by S. C. Emmett
“And children?” The Emperor accepted the offered scroll, unrolling it with a practiced motion. He gazed seriously upon arcane symbols in black, red, green, and yellow ink, lines drawn with a steady brush upon thick pressed rai-paper. “What of children?”
Of course an heir from Garan Takyeo and a Khir princess would be useful. It was foolish to put your hopes into a belly, or so the proverb ran, but an Emperor must plan for the best possible outcome as well as the worst and the likeliest. Besides, Tamuron was a man with a married son now, and it was only natural to inquire after grandchildren. They would, of course, be the ones tending to his own shrine.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
“None apparent yet.” Mrong touched his beard, as if he could not quite believe he had grown one. “But there are signs of increase—the Evening Star is in the third house. It is auspicious.”
“Very good, very good.” The Emperor surveyed the markings critically, as if he too were an initiate of their secrets. “Your usual fine hand, Mrong Banh. This is a work of art.” Dark eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone remained mild. “General, what do you think of the Khir princess?”
Kai glanced at the other end of the hall, where faint movement stirred among a scattering of eunuchs among laze-yawning courtiers. Ah. That is why he wanted us both here. “She was raised to be an ornament, not a queen.”
“And brought only a single lady.” Tamuron’s brow wrinkled afresh. “We merely asked Ashani Zlorih to send a small retinue; I cannot quite decide if one lady is his insult or his wisdom.”
“The Khir guards and other servants turned back at Gurai.” Kai studied what he could see of the horoscope. It looked like all the others, an intaglio of mathematics and queer symbols. He denied the heat in his cheeks, sternly, and denied himself also the ease of shifting slightly to soothe his aching feet. “The Khir are thrifty, Your Majesty.” And bled past white. The latter point would need no stating. Zlorih could very well have read the “small retinue” as an insult in and of itself, which may or may not have been Tamuron’s purpose all along.
“And proud.” Banh clicked his tongue. The small sound echoed against vermilion columns but would not reach the courtiers at the far end. “To send his daughter without guards, without…”
The Emperor did not speak.
It never did to hurry the astrologer. Mrong Banh chewed thoroughly, and if you bothered to wait for him to swallow, you would more often than not receive wisdom. He scratched under his civil-scholar hat with fingers that looked too blunt for the quality of his brushwork, pushing both hat and topknot further into disrepair. “If it is an insult, which is by no means certain, it is one best graciously ignored. Especially since the noble sons of Khir are smoke from the pyre.”
Tamuron’s topknot-cage, hammered gold, set perfectly and remaining at its post with the same obdurate patience as the man himself, gleamed in the lamplight. “Except the bastard.”
“Acknowledged bastard,” Kai murmured. He had not met that stripling upon the field, or if he had, he did not know it. Rumor and report were all they had on the new Ashani Daoyan. With Ashani Zlorih’s two legitimate sons dead—and the second had died much harder than the first, the heavens themselves had witnessed as much—Khir must be restive indeed. The nobles, seeking to consolidate their own power, might have different ideas about Khir’s Sixth Dynasty.
Such times were dangerous for any king. The only thing harsher than victory was defeat.
The Emperor rolled the scroll slowly and studied the tabletop before him, his gaze suggesting he was seeing instead the burdens of rule. “How dangerous is that one likely to be?” He did not glance at Kai, but the invisible shift of his attention was plain.
“I do not know.” It was best to admit he had not reached any conclusions upon that matter, from either lack of information or conflicting reports. It was always best, when Tamuron looked for counsel, to avoid making any unguarded assumption. “Such an acknowledgment is at least as dangerous to Ashani as to any child from this marriage.” A Zhaon prince with Ashani blood in his veins might not be able to make a conqueror’s meal of that restive land, but the mere presence of such a prince—or princess—would be a valuable tool while keeping the dagger of Khir turned from Zhaon’s lowland heart. Far Ch’han and Naihon, always hungry, would both like very much to hold Zhaon in chains; Khir would be useful to either giant’s grasping claws.
“True.” Tamuron shifted uneasily and rubbed at the embroidery over his ribs again. Sometimes, especially when the weather was bad or the battle particularly uncertain, he itched under his skin. It is like ants, he had remarked once. I believe my liver sends them to warn me.
At the far end of the hall, drowsy Goldens leaned upon their pikes, dark-clad eunuchs fanned themselves and whispered, courtiers dozed upon their richly decorated pillows. To leave before the Emperor had risen was not quite a crime, but certainly inadvisable. The more visible to the royal gaze, the closer the throne, the greater the honor—and the quieter but more poisonous the murmurs. Kai longed for the day to be over, and perhaps a cup of tea while he contemplated a garden. “Takshin tells me the Mad Queen’s death is little grieved in Shan.”
Little grieved was understatement. Celebrated was a more accurate term, but even the nobles of that land would realize that to admit their queen’s insanity was a double-edged sword. It would be no large matter to unseat Suon Kiron, but the internecine rivalries among the surviving noble houses added to the commoners’ restive mutterings that perhaps it was time for Heaven to raise a fresh crop of both nobles and royals made that the least appetizing option, no matter how ambitious the Houses might be.
If the new Shan king was moderately lucky and even halfway competent, he would survive. Takshin was not a bad ally for him, even with the Third Prince’s temper.
“No doubt.” Banh shook his head but did not click his tongue. He had not finished thinking upon Shan, that much was clear. “It is known their new king and Prince Takshin are battle-brothers. Such things are… important, to the Shan.”
“Shield or blanket,” Tamuron murmured, the old proverb about Shan’s smothering or protective borders. Then, more loudly, “I will hear no more business today. Mrong Banh, the horoscope is a fine work, and I wish you to present and interpret it to Prince Takyeo and his new wife as soon as her seclusion permits.”
“Your Highness.” The astrologer accepted the re-rolled scroll and withdrew with a bow. He would no doubt return from that errand with a greater estimation of the Khir princess’s likely value.
Kai, not yet dismissed, took the chance to finally shift his weight to relieve the ache of standing upon stone, that old soldier’s trick. It felt good for a few moments, but weariness settled in his knees and thigh-muscles again. He watched Tamuron neaten the scrolls and ledgers upon the tabletop, and when the Emperor glanced up, it was to find his head general regarding him with a thoughtful expression.
“Well, speak.” Tamuron’s eyebrows drew together, but he did not seem irritated. He was sleeping less, of late, and that patting at his ribs was new. The threads of grey in his beard were not as pronounced as Mrong Banh’s, but still visible.
Not until I have something of value to say. “Of what, my Emperor?” Kai made the words bland, unweighted.
“Khir is safe, for now. Shan?”
The Emperor had asked that twice now, and Kai had nothing but the same answer to give. “I believe Takshin has the matter well in hand.” Parrying the question gave Takshin time to pay the required visit to his father on his own, if he would simply do it; Kai sensed that any serious pursuit would only turn the Third Prince into a more stubborn quarry and hence, a more difficult one.
Before Shan, Takshin had been a stubborn but not unreasonable boy. He had even taken the news of his adoption bravely, for Suon Kihar had been king and his queen merely eccentric. At the time, it had been a solid enough strategy. Hostages had been exchanged among Khir, Shan, and Zhaon since the Third Dynasty’s troubled coalescence. Wh
o could have guessed, one short year and a hunting accident later, that the Mad Queen—regnant for her son and sole heir—would prove such a deadly, efficient ruler for so long?
“Does he trust Kiron overmuch?” Tamuron’s cheeks were faintly flushed tonight. It was not too warm in the hall; spring had only just begun. Still, his robes were heavy. Magnificence was expected of an emperor, but it was not often comfortable.
Why ask me whom he trusts? But Kai knew. He was generally held to be one of the few people who could stand Takshin’s company for long, or who could make the Third Prince listen to reason. “I do not think the Third Prince trusts anyone overmuch, my lord.”
“Then he has grown wise.” Tamuron sighed. “Bring him to me tomorrow, Kai. He has been avoiding his duties.”
Kai could have remarked he was a general, not a eunuch to run and fetch, but he did not. “Prince Makar may have better luck with that errand, my lord.” Takyeo, of course, would have the best of all.
“Perhaps.” Tamuron gave a single nod to whatever luck Makar would have. “He does seem to like Makar. But Takshin respects you, and I grow weary of his dodging.”
If he respects me, it is only so far. Kai’s weekly letters to Shan had gone unanswered more than once, and he did not know how many of Takshin’s silences were forced upon him. A significant proportion could just be the Third Prince’s ill-humor. “At what hour, then?”
“Whenever you may find him.” The Emperor paused. Like Mrong Banh, his under-eyes were shadowed. He looked tired more often since the wedding. “I have formally ordered the line of succession.”
What was an appropriate response? “Your Majesty is still vigorous.”
Tamuron’s faint smile was that of a warlord watching his enemy’s battle preparations before his own army has been spotted. “Such platitudes have no meaning between us. The First Queen was against this marriage.” Anything that put Kurin further down the succession line would gather no help from that quarter; it was only to be expected. But then Tamuron, as he hardly ever did, commented further upon Gamwone. “She is, no doubt, preparing to make my new daughter-in-law’s life miserable.”
Zakkar Kai thought of the Khir lady-in-waiting. Those pale eyes, and her soft, accented tones. Brave of her, or foolhardy, to use the word tyrant at Tamuron of Zhaon’s court. “She will certainly try.” And the Emperor had to turn a blind eye to much of it, especially lately, for the First Queen’s clan was still rich, newly powerful, and it was furthermore nearing the beginning of their half-year of primacy at court.
“Do what you can, Kai.” Tamuron sighed, a short, weary gust of breath. “Takyeo has need of both shield and sword.”
Are both uses possible for one item? “Which do you think the Crown Princess will be?”
“An ornament, Kai. As she was raised.” Tamuron moved to rise, and the eunuchs, ever alert, began to rustle. Courtiers and ministers elbowed each other, snapped shut their richly decorated fans, neatened their sleeves. “Let us hope she has the sense to remain so.”
BOTH DUE RESPECT
My princess has a rather severe headache.” Yala fought the urge to massage her own temples. The morning had been… unpleasant, at best, most of it spent in the Jonwa’s largest sitting-room between the lateness of round, coldly beautiful Queen Gamwone, and angular, arresting Queen Haesara’s chilly formality. Mahara, clasping a pad of silk soaked with fragrant crushflower to her head, was in no mood for company, and Yala could not blame her.
The two queens, the only formal guests allowed to break a new daughter-in-law’s seclusion, had conversed at length upon trifles without bothering to acknowledge the princess beyond a single, formulaic greeting. Waiting with eyes downcast and hands folded as a good daughter-in-law should, she had borne it with grace, but when Queen Gamwone rose without even glancing at her and swept out, Mahara’s shoulders had tightened. Yala, overlooked upon a small mushroom-shaped stool behind her princess, had composed several stinging lines of poetry inside her head while she listened to the two queens and tried to silently pour support into Mahara’s back.
It was Queen Haesara, hair dressed high and held with chohan26-figured hairpins to match her robe, who rose more slowly and paused next to Mahara’s low embroidered chair. Welcome, to Zhaon-An, child, she had murmured, her long, scented, delicate fingers brushing Mahara’s shoulder like a jewelwing’s weightless settling upon a yeoyan branch. You brighten a room. Here the Second Queen had paused, and her voice dropped even further. Be cautious here.
“It is a warm spring, especially for northerners.” Lady Kue, the red-black braids over her ears smoothed and tame, glanced down the receiving-hall. The Shan wore their tunics fastened far to the right instead of down the center, and Lady Kue’s sober dark dress-robes and tunics were all made thus. There was nothing lacking in the quality of the cloth, though, no matter how unassuming and bare of embroidery. “The First Queen’s wedding gift has arrived.”
“Oh?” Yala glanced at the small, exquisitely carved table Lady Kue indicated, part of the Jonwa’s spare, deeply polished furnishings. At least the Crown Prince did not follow the Kaeje’s overdone, florid luxury; the interiors of this smaller palace were quite restful.
Except for this. A pile of neatly folded, vile-orange cloth sat upon the table, glowering. A greasy sheen shouted its provenance—cheap slurry, the botched leavings of improperly spun and woven thread.
“Cotton.” Lady Kue’s mouth turned down slightly at the corners. “Orange cotton. The dye seems to be…” She paused, and did not quite look to Yala’s face. “Unsteady.”
Hakkan dye. The largest component of such cheap color was laborer’s piss; the message could not be clearer.
Garan Tamuron is Emperor, it said, but I am the First Queen, and you are nothing to me.
Yala swallowed, hard. Silence stretched between her and the housekeeper, each waiting for what the other would say.
Finally, Lady Kue exhaled softly, as if to dispel her own ire. The housekeeper’s hands, folded upon the broad ribbed housekeeper’s belt at her midriff, had turned white at the knuckles, the ebon ring of her position upon the first left finger glittering balefully.
So this housekeeper feels keenly the insult to her master. “How thoughtful,” Yala murmured, when she could speak through the hot rock lodged in her throat. She took care to make the Zhaon plain, neither admitting perfect equality nor denigrating. To look to a housekeeper for direction was not proper, but neither was refusing counsel from an expert of whatever rank. And Lady Kue would be an expert upon the palace’s web of female alliances, if Yala could gain her trust or cooperation. Both would be best, but one or the other would do. “To show her opinion so plainly.”
“Indeed.” Lady Kue nodded. Did she look relieved Yala was not likely to scream with rage? A susurration down the hall—maids going back and forth, fetching, carrying, cleaning. And gossiping, no doubt. How many had seen this? Enforcing silence would be impossible; this would run through the palace like wildfire.
The reaction of the Khir princess’s only lady-in-waiting would run alongside. A few prickles of sweat touched Yala’s lower back, collected under her arms.
“Is this… traditional?” She strove to speak in a normal tone; touched the cloth with a fingertip. Yes, the dye was unsteady; that was the kindest way to put it. She rubbed the contamination against her thumb, failing to quell a moue of distaste. “I ask because I am imperfectly acquainted with the customs of Zhaon.”
“It is an insult.” Lady Kue was past hint or intimation, apparently. Her toes, side by side in slippers embroidered subtly with thread only a shade different than their fabric, poked from beneath her long wide trouser-cuffs. “The First Queen is known for them.”
I have guessed as much. Still, that the housekeeper would speak plainly was a good sign. “And it is an insult to the Crown Prince as well as my—our princess?”
“One he cannot answer.” Two patches of dull color bloomed high upon the Shan woman’s cheeks.
So, would th
e Crown Prince’s wife be called upon to answer for him? Was that Lady Kue’s message? Yala did not think much of the move, however initially satisfying it might be, so she sought a gentle refusal. “And we might not either.” Not at this moment, at least. “What do you suggest?” Her hands longed to turn into fists. Thankfully, this dark blue dress embroidered with komor flowers in a lighter blue was of Khir make, so her sleeves covered evidence of ill temper. Still, she forced her fingers to uncurl, her breath to come evenly; ill temper said ill breeding. “I am a stranger here, Lady Kue, and eager to be of help to my lady’s lord.”
“I suggest we leave it in a damp storeroom to molder.” Lady Kue smoothed her tunic-skirt with both hands, a quick graceful movement. The ring of keys upon her belt made a soft, melodious sound, chimes under a gentle breeze, and her sudo’s filigreed knob-handle depending from the same loop glistened in soft mirrorlight. “Will you tell the princess?”
And make me the carrier of ill news. Well, it is hardly the first time I have had to tell Mahara something unpleasant. Yala folded her hands inside her sleeves, touching the handle of a fan with one fingertip. Warm lacquered wood reminded her that a noblewoman did not stoop to pettiness—at least, not yet. “Yes, certainly. But not just this moment.”
“That is wise.” Lady Kue clasped her hands again, a quiet, demure movement. She wore no ear-drops, and her hairpin was a straight, unadorned stick. “I have served the prince since his mother died, Lady Komor. The First Queen wishes her own son as Crown Prince.” Another bald statement, as if daring her to disagree. “I would be… cautious, of her. In every way.”
“I shall be. And so shall my princess.” One truth deserved another, so Yala chose the one that would serve best. “My princess’s husband is my lord now, too. I would not do aught to cause him difficulty.” At least he is gentle with her, and seems kind enough.
The lady’s tension eased somewhat, the ring of keys and implements at her belt clicking again as she shifted. “I would be quite heartened to have you as a friend, Lady Komor. Zhaon-An is dangerous for the unwary—is the palace of Khir so too?”
