by S. C. Emmett
“Of course not.” A slight shake of his head, as if he considered the idea ridiculous.
“Then what?” Should she face him? What would that look like, if anyone happened along? So she simply leaned to her right a fraction at a time, sinking her weight. Her own shoes were soft, meant for palace halls or small decorous steps upon paved garden paths. She had not brought a sunbell—perhaps she should not leave Jonwa without one; they could be usefully jabbed at a foe to give her time to draw.
And strike.
A small, pained sigh escaped him. “I would like to be your friend, Lady Komor.”
“Friend to a Khir?” She did not have to try to sound baffled. One such as me, he said. At least he understood his very name was cursed in her country. “You show me a shinkesai and say you wish to be my friend?”
“I wanted to know what it was, and now you may put it from your mind, Lady Komor. And your princess has need of all the friendship she can muster here; therefore, so do you. Am I not a worthy ally?”
Oh, the general tells me I may put it from my mind. Yala could not help herself; she quoted Zhe Har again. “What is the price of alliance?” The poet’s song of rivals for Princess Sakyewone’s hand was not quite a well-bred choice, but she had already stabbed a man in full view of Zakkar Kai. In her night-robe, even, with her hair loose, and now she was exchanging unchaperoned words with the architect of Khir’s defeat.
Did he think her honor available, or was this somehow a threat? She could not decide, especially since he had dealt with the corpse last night. And stripped it of the ring he now carried in a pocket, as if he did not care what contagion would leach from it into his clothing, his skin, his self.
General Zakkar’s Zhaon changed, became the high-accented formality of quotation. “A few moments of your time, no more.”
Zhe Har. Again. The warrior’s first address to the Moon Maiden. “You have had as much.” Yala’s cheeks began to burn. The Maiden’s reply was I am late, let me go; My sleeve is caught. “I am grateful for the aid you rendered me, General.” Formally, and in Khir, he would understand the dismissal. In Zhaon, however, it lacked sting.
Or he chose to misunderstand. “Then I shall attempt to render more, Lady Komor.”
“Crown Prince Takyeo will appreciate it, I am certain.” Yala suspected taking refuge behind Mahara’s husband would become a depressingly familiar occurrence. She badly needed a few moments to gather her thoughts, and further suspected she would not be granted them for some short while.
“I will not be serving him in this matter, Lady Komor. I take my leave, and wish you a pleasant day.” Zakkar Kai left as suddenly as he had appeared; she listened as his footsteps—very light, and deliberate—retreated up the path.
If it was a warning, it was a strange one. Whom did he serve in this matter, then? More importantly, even if Zakkar Kai did not know what a shinkesai was, was the appearance of one here truly of so little concern?
Yala waited in the arbor’s shade for the fire in her cheeks and the trembling all through her limbs to recede. When it did, she found her stomach had settled somewhat. Now she had a puzzle to work upon and thinking to do.
If she could regain the Jonwa without being waylaid, she could send Anh for tea and busy herself with writing a letter to her father. It was not yet the day of the week she had appointed for that duty and she could not breathe a word of this just yet, but brushwork might bring her some clarity.
Of course the most disturbing realization only appeared after the General was gone, much as a crushing retort to one’s rival did not show itself until well after said rival had swept away victorious.
Zakkar Kai had mistaken her for Mahara, in the darkness. Had an assassin bearing a mark of Khir’s westron borders done the same?
LAST FADING FLOWER
Spring’s first pale green strengthened, deepened, and spread in every garden around the Great Keep of Khir; the rai was sprouting well. The Low Belly festival was still far away and it was never wise to celebrate so early in the season, but if the summer was kind there would likely be another good harvest in terrace and valley.
In his high, spare great hall, Hai Komori Dasho settled in his seat, iron-backed and thin-lipped. He touched his seal-ring with a thumb-tip, then rested his hands upon his thighs. “I am an old man,” he said, finally. “I have little time for idleness or games. State your business, Crown Prince.”
Grey-eyed, broad-faced Ashani Daoyan, standing as if he were a supplicant instead of the Crown Prince of Khir, visibly reminded himself not to scowl. Court life had not blurred his outline, and reports did not have him among the sinks or amusing himself with theater flowers. Instead, he paid attendance to Zlorih’s court and the Second Families, listening much and speaking little. On the practice square or at the hunt he was disdainful of danger and skilled with bow, javelin, and sword; he had not lost a hawk at hunting.
All good signs. And yet.
“I find myself in a dilemma, Lord Komori.” Daoyan folded his hands, the statue of a warrior at rest. When he was merely a byblow and not the last flowering of Ashani’s tree, he had been the friend of Komori’s son, and often Dasho thought he sensed interest toward Yala in this princeling’s glances.
It was kept well reined, if it existed. Yet Yala’s letters sometimes spoke of receiving news from Khir her father had not sent.
And what letters! Careful, cautious, decorous. Still, she had begun to express such things as preferences, and assured her father more than once that she was well, the princess was well, and Zhaon not as bad as she had feared. She had even begun to send him news, after a fashion, testing delicately to see if her father would chide her for speaking of politics as a Khir woman never should.
A dear child, his only light in the world, now carried far afield. Dasho throttled the cough that had settled in his chest with spring’s damp. The dry days would be here soon enough, and the unaccustomed shortness of breath and weakness of limb would retreat.
He highly doubted he would see another flowering of the yeoyan trees, and there was much to be done before that came to pass. A clan-head anticipated both the best and worst, not to mention everything between, and did not leave those under his care adrift. “And you believe I hold a solution? Or advice?”
“Either would be welcome. The Great Rider has spoken, but I do not agree.” At least the boy had a clear honest gaze, bright Khir eyes. His mother, the Narikh widow, had been a highly accomplished lady, even if honorless.
What could a woman do, when a Great Rider pursued her? Perhaps Lady Narikh had set her yue aside, since her pursuer was of such high station.
Komori Dasho considered every answer he might give to the boy’s extraordinary statement, and settled for the barest honesty. “That sounds like treason, Crown Prince.”
“Yes.” The boy’s pale gaze met his unflinchingly. “And yet I come to you, Lord Komori, most upright of men, whose honor is famous.”
Pretty words. Komori Dasho did not tense, but his gaze cooled perceptibly. So did his tone. “If treason be your aim, I will hear no more.”
“Even if it concerns Komor Yala?”
Komori Dasho’s chest became hot, but no sign of anger could be shown. Instead, he made certain his shoulders were a motionless rod, capable of carrying any weight. “My daughter is no betrayer.”
“No, your daughter is far too loyal.” Ashani Daoyan hurried to dispel the insult. “I did everything I could to stop her going to Zhaon, but now she is there, and in danger.”
Now that was interesting. Yala’s careful hints, twice in the well-guarded cipher of their clan, took on a new and troubling cast. Dasho did not let his hands, resting against his thighs, tense. Not even a finger-flicker was allowed to betray his mood. “What could we do, Ashani Daoyan? Our princess was demanded, to bring peace.”
“Oh, demanded, certainly.” The boy’s expression showed plainly what he thought of such ill-bred things as demands. “But Hai Ashani Zlorih, my most-honored royal father, is not so c
ertain peace is ideal. Neither are many of his councilors.”
Komori Dasho finally moved. He leaned forward slightly, now resting his elbows upon his chair-arms, and steepled his fingers before his chest, an attitude indicative of attention and thoughtfulness. “Be clearer, Ashani Daoyan.”
The boy, for all his faults, could speak crisply and to the point when needful. He did so now, and each year of Komori Dasho’s life weighed more heavily upon his thinning bones, his congested chest, his failing eyesight. He could no longer see the hawks circling the mountain meadows on clear days, or the tombs cut into the high slopes. Only meaningless smears, as if age sought to bring his attention to what was close instead of far away.
So quiet, his household now. No children in its halls, no sense of breathing life in the women’s quarters, though the maiden aunts and widows thrust upon the grace of the clan still lingered in those corridors. He allowed them because they reminded him of Yala, and some of them had trained and taught her well. If she had missed a mother’s care, she had not shown it.
There was much she had not shown, and he had only himself to blame for that blankness and the sharp loneliness in his chest every evening as he sat alone before the fire in his study. No son, no grandchildren, and his daughter sent into a wolf-den with only a single metal tooth to guard her.
“I see,” he said, finally. “And you come to me, Prince, because you wish to avert this?”
“I wish to see Komor Yala safely returned to Khir, my lord Komori.” Daoyan shrugged, spreading his own hands. His sword rode his back; he had given a good accounting of himself at Three Rivers, the witnesses said, and had to be knocked unconscious and dragged from the field at Zlorih’s express order. “And it appears to me you are the only man among the Second Families I may express this to as well as my only means of obtaining sound counsel. And perhaps help.”
“You wish me to commit some form of treason to save my daughter.” He should rise, Komori Dasho knew, and refuse to hear more. Or even stride for a weapon and slay this princeling for treason, accepting the inevitable consequences.
He knew what would follow such a course. Ashani Zlorih could not afford to execute his own bastard-born son for treason; his grasp on power was precarious enough. Should Komori Dasho strike down a Crown Prince, his lands would be forfeit and his clan dissolved, and those who relied upon him for protection and shelter most likely executed in their turn. His name would be blackened, and Yala…
“Yes, Lord Komori. I am determined upon treasonous acts.” At least the upstart did not deny it, or seek to coat the bitter paste with sweetened, pounded rai. “We cannot save Ashan Mahara. Yala, though… it might be possible.”
At least his liver and head had not gone soft or brittle with age, Dasho mused. The consciousness of danger sharpened even an old man. “You speak as if this is already afoot.”
The boy shrugged. He did not value his elders as he should, but perhaps a bastard would not feel overly filial. “Why do you think I am here?”
The decision was simple, and already made. Dasho did not struggle with the inevitable, though he should have. Honor and rectitude demanded such effort, no matter the cost.
Yala. His throat had dried. “What would you have of me?”
“You have business which goes to Zhaon-An.” Daoyan had obviously spent some thought upon practical steps, and Komori Dasho wondered if he should be insulted by the lad’s certainty. “I ask only a place upon a southbound caravan, and a seal from your hand so your daughter will know to trust me.”
“Does she not already?” One eyebrow raised, and Dasho would never know how much likeness to his daughter that one small motion called forth in his features. It would not have comforted him if he had known.
Such is the faint mercy of Heaven granted to old men.
“She would deny me, Komori Dasho.” Daoyan’s tone was slightly bitter. Yes, he had cast his gaze upon Yala more than once, it was obvious. “But her father? Never.”
Dasho listened to the quiet of his empty halls. He felt again the slight weight of a child in his lap, and a chubby child’s fist closed awkwardly around a brush under his fingers as he taught brushwork. Ko. Mo. Ri. Characters unreeling from a brush’s bristles, paper and ink his only tenuous link with a somber young woman in severe dark blue.
“I am dying,” he said, finally. “Hai Komori dies with me, no matter the success of junior twigs. She is the last flower upon a fading branch.” My little light. He straightened, forestalling whatever the young prince planned to say with one raised, iron-slim hand, upon which the great seal of Komori glinted. “But when she falls, I would have it be upon fair soil, at least. Come closer, princeling, and bring a chair.” His smile was all bitterness, and Yala would not have recognized the fierce glitter in his pale Khir gaze, for she had never seen her father ride to skirmish or war. “We have much to discuss.”
SERVE A PARAGON
Physician Tian Ha, in sober brown and high-peaked scholar’s hat instead of an embroidered court cap, bowed as he backed from the room. The passageway outside the First Queen’s examination chamber was dark and somewhat drafty, pale maids hurrying back and forth in shushing skirts. All very young, they were of the type Gamwone preferred—cow-eyed, thin-cheeked, and creeping. It was the custom to settle a dowry upon them if they left service, even kaburei, but there were ways to evade such an expense. Very few of the First Queen’s qujei—the word for baby spiders—lasted more than two years, and those who did were crafty, sly, and had a certain droop-eyelid look, a bitter cast to their mouths, and premature weathering. Their matriarch Yona was a dry stick, of the type used for beating rugs.
This hall always lent itself to such thoughts. It was perhaps treasonous to think the next occupant of the First Queen’s small palace, enclosed within the same massive red-roofed building housing the Emperor’s private and public rooms as well as several chambers of state, might actually open the windows or allow some mirrorlight into this dim drafty passageway.
Or it could be merely wise to consider such an eventuality. Nothing was eternal, as any physician knew.
When he emerged into the mirrorlight brightness of the receiving-hall hung with the First Queen’s sansho-flower device upon scroll and tapestry, he halted to blink away dazzlement, slow as that cursed lizard-eyed eunuch Zan Fein. Tian Ha’s clearing vision settled upon Prince Kurin’s sky-blue robe patterned with stitched, stylized huar blossoms in orange, a fashionable if slightly effeminate choice. The prince’s hands were folded and his topknot caged with a brass ring; Tian Ha hurried into a bow. “My apologies, Prince Kurin. The inner hall is very dark today, and your presence is blinding.”
“A lovely piece of flattery.” Kurin’s habitual half-smile was no more indicative of pleasure than anger. His was a hooded gaze as well; perhaps that was why the First Queen favored such things in her qujei. “What of my mother, physician?”
“She is much improved,” Tian Ha hurried to reassure, and did not dare to straighten. “It will ease her mind when the exorcist arrives, and—”
“Oh, that.” The Second Prince’s expression did not change, but he turned away, clasping his hands within his sleeves as was his wont. “Women, spending silver on theatrics.”
“Your mother is very devout.” Tian Ha’s mouth had dried alarmingly. Now he could rise, but he paused, according the prince more honor than his due.
It was safest that way.
Kurin stroked meditatively at his hurin with his opposite fingers, his sleeve rippling as he did so. “Come, physician. Walk with me.”
Tian Ha braced himself. Between two fires, Zhue Can the Younger had written, one must keep one’s robe precisely arranged. “It would be my pleasure.”
That particular passage had been in Tian Ha’s final examination, and he took it as an omen.
Once the shoe-servants were waved away and with the prince’s attendants following at a safe distance, Tian Ha followed the Second Prince down the wide steps. A slight discoloration halfway down, ri
nged with impassive golden-coated guards, showed where the body had landed that morning. The exorcist, a slight man in a dusty robe, surveyed the scene, casting an incurious glance at sauntering, rich-robed royalty. Masked and hooded even in this heat, the man bore a long crook-topped staff, its arched snakehead wrapped with flutters of waxed paper daubed with blood-ink charms. A certain amount of theater was necessary for his calling, Tian Ha supposed, but he did not restrain a sniff at the ragged appearance.
The physician hung back until the prince, with a sharp gesture, beckoned him to walk alongside. “Give me the benefit of your observations upon this morning’s events, physician.”
“With pleasure,” Tian Ha repeated, and decided to start with the most bizarre point. “The man’s fingers were removed shortly after death.”
“How very… traditional. And yet, not.” Amusement colored the prince’s voice. He eschewed a sunbell, since a man should not care for his skin as a woman did, and he did not seem to feel the heat as lesser beings. Perhaps it was the fine-ground zhu pressed onto his forehead with a pad. It was rumored his attendants ground salt into that courtesan’s mix, and dabbed it upon him with trembling hands.
“And yet, strange.” Tian Ha matched his steps to the prince’s, slightly too long; the prince probably liked making him hurry, seeing if he could force the elder man out of breath. “A walker of the Shadowed Path is not a common thief.”
“Assassins steal lives.” Thoughtfully, as if the prince had devoted some thought to the matter. “Perhaps this was a warning that one particular life is well guarded.”
So Tian Ha had thought, and it was gratifying to hear it from another’s lips. “You have a poet’s tongue, Prince Kurin.”
“Save your flattery for my mother, physician.” The prince frowned, but did not direct the expression at him.
Which was a mercy. It had been a most unsatisfying morning, Tian Ha decided he might as well say something truthful. “If she did not enjoy it so much, I might dispense with it altogether.”
