by S. C. Emmett
“Yes, your elder brother has saved you. The middleman you used to engage a Son of the Needle will never be questioned.” The Second Queen rarely raised her voice, but she did so now, and if the tapestries could have, they perhaps would have shifted uncomfortably. “I have spoken to Makar, though, and he will not save you again.”
“Mother—”
“Now you call me Mother? If your brother had not covered your tracks, Zakkar Kai and that astrologer would have found out who commissioned that blade. And you thought to economize by only sending one and using a Left Market agent, like a parsimonious merchant?” Her contempt was withering. “The penalty for the murder of a prince is the Hell of the Red-Hot Tongs, my son, and do you think I could have saved you? No, your brother and I would have been forced to watch.”
“I was not the only one.” Sensheo stretched, a picture of languor. “I know for a fact that First Queen—”
“Any others had the sense to recall their blades when the Emperor announced the granting of a hurai. You are hasty and stupid.” Queen Haesara’s eyes glowed, coals well past their first fanning, while the heat is fierce but the surface is still dark. “What possessed you to do this?”
“It was supposed to be at the army camp; I didn’t know Father would—”
Even her ears flushed now. “I cannot decide which is worse, that you failed or that you might have succeeded before Three Rivers.”
“You cannot recall a Son of the Needle once you have paid him.” Sensheo waved an airy hand, as if imparting great wisdom to a silly woman. “Besides, Kai is an orphan, Mother. A commonborn—”
“I do not care if he is the son of the lowest whore in the Theater District, he saved the house of Garan and has been granted a hurai.” Could he imagine the implications had Zhaon’s general been murdered before victory over Khir? Haesara searched her son’s sullen face for a sign, any sign, that he understood what had almost happened. None was apparent. “Next time, Makar will not save you from yourself, and neither will I.”
“Mother—”
She lifted one hand, her fingertips dipped in and stained with suma, the mark of a Hanweo princess. Her House was ancient, rulers of their land too small to be a country and too large to be a province since the Second Dynasty’s bloodbaths. “Go. I weary of your games.” A small wave of dismissal, familiar—for she waved away merchants in such a manner—and hurtful, for she had never used it upon her son.
Sensheo rose, an ugly flush staining his cheeks as well, not nearly as attractive as suma. Even his fists were clenched, as if he were three winters old again and missing a toy from the nursery. “Had I succeeded—”
“You would have been the first one suspected, and that astrologer would have caught you.” Did he not see? “Must I tell you again? Go.”
He did, closing the sliding door with far too much force. The queen stared at thin blue cloth, stretched taut, and exhaled, sharply. It took some few breaths before she could find the tranquility so necessary to the needle. He worried her, this second son. In one of Makar’s intelligence, such ambition would have been welcome, pruned and nurtured like a tiny enclosed garden in an exquisite second house, one built for aesthetics instead of defense.
But Sensheo was far too hurried and saw only the bauble before him, not the larger prize in the storerooms. Or even, as her elder son did, a prize invisible at the moment.
“I wish my children to live,” she murmured, and set aside the frame. Delicate work, too easily ruined. She had been looking forward to losing herself in tiny stitches, in a world bounded by a frame where things behaved as they should. It was just as well Sensheo was only attempting to rid himself of a childhood enemy, instead of setting himself to a larger prize.
The Crown Prince gave every indication of being a just, wise heir. Unfortunately, he gave no indication at all of being a ruthless one. Which meant the throne, while it might pass into his keeping, would in all likelihood not stay there. The First Queen’s prideful first spawn would rise to eat what he could; none of Tamuron’s other sons would be safe, unless they were judged to be no threat.
And Sensheo, her darling second son, who had been such a winning, charming child, would not see the blade until it was already between his ribs. Makar had room to maneuver, and the wisdom to do so. Her hopes should rest upon him, but she did not wish to lose another baby she had suckled, a son she had raised, a prop in her old age, and a support for the Hanweo interests during the half of the year that the First Queen’s clan instead of her own was primary at court.
It was no use. Tranquility was nowhere to be found. She turned her attention to sorting thread, her nostrils flaring slightly. If she left her sewing so soon after her son burst out of the room with a thundercloud over his face, notice might be taken.
Trapped by appearances, Queen Haesara simmered, and thought. Sooner or later, a decision would have to be made. There appeared no way out of the tangle but the one most unpalatable.
It was best to conserve what one could, if a… defective… thread snapped and ruined every neighboring stitch. For a short while Haesara studied the tapestries hanging upon the walls, and a sudden longing to tear each of them down and order them burned in one of the gardens seized her.
She could not, so she returned to her sorting, her mouth set.
A CAREFUL STUDY
A few days later, on a bright clear afternoon, Fourth Prince Garan Makar settled upon a soldier’s thin square cushion and accepted a cup of pao tea full of whipped butter, served tepid in the old style. His robe was somber burnt sienna and his belt the absolute thinnest acceptable for a prince’s costume; his topknot was uncaged today and his expression was that of a man preparing to enjoy himself immensely, lips slightly curved under his long nose and fine dark eyes. Zakkar Kai’s closemouthed steward Anlon, a military stick-insect well past his prime and no doubt ready for a pension, bowed and retreated after ushering the tea-servants away, closing the door with soft authority.
The talent of inspiring loyalty was one Zhaon’s head general had in good measure, and Makar thought it very likely it was part and parcel of whatever the god of war had whispered in the orphan’s ear after birth. You could whip a soldier into the ranks, but you could not make him fight even in bitter defeat. Not that Kai had been defeated yet; anything that was not a clear victory had been part of a larger strategy.
Of course, the same could be said of any general until ill-luck struck him down. Had not even the great Khao Cao been brought low by a pair of strategists and a woman pouring tea?
Kai’s palace quarters were spare almost to the point of uninhabitable, but the wooden floors were well-washed and waxed, the few cushions were comfortable, and there was a martial neatness to stone and wooden walls painted pale and hung with a scroll or two to break the monotony. Even the garden his rooms looked onto was minimalist, a sand-bottomed pool under rough but very aesthetic clumps of very green, very tender babu set against two rough, hip-high volcanic stones.
The chessboard stood where it had at the end of last week’s session, on a low, polished wooden table with chunky square legs. General, minister, firemouth, horse, chariot, oliphant, soldier, all carved of heavy cool white stone or glassy black xindai,29 all entirely obedient whether upon the battlefield or retired to the sides. Neither combatant appeared to hold much of an advantage, but this was a game of patience.
If Makar were to be absolutely honest, he enjoyed the sessions too much to wish for an end to them. He and Kai would simply start another match at Makar’s house outside the palace complex when this board had been fought to a draw. He breathed easier there, but a weekly trip to Zakkar Kai’s quarters in their forgotten corner of the Iejo gave him an excuse to gather information he might not otherwise gain.
Besides, worthy opponents were difficult to find. Makar took a sip of pao and enjoyed its silken texture, caught between warmth and coolness. At the very end, the tea made of strong, fermented leaves made itself known, swiping the tongue clean. “And did Takshin bow his
head meekly? I can answer my own question: No indeed.”
“His refusal was polite, in its own fashion.” Zakkar Kai, his deep-set eyes half-lidded, tested his own pao and apparently found it acceptable. The teapot and cups, of rustic brown Anwei clay, nevertheless held thin hammered gold rims and subtle fingermarks frozen into their sides, marks of a master potter. “All the same, I was rather surprised he chose now to dig his heels in.”
“The Mad Queen,” Makar murmured. There was no need to say more. A royal death liberated more than one soul. “Whose turn is it?” As if he did not know, but to ask was etiquette, and their tradition besides.
They had been at chess ever since Kai arrived, a fierce half-civilized boy from the deserts with the goodwill of only a few to shield him. Those few were mighty, though—Garan Tamuron and his eldest son chief among them—and Makar had seen immediately it would be no good to protest at the inclusion of a filthy common brat upon palace life as Kurin did.
Besides, Kai was better company than the Second Prince from the beginning. He was not a bully, and he could not run crying to his mother when balked, for he had none. All other considerations aside, Makar quite liked Zakkar Kai, and as long as the general made it possible to be friendly, the Fourth Prince was quite willing to do so.
“Yours.” Kai in house-tunic and trousers was a different beast than the general in armor or even half-armor. Catlike, he relaxed the grim hold upon his expression necessary for any who wished to survive political life—what was war but politics continued, he had remarked wryly to the Fourth Prince once—and even sometimes sat with one knee up, hugging it like an adolescent while he contemplated the board.
“Hm. The pao is quite good.” Often, the tea did not cut the butter at the end, and it was easy for an inattentive preparer to mistake tepid for cold.
Kai nodded. “I cannot take any compliment upon that account. It was a gift, and Anlon makes it.”
“Even better.” With the amenities summarily disposed of, they could turn their attention to the game, and Makar let himself savor the event. Long silences interspersed with soft observations, the pouring of more silky-smooth pao with its lingering astringency, halting every so often to look out at the rough darkness of stone balanced against shimmer-flat water and rustling babu—all quite restful. Serene. “It has quieted some little of late.”
Kai glanced briefly at him, back at the board. His gaze was smooth too, unruffled, and he did not tap his fingers or fidget as he had so long ago. All that restless energy had been contained and channeled now. “The wedding is past, after all.”
“Yes.” Makar touched a firemouth with a fingertip. Let his hand rest there, balanced like an acrobat upon one leg. “How goes your investigation?”
Kai did not glance up. His nose was buried in his teacup; he took a mannerly sip. “Banh made a careful study of the markings.” He paused, perhaps warning Makar that the proposed movement was a dangerous one.
Makar’s hand moved; he selected a soldier instead. “This poor fellow,” he said. “Trudging hither and yon.”
“Such is a soldier’s lot.” Kai’s mouth curved slightly, a smile belonging on a scroll-illustration of a general in repose. “I went into the Yuin last night.”
Makar already knew as much. The only person likely to escape notice leaving the palace complex was Jin, with his habit of going over walls. The boy was part longtail and all mischief. “Searching for plucked flowers?” The euphemism for prostitutes who did not ply their trade inside a brothel’s rooms was not terribly polite, but it had a certain fittingness.
“The kind that bite your fingers off.” The phrase could mean teeth closing, or a serrated knife.
Makar watched Kai return his attention to the board, contemplating each option. Such a marvelous contradiction—a blade in service to the house of Garan, and apparently no ambition to turn the edge inward. Certainly, after Three Rivers, Makar had thought they would find the measure of the man. A victorious general, after all, was how Garan Tamuron had ascended to the ancient throne left empty since the middle of the Warring Days, when the only thing worse than invading hordes was the petty warlords strangling each other upon the battlefield for victories barely deserving the name.
He wondered, not for the first time, exactly what loyalty was. It did not reside in the liver with a man’s thoughts, nor in his loins. A man’s head-meat was occupied with advantage and survival, not fidelity. The scholars and poets did not know where the beast made its lair either, and it exercised them roundly.
For a long while they played in silence, stopping only when Kai’s steward appeared to bring more tea—plain and hot this time—and a platter of pounded rai baked into amusing shapes both savory and sweet. The general’s cook was a master; Heaven alone knew where the Second Concubine had found such treasure without leaving her bower, and why she did not keep it. But then, did not every woman without sons wish for one? Would they not pay almost anything for such a gift?
It was upon the second cup of plain tea, stinging-hot and satisfying, that Kai evidently decided the time had come. “The assassin was not a Son of the Needle.”
“Yet he had the markings?” Makar studied the babu, moving gently on an afternoon breeze. “How very interesting.”
“Oh, it was a riddle indeed.” Kai selected a bit of pounded, baked rai shaped like a horse, considered its beautiful crisp edges. “Care to guess?”
There was only one solution, since the Sons did not take kindly to assassins not in their guild bearing their marks. The usual remedy was to flay the offender—alive. “Dishonored.”
“He had a wife.” Kai clicked his tongue, very much like Mrong Banh. “Poor fellow.”
The children of the Needle did not mind marriage—babies born into their training grew into double deadliness. The “poor fellow” had married outside the guild, thought his brethren would not uncover the transgression, and had taken to selling his services through a Yuin market middleman. Had Kai not taken his life, his brothers would eventually. The women of the Needle, chewing poison roots to proof themselves against toxins and training those desperate enough to seek entrance to their particular Shadowed Path, would have pronounced him traitor and forsworn, and nowhere within Zhaon would be safe.
“So it could not be an official contract.” Makar nodded. The Sons of the Needle had a nasty habit of sending more to finish what one of their kind could not. “You must be relieved.”
“Hardly.” Kai bit the horse’s head free and chewed, enjoying whatever it was stuffed with. A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. “There is still the little matter of who paid him. But then again, A balked river finds another path, from one stone to the next.”
“Xao Xheung.” Not quite of the Hundreds but still an essayist a cultured man should know. The particular quotation was from his Book of the Garden, written while under house arrest after the Affair of the Five Deaths. The ruler of northern Zhaon at that time was the half-Khir called Hundiao in the old histories for his habit of mounting enemies—real or imagined—upon stakes while they still breathed.
Hundiao had an exorcist’s luck, for the Five Deaths had been intended for him and miscarried at the last moment. The conspiracy had died not quite in its cradle nor yet grown, for its component parts had not merely been in league against him but against each other as well, each of them seeking the high seat.
“You have been studying,” Makar added. “Father will be pleased.”
“Let us hope so. I dislike his displeasure.” Kai finished the small horse and washed it down with tea. His manners were unpolished but by no means rough; he enjoyed playing the bluff general with little time for niceties.
Suitably fortified, they returned to the board. Fourth Prince Makar settled himself to play well and also to enjoy the tea. Kai did not skimp when a guest arrived; you had the best of his tent or household.
It was one more thing to admire about him, however grudgingly.
When the visit was done, the Fourth Prince would have to
call upon his mother, as always when he set foot within the palace complex. He would have to tell her Zakkar Kai knew of Sensheo’s… indiscretion, but was not inclined to bring the matter to the Emperor for his own reasons.
At least, not yet.
PERHAPS REGRET
Seclusion” in Zhaon did not mean what it did in Khir. The Crown Princess, though barred from banquet and any male company without her husband present for another two full moons, could nevertheless take chaperoned tea during the first new moon of her marriage with her younger nieces-in-law. Perhaps it was intended as a gentle introduction to court life.
Yala settled upon her heels, her hands arranging her skirts with no direction from the rest of her, quick habitual movements. Mahara smiled, tentatively, and Second Princess Gamnae, her hair fantastically curled and piled until it seemed ready to slide off her head, smiled back. Chief Court Lady Gonwa, iron-backed and round-hipped in a lily-orange cotton dress patterned with indigo dragonwings and edged in viridian silk, bowed most correctly and indicated the tea-table. “All is in readiness,” she said, eschewing the slight lisp of those who attended the First Queen. “Allow me the honor of pouring, Crown Princess Mahara.”
“It is our honor to have you do so.” Mahara’s Zhaon was improving steadily. A very simple dress of forest green patterned with the segmented characters for babu at sleeve, belt, and hem was a fine choice, saved from severity by a deep purple silken under-robe just visible at neckline and cuffs. Her hairpins were both wedding gifts from the Second Queen, and wearing them upon this first semi-public occasion was a mark of respect in that direction. “Princess Gamnae, is this a tea you prefer?”
“It is steeped with jaelo.” Second Princess Gamnae’s ear-drops shivered and chimed, along with the small yellow beads dropping from her three hairpins like rain. A shade somewhere between green and yellow, her dress suited her, but only because she was so young. It was also cut too low, the twin swells of nascent breasts plainly visible, straining against a linen band meant to keep her from overstepping the bounds of decency. “When in this particular style, we call it heaven tea. I like how Lady Gonwa prepares it; it always tastes sweeter.”
