hoped. The houses in the Floating District gave a man all the education he needed, but she was not a courtesan or singer trained in such things. The Khir kept their women hobbled in kitchen and keep, unable even to own property as a respectable Zhaon lady did.
The water-closet was close and stuffy, and he stifled a burp laced with sohju fumes and kouri. It was hardly auspicious to begin their married life with tears, but on the other hand, it was traditional enough.
When he returned, several ili25 lighter and much more sanguine, the Khir lady had the princess set mostly to rights, her cheeks dried and the gifted sleeping-robe neatly laced. Lady Komor spoke to her mistress in Zhaon now, slowly and carefully. “There are maids from the Jonwa; we will dress you. Then a palanquin will carry you to the Crown Prince’s home. There are many gifts to witness, and this afternoon you will be shown the Great Hall and see the Emperor upon his throne. He will greet you, but you will not speak.”
“Oh.” Takyeo’s new wife smiled tremulously. She was much prettier than her lady-in-waiting, soft-cheeked and perfectly sized, with gentle hands. The only marring was the strangeness of her pale Khir gaze, but that was a small thing indeed. The reddening of tender eyelids and her soft nose were also charming, and wholly his, now. “Forgive me, Crown Prince. I was… afraid.”
He was a married man. Head of a real household, instead of a bachelor with a housekeeper. It was the last step into full adulthood, and he had not made any serious mistakes during the ceremonies. “Please, ease yourself.” He took his new wife’s delicate hands, cradling them like fledglings. The lady-in-waiting retreated discreetly, gliding softly to the door. “You may call me husband.” He waited for her to repeat the word. “And when we are alone, it is Takyeo. I will call you wife, and Princess Mahara.”
Now she had regained her child’s command of Zhaon. “If my lord is Takyeo, I am simply Mahara.” A shy retreat, ducking her head. Her hair, combed and tamed by the other lady’s quick attentions, was a fall of ink, with a beautiful blue gleam instead of the ruddy under-glow of his country’s women. “I shall remember to address you properly.”
“I will help you with your Zhaon.” It was far better than he’d hoped. His father would be pleased, too. The Khir were a strange, difficult foe, but this girl seemed… amiable, just like a well-bred, docile young woman of his own country. Some of the books said tears were natural the morning after a wedding. They were even a sign of delicacy and proper upbringing. He had been half afraid he would find a cold, ambitious creature, a princess raised for battle—but the Khir did not like their women so, did they? Even the wife of a Khir king was not addressed as a queen. “We shall see each other before the Emperor, later today. Will you have dinner with me?”
“Yes.” She nodded, and Takyeo found himself smiling. His brothers would be full of ribaldry, and his father full of political mutterings now that this one piece of the puzzle had been fitted into its proper place. “It will honor-of-us be.”
“My honor.” He corrected the phrase in the proper inflection for a wife speaking to her husband, waited until she repeated it, and took his leave.
Each hurdle was higher than the last, and he often wondered what might happen if he ceased to jump, like a tired horse balking before hedge or abatis. The next series of tests were likely to be much fiercer—and much less pleasant—than this, but at least he had not done too badly.
Or so Garan Takyeo hoped.
EVEN FAMILIAR CLOTH
; Now I must give them a son.” Sponge-bathed, the sheets examined, the evidence of consummation witnessed upon her person and wiped away, Mahara held her arms out for the under-dress. The Zhaon layers were more complex than Khir clothing, but the two Jonwa maids Yala had brought knew their business and went about it with soft efficiency. Anh did so as well, attending Yala, who day-dressed Mahara’s hair herself, fingers moving with the ease of long habit. “Do you think I can?”
“After one night? You are ambitious.” Yala tapped her tongue against her teeth as a braid threatened to slip. “A thin pin,” she said, in Zhaon, and Anh handed her the one she wanted, nodding because Yala had used the correct, informal inflection, appropriate for servants.
“You are improper, Lady Komor.” Mahara’s somberness broke into a sunrise-smile, and one maid tapped her cheeks with a puff of zhu powder, a gentle, expert touch leaving a fine crushed coating the princess did not really need. They murmured to each other in Zhaon, and Yala, her ears sharpening, was reassured. They were discussing how dainty the princess was, how fine her skin, and how the Crown Prince seemed well pleased.
So she allowed herself a small smile. “Improper enough to be amusing, I hope.” Incense perfume drifted through a crimson overdress, not as heavy as bridal wear but stiff with embroidered snow-pards, giving the fabric a ghost of fragrance before it was clasped around Mahara’s shoulders and waist. Yala shook her head, touching a maid’s hand, her Zhaon coming softly, without too much hesitation. “Not so tight, she cannot breathe… yes, very good.”
“They take other wives, do they not?” The princess reflected upon this, stepping into odd Zhaon shoes—too soft, their toes too broad for riding, their soles of thin leather-sleeved wood brushed with stiffening lacquer. “How terrible.”
“They must know the Khir do not.” Yala chose Mahara’s favorite hairpin for this particular braid-style, thrust it home. Chose another, a heavy golden one, a morning-after gift the Crown Prince’s housekeeper had presented very properly this morning, and sought a spot for it a little higher. She changed to Zhaon again, choosing the inflection with care. “You must practice your Zhaon,” she said, finally. “I am certain these ladies will help, too.”
A shocked silence stopped the busy, working hands. “Us?” Anh squeaked.
“I must learn more, too. And quickly,” Yala continued. “I have not had much chance to practice my speaking, except with the Fourth Prince.”
That broke their reticence. The shorter Jonwa maid, a broad-faced and moon-eyed peasant beauty, tightened a dress-lace. “You met him, my lady?”
“What is he like?” The other maid, a willowy creature with capable, roughened hands, covered her mouth with her palm as she smiled.
“His Khir is serviceable.” Yala smiled in return. It would do no harm to let them gossip a bit upon this particular subject. “And he was very kind. Slowly, slowly. There. Now, let us step back.” She surveyed Mahara, who, used to this process, submitted with a sigh of relief. Yala walked in a slow circle, tucking, adjusting, straightening, Anh handing her implements when she required them. The kaburei girl was well trained. “We are ready.”
It was a bright, sunny spring morning, and Yala walked beside her princess’s red-hung palanquin carried by four tall, well-fed kaburei in the Crown Prince’s snow-pard livery. Over smooth-raked gravel or stone, hilly bridges in pleasure-gardens both dry and shimmering with water features, past a long portico where a dark, sober-clad line of court eunuchs, in their strange peaked hats, stood to witness the passage of the new Crown Princess. There was much to do—unpacking, listing the gifts so Mahara could write a response to each, learning the full rhythm and the requirements of etiquette while Mahara was in a new bride’s traditional seclusion. A Zhaon princess, Yala suspected, did not have the same narrow concerns a Khir one would, and her conversation with the housekeeper Lady Kue this morning had centered upon what precisely was required today—and what was not required but advisable. The Crown Prince’s mother was an ancestor now; one of Mahara’s first acts should be an offering at the Jonwa’s household shrine.
Yala’s hem made a subtle sweet sound as she walked at a decorous palanquin-pace. Even familiar cloth sounded different here. She could not pretend she was in Khir, even if she closed her eyes.
Not to mention she might stumble among the enemy, and that could not be allowed.
The walk to the Jonwa was much shorter in daylight, and by the time they reached the Crown Prince’s palace, guards and servants had been alerted to their arrival. The bearers set the palanquin carefully upon its resting-legs, and Yala glanced over those assembled upon the stairs before the huge, red-painted doors. There was Lady Kue, in a red-and-brown Shan-style wrapdress and trousers, her hair braided in two loops over her ears and her oval face set. She did not seem unkind, merely reserved, and so far, her explanation of the day’s requirements had proved not only correct but also useful. Her questions were all of Mahara’s habits and comforts, each query well chosen, bespeaking some forethought.
Hopeful, then, Yala helped her princess out of the palanquin, and, holding her arm, accompanied her into the house she was now mistress of.
LOST IN FOOTWORK
Training halted for no event, no matter how disturbed the rest of the palace’s flow might be by a new addition to its breathing royalty. “You have not practiced.” Zakkar Kai brought the weighted wooden blade down, smacking Second Prince Kurin’s round shield with a little more force than necessary. Spring chill had burned away and the sunshine was already brutal in this stone-floored yard. Clatter of wood against wood, the thocks of arrows and cries of hit or miss bouncing from scrubbed white stone walls—the heat concentrated in spring and summer, just as the cold knifed through in winter. “Come now, Second Prince. You are a warrior, and a son of warriors.”
Kurin, the lower part of his face obscured by an orange cloth mask, said nothing. His breath puffed the fabric, then turned it into a dish, and his eyes were narrower than usual, shining with well-banked disdain that probably treaded the edge of outright hatred.
Not that he would let it loose while the Emperor was alive. Leather creaked, both of them in half-armor. Enough to keep a stray shot from being too dangerous, but not enough to keep it from stinging.
Makar and Sensheo were at the archery range, good-naturedly keeping score. Or at least, Makar’s efforts were good-natured. Sensheo hated to lose at anything, no matter how small. Jin, bundled into his first suit of armor but without his helmet, swept a foot in a semicircle and followed through with the weighted, blunted spear, moving with graceful economy. He took to every new weapon like it was a simple toy; he was one of the war-god’s chosen, blessed with great natural talent. He enjoyed practice; therefore he danced with little holding back. Kai’s only worry was how he would withstand the shock and stink of actual combat.
Or how he would command men, if not inspire them. The right hand and the left, for a general, and if Jin was sent to the borders he would need them both.
Kurin jabbed; Kai turned aside, barely needing the edge of his shield to deflect the artless blow. It would be so easy—step in, use his own shield to fling Kurin’s wide, a shot to the ribs with lead-weighted wood. At full strength, such a strike could crush bone through half-armor, but he would not do so. He would only bruise ribs and pride.
Would he?
That was a dangerous thought, so he let the moment pass, shuffle-retreating a few paces. “Your heart does not seem in the work today, Rin.” The childhood nickname, another jab to bruise a tender pride.
Kurin merely shook his head, the mask still swelling and collapsing with heaving breaths. Sweat greased his forehead, probably stinging his eyes. He darted forward again, and this time he was in earnest. Kai parried, all thought but the next strike and his feet leaving him. Halfway through the song of strike-and-response, his partner lost the thread again and it was not until Kai drove forward, Kurin’s gaze flickering over his left shoulder, that he realized the Second Prince’s fresh reluctanc
e was due to guests instead of laziness.
As head general of Zhaon he should have administered a stinging lesson in attention, but there was no use. Kurin already disliked him from childhood; open warfare was not advisable. The apple of First Queen Gamwone’s eye was a bitter enemy, even if he was intelligent enough to admit Kai was a good weapon for the house of Garan. Kai disengaged, moving out of range in case the Second Prince felt the need to regain a little lost honor, and waited to turn his back until the Second Prince stripped the mask away and slung his shield.
The visitors were august personages indeed. Crown Prince Takyeo, his long tunic a cheerful green with his device—a snow-pard, granted to him after his first battle, in the cold throat of Jaion Pass—proudly worked upon the chest, stood attentively next to the Khir princess. Her dress was sunshine-yellow to match the third morning after marriage, her hair piled and braided expertly, and one of the household maids held a yellow sunbell for her. A round soft face, Khir eyes sharp by virtue of their color, and soft, pretty, folded hands completed the picture of a new wife still barred from much of the palace’s endless socializing and etiquette. Takyeo was a lenient husband, bringing her into the daylight.
Kai freed his helmet with a practiced motion. The singing of bowstrings had stopped. Behind the princess, with a kaburei maid holding a much smaller sunbell to shield her, was the Khir lady-in-waiting. Her dress was Khir-fashion instead of Zhaon, sleeves swallowing her hands and skirt only short enough for point-toe slippers to peer at him, their tips worked with heavy flowerlike embroidery. Deep, throbbing blue, the color of an autumn evening before winter’s breath leached color from land and sky both, suited her, and what was unpretty and sharp in the uncertain light of a night garden was now… something else. Her hairpin was odd, crimson thread wrapped about an irregular head and small red crystalline beads dangling from its jutting instead of matching her dress.
