by S. C. Emmett
“Now that is interesting.” Kurin paused and glanced at the physician, the corners of his long mouth tilting up. His thin, well-brushed beard lay obediently against his chin and upper lip. “That is the first hint of a spine you’ve shown in many months, Tian Ha.”
Even the most well-hidden, well-reined irritation could make a man incautious. There was a difference, though, in sending a message one had brooded upon for a long while. “Perhaps not the last.”
“You are ambitious.” As if a Second Prince, with his disdain and his courtier’s habits, were not.
Tian Ha quelled the urge to fold his own hands inside his sleeves. He kept them visible—another message sent, that he did not fear scrutiny. His were honest hands, innocent of the rings of high station, their fingertips stained from decoctions as a good physician’s should be. He had not done badly for a peasant’s son sent to take the civil examinations twice while the rest of his family starved, and he sent money to his aged mother each new moon, well wrapped in a hank of silk to show her he was not doing badly. “I prefer to serve where ambition is a virtue.”
“What of gratitude?”
“The ambitious are also gracious.” Tian Ha remembered when Garan Tamuron was merely a warlord. A successful one, but no divine being. When power came late to a man, he was mistrustful and sometimes forgot his friends. Not like those nourished upon rule’s very essence. “If they are wise.”
Prince Kurin indicated the entrance to a small, shimmering everbloom garden, its gate threaded with twining creepwood vines. “Ambition, graciousness, wisdom—you would serve a paragon, then.”
The conversation was treading in dangerous waters. Creepwood was poisonous to horses and humans alike, but only if treated differently in each preparation. “Our Emperor is a paragon. He has a god of war at his beck and call, and many vigorous sons.” Common weeds could be as dangerous as pampered flowers, too. The medicinal could so easily become its own reverse.
All it took was care, and a little thought. A single twist of the wrist while stirring, a pinch of the wrong powder—innocently, of course. Always innocently. Always with a certain vague regret as one looked into the distance, letting the hands do what the eye must not see and the thinking liver not quite rest upon.
“Precisely.” Kurin’s sleeves fell back as he halted at a carved stone balustrade and looked over masses of jaelo, thin stalkvines woven into lattices. The flowers would not reach their full potency until summer nights closed sticky-hot upon the city. They were best gathered while dew-heavy for tea, but dry in afternoon’s full sun for the bath. The prince rubbed at his greenstone hurai with a well-manicured first finger, thoughtfully. “Heaven has granted my royal father good fortune.”
“Heaven favored him in battle many times,” Tian Ha murmured. “Yes.”
“And now my eldest brother is married. Has Mother sent many gifts to my new sister-in-law?”
“I do not know.” The physician shook his head, stroked at his own wispy beard. Perhaps he should shave it off; a clean face was an honest face, was it not? “She did not mention it, nor consult me upon any medicines to be sent.”
“I am told tea is a splendid gesture.” The Second Prince gazed at a small pond, its surface choked with broad bluegreen huan. The flowers, creamy cups shading into pink at the edges, would appear in fall. On the far end of the garden, the winter-blooming spinuan with its prickle-green, curled leaves hunched, waiting for snow before its clusters of slow-ripening cones would turn crimson. “Especially from Hanweo.”
Ah. Tian Ha’s stomach turned sour, and there was a most uncomfortable scratching sensation behind his heart. If his conscience had not been so clear, perhaps he would have classified the latter as something close to panic. “Tea is always a gift, the Hundreds say. Hanweo is justly famous for its leaves.” And for certain tinctures of herbs grown in swamp-rank patches at the edges of rai ponds, blooming waxen-white. The thick roots of one such plant, when treated with a maximum of care and mixed with fragrant hrebao, would vanish into most tea blends and was quite virulent in its abortifacient effect. Too much, and there was permanent damage not only to the womb but to other bodily systems.
It was also well-nigh untraceable, and consequently very expensive.
“Gifts are such a difficult business,” Kurin continued, lightly. “Why, festivals are approaching, and I have no idea what to give our newest prince, either. And his adoptive-mother.”
“The Second Concubine is reclusive. Such women are difficult to bring gifts to.” Tian Ha rested his own hand upon the balustrade. His palms were damp. Had Queen Gamwone told her cherished firstborn of the use of a certain Hanweo weed-root? What was this prince’s purpose?
Did it matter? I know what you have done, you and my mother, Prince Kurin was saying. Whether it was a warning or a subtle appreciation, only time would tell. And of course, the First Queen was safe from most repercussions.
Her physician, however, would not be, unless he had another powerful patron to ensure his… indiscretions… committed at a certain behest never came to light.
“Still, I should like to be polite.” Kurin turned to gaze at the physician. He was slightly taller than the elder man, and gazed down his nose to prove it. “We must have harmony in the many palaces, must we not?” His smile stretched, a cat’s satisfied humming at a scuttling creature under its paw. “Tian Ha, you must do me a favor. If my mother wishes to send… a gift, you will tell me? I would not wish to duplicate her efforts. That might be misunderstood.”
“Indeed.” Fresh unease filled Tian Ha’s throat, was sharply checked. It was never wise to relax or panic until the conversation was well and truly finished. If Kurin knew about Tian Ha’s… indiscretion, what else did he know? “Rest assured, Second Prince, you shall know everything I know.”
“That is well, then.” Kurin inclined his head, and beckoned his attendants forward. “I must give more thought to the matter of gifts. Especially for… faithful… servants.” He gestured, a languid waving of fingers.
Dismissed, his heart pounding and his mouth dry, Physician Tian Ha hurried away, for once not seeing the gardens and performing only the most perfunctory of bows to passing, rich-robed courtiers. Queen Gamwone was a powerful patron, to be sure.
Her eldest son was a truly dangerous one. Tian Ha would have to be very, very careful. They were rich, and royal, but he was a physician, a learned man in his own right. What one queen had ordered done, another might be willing to do in turn.
The trick would be knowing the exact moment his skills were required elsewhere.
He hoped it would come soon.
PREDICTABLE STORM
Kai shifted upon the embroidered cushion. Half his hind end was numb, and the other half wishing it were. This was just like any other battlefield, except the dangers were honeyed words instead of shrieking steel. A certain amount of physical discomfort was to be expected.
He could not decide whether he preferred the stink and screaming of an actual battle to this. Much better was to be alone, in a small but comfortable house, perhaps with the sea breathing at the door. Or the desert, either the grudging, rasping sand he had been born in or the cold reaches of the Naibei.
But not, he thought, the Yaluin Desert. Lady Komor had gone alarmingly pale at the sight of the ring, and he had put it away as soon as possible to save her distress. It did not seem likely another one would show itself, but if it did, he would be ready.
Thinking upon that was a distraction he could ill afford at the moment, but he returned to it over and over. The wondering would not go away. Nor would the soft, subtle breath of jaelo. She must bathe with the dried flowers, that was the only way to achieve such delicacy of aroma.
“An envoy should be sent.” The Minister of the Right Eye Hanweo Hailung Jedao, head of Hanweo and uncle to the Second Queen, did not stroke his closely trimmed beard, a sure sign he did not expect his advice to be taken. He must have a bottom half of iron, to judge by his apparent comfort during long court sessi
ons. “If only to gauge their mood.”
“Their mood is to be troublesome.” The Crown Prince did not shift in discomfort, but his gaze and tone were both unwontedly sharp. “We do not need to send a calf-sacrifice to them to discern as much.”
Perhaps Takyeo was overcompensating for his newly married state and its traditional drawbacks in war-councils. It would be unlike him. Far more likely was that the Emperor had given his eldest son the part he must play, and the young man, as always, was ready to do his best.
“It would not be an offering. Merely an envoy.” Nahjin, Minister of the Left Foot, did move upon his cushion. He was lean and full of nervous energy, much as a sharp-horned guasa upon the great shelf of the Yaluin steppe. His robes were utterly traditional, in somber scholar-colors, but the rumors said he barely passed his examinations. Certainly he was not the intellectual, say, Fourth Prince Makar was.
Very few were.
The Feet were occupied with finance, the Hands with enforcement and daily counsel. Eyes, Ears, Feathers, left and right, all had their places and duties. The queens were held to be ministers to the Emperor’s heart, the concubines to… other areas, to judge by bawdy songs around the markets and in the theatrical districts.
“It will be seen as anxiety.” The First Concubine’s elder brother Daebo Luashuo Tualih was tall but round, his oily sheen bespeaking a love of rich meals. Under that corpulence, though, was hard muscle, and he rode daily. Kai pitied the horse that had to lug that frame about; even the large palace greys would have trouble with such a burden. “They will scent weakness as hunting dogs do, and begin to bell.”
The Emperor, stolid and silent upon his dais, listened with half-lidded eyes. Sweat gleamed upon his brow, and his cheeks were reddened again. No minister would be foolish enough to think him inattentive, though. All remembered the fate of one or two who thought his silence meant lack of notice—the lord of Duogei Province, for one. There were one or two songs about the destruction wreaked upon that particular noble’s castle and private holdings, but since Tamuron had only been a petty warlord then, those ballads were not sung in reputable theaters or near imperial buildings.
“Or they will see it as outright fear.” Lord Tansin, Minister of the Right Feather, held a fan carved of whisper-thin, fragrant ceduan. It flicked lazily, as if its owner saw a fly but was too halfhearted to truly chase it. His dark gaze was quick where his hands were languid, though, and Kai was interested to see which route he would signal support for. Most likely he would follow Hanweo, but he had not leapt to do as much at the beginning, which was… unusual. “Is it wise to let the Pale Horde think us apprehensive?”
Silence fell. Ideally, each man would be mulling the matter at hand, but it was more likely Hanweo was gauging support and Takyeo waiting for his father’s signal. The Left Eye was downcast, the Left Ear leaning against a low table in an attitude of deep thought but more likely calculating which faction would pay more for his support, the elderly Minister of the Right Ear bolt-upright upon his cushion and disdaining any decision until he could go home and pore through scrolls for something profound-sounding but ultimately meaningless.
The Right Ear was thought of, in some quarters, as partly senile. Zakkar Kai was not quite certain it was so, but it served Tamuron’s purposes to keep such an enigma on hand to counterbalance some of the more ambitious of his ministers.
These, then, were the innermost courtiers. There were other ministers, black-robed and working busily in state chambers, stamping, sealing, making smaller decisions according to the policies decided here. Kai was no minister, but overall command of Zhao’s armies—not just the Northern—now rested upon his shoulders.
He wished he were seeing to that instead of witnessing this group of old men jostling for each sliver of influence or tax skimmings. The dispatches would be a mountain by the time he returned to his quarters.
“General Zakkar.” Luashuo Tualih leaned forward slightly, and Kai almost heard the man’s overstuffed cushion creak. “Can our armies stand against Tabrak, should it come to as much?”
Another silence, shocked, as if cold water had been dashed upon unsuspecting nakedness. It would no doubt gratify some of them to hang whatever ill occurred upon his door, whether Tabrak attacked soon or late. Still, Kai gave the question due consideration, allowing his left-hand fingers to tap at his knee. “We have before,” he said, finally. “At great cost.”
Hailung Jedao finally shifted upon his cushion, a short, irritated movement. “Can we do so again, with the armies in their current state?” No doubt the head of Hanweo did not mean the question to sound so… sharp, or insulting.
No doubt.
“To see the mountain and valley as they are is the heart of strategy,” Kai quoted.
Lord Tansin’s fan paused. “Tuan He,” he murmured. One of the Hundreds, and the quotation was from his Book of War. It was better to arrange the battlefield so the enemy was lost before he began. The passage went on to speak sharply of those who wasted men’s lives upon the field by improperly choosing their ground—or not anticipating their opponent correctly. “Our general is thrifty with his sons’ lives.”
For, as Tuan He said elsewhere, a general was a father, and every soldier his son. “I do not wish to squander what may earn us victory,” Kai corrected, mildly enough. Another quotation, and curse him, Tamuron was likely to be smiling internally, hearing Kai use forced study to advantage. “The Horde will see an envoy as tribute, and if he does not bring salt and earth with him, they are apt to send his head back and come riding sooner.” For he did not view it as a question of if, only of when, but to say so openly would not be politic.
“They are led by a stripling.” Hailung Jedao dismissed the entire problem with a wave of one elegant, beringed hand. As a queen’s uncle, he often winked at the sumptuary laws… but none of his rings were greenstone.
Winking was one thing; giving Garan Tamuron a reason to remove your insolent fingers quite another.
Kai doubted he could educate the Second Queen’s noble uncle upon that point, but as the Emperor’s general, he must attempt it. And thinking of fingers was… disconcerting, just at this moment. The ring in one of his many pockets was oddly heavy, and Lady Komor’s reaction had told him much. It was, at least, not hers.
He returned his attention to the present matter. “A young viper’s poison is often more potent.” The Horde’s current hetman was merely a cousin of the great Aro Ba Wistis, but to have survived and risen to the head of that collection of blood-mad, dust-choked savages was a considerable achievement indeed.
“A young snake is easily crushed under a strong heel.” Lord Hailung permitted himself a small smile, his gaze aiming at some misty point between Kai and Crown Prince Takyeo.
The Emperor’s chin dropped fractionally. He studied his second queen’s uncle for a long, uncomfortable pause full of Lord Tansin’s fan-flicks. “If you are possessed of a plan for doing so, Minister of the Right Eye, let us hear of it.”
“Is it not the Head General’s duty to frame such plans?” No doubt the noble who held Hanweo now as a gift from the warlord who had married his niece thought that a neat bit of misdirection.
Kai’s jaw ached. He forced his teeth to unclench.
“Ah.” Tamuron nodded, and there was a familiar gleam in his dark gaze. Anyone who had seen him upon the battlefield might well have leaned forward, anticipating a decisive stroke. “His is the duty, and yours is the estimation of it. I see.” It could have been a rebuke, or the Emperor simply noting the weather.
Kai examined his own left index finger, bearing heavy carved greenstone. Rings troubled him today, and, he suspected, would for some while.
“The Horde will come.” Prince Takyeo produced his own fan, its arc decorated with a summerfat bronzefish, the brushwork sedate but very fine. He may have even done it himself. “Perhaps visiting them with an army instead of an envoy might satisfy a few among us.”
Ah. Now Kai saw the battle. The Crown Prince was
the swift hound and Kai the slow; between them, Hailung Jedao would have no room to clap his wings and announce someone incompetent.
“A Horde of our own,” he said, as if mulling the notion. “Much forage and fodder will be needed. Levies, of course. And no exemptions from service for the rich or noble.”
Lord Tansin had gone pale. “Even the First Dynasty merely stopped at Tabrak’s borders.” Of course, he was blessed with two sons, and daughters to find dowries for. Levies stood a chance of denuding him of both sons and dowries; no doubt the Emperor had taken that into account.
“Do you think my father less than Zhaon Lao?” When Takyeo sobered and his gaze grew piercing, one could see Tamuron in his features, the rock under the riverbed.
Comparing Garan Tamuron to the one who had first unified Zhaon’s disparate parts and drew tribute from his neighbors would also undercut Lord Hailung’s influence, and draw attention to the fact that every minister in this room was a tick hanging upon the flank of a phoenix. Whip or spur, both made a beast listen, and the horse of state was no exception.
The trick was in not maddening your mount. And thinking of horses pulled his thoughts quite naturally again to the Khir princess and her lady. Or more precisely, to Komor Yala standing slim and tense in leaf-patterned blue. Had she expected him to strike her?
What is the price of alliance? A deeper question than she suspected, that. “The Emperor has unified Zhaon,” Kai found himself saying, somewhat soothingly. “We are at peace and prosperous now, and likely to remain so for a short while. I would not have us show weakness by hurrying to answer a question Tabrak has not directly asked.”
“The Tabrak will do as they please,” Nahjin the Left Foot said, startling everyone. “Like the Fifth Wind. We must hold ourselves in readiness, but not provoke.”
“An envoy would certainly provoke,” the Emperor said. “We shall not make any move, but if Tabrak comes riding, I wish for all present to remember this conversation.”
