by S. C. Emmett
The council moved to other matters, but Hailung Jedao studied Zakkar Kai closely, and said little for a very long while.
If the Tabrak were a large storm, the Second Queen’s uncle was a small one—of an exceedingly predictable variety, too.
After the Council meeting, Kai did not linger; nor did the Second Queen’s uncle. Still, Kai made a point not to hurry down the long hall for the gardens, and allowed the man to catch up. The pillared passage was painted with scenes from every dynasty, from Zhaon Lao to the ill-fated Zhe Danwei, a puppet with his strings held by eunuchs. The last Emperor of the Third Dynasty had a short, uncomfortable life, and battles of ink and scholarship were waged over whether he was poisoned or drank yongbeoh34 to rob the Horde of Tabrak of the honor of killing him.
Hailung Jedao smiled as he drew close upon slippered feet, a soft, paternal beaming. His topknot-cage held a chip of greenstone, the greatest sliver allowed in sumptuary laws for a man of close kin to a royal wife. “Yap, yap. The master points, and the dog flushes the bird.”
“A strange turn of phrase.” Kai decided it was better to pretend stupidity, as usual. A peasant’s obdurate strategy, but still a fine one deployed in its own season. “The start of a new poem, Lord Hanweo?”
“They call you the God of War.” The long-eyed man’s smile widened as he matched his stride to Kai’s, sparing not a glance for the carved columns or the painted walls. “Poems are not your concern.”
The inference, of course, was that Kai was a mannerless parvenu who might be planning to unseat the unifier of Zhaon, and using his temporary popularity to do so. What was made in war could be undone by it, and Hanweo had played kingmaker before in Zhaon’s history.
King-maker, but not Emperor-maker. Hanweo, for all its airs, had never given Zhaon a son strong enough to meld the land into one. No doubt Hailung felt he would be the one to do so, if conditions were right.
The hallway rustled at both ends, servants and courtiers about their business. They would note the head of Hanweo conferring with the Head General, but only the unintelligent would think the two of them allies, no matter how temporary.
Kai let himself use a broad, cheery grin, another peasant’s tactic. “So I think, but the Emperor makes me study. It is enough to make a man reach for his sword.” There. Let him take that as he willed.
“Some say you are half Khir.”
“Do they.” If I were, perhaps I’d’ve known what that cursed ring was without having to ask. It only occurred to him now that Komor Yala might think he suspected her of congress with assassins. No wonder she had politely turned aside.
The Second Queen’s uncle tried again, lengthening his stride to keep pace. “Others say you are half Tabrak.”
“Are they fighting over the butcher’s cuts, or laying bets?” He would not lose his temper, Kai decided. But he also would not lower his banners.
A flush crept up Hailung Jedao’s throat, touched the collar of his courtier’s robe. No hurai, but a thick golden ring upon the traditional finger, marking him as noble and perhaps in unconscious imitation of his royal niece. He traveled with bodyguards to keep that elegant finger from being severed; Hanweo was not poor, but restless bandits plagued the byways. The tax farmers were rapacious in those rich lands. If only the Emperor knew, the farmers said to each other.
Garan Tamuron knew. Moving against the house of his Second Queen’s kin was not worth the trouble, though. Not yet, and perhaps not ever.
“Even I cannot tell.” Hailung Jedao eyed him afresh. “Peace would benefit Zhaon most, General Zakkar. More dead upon the fields mean less taxes, less taxes means—”
“I’m aware that peace is more profitable for merchants, Lord Hanweo. But I am a soldier, and we know peace is not of infinite duration when the pale ghosts come riding.” A condescending history lesson and an additional insult, likening a noble to a merchant, all delivered in rough Zhaon. It was surprisingly enjoyable. “Like all carrion, Tabrak has a nose for weakness.”
“Stray dogs and carrion.” The flush mounted higher. “You think a hurai makes you noble, Zakkar?”
As if he should be ashamed of the name Garan Tamuron had given him. “Not any more than a roll of goatskin, Hailung.” Impolitic, to insult the man’s genealogical scrolls. Gossip held some to be good forgeries—not all, by any means, but any noble house was tender upon that point, even the most unimpeachable.
Between the First Queen’s merchant clan and the noble grasping of Hanwei, even an emperor had to step cautiously. So, too, did Kai… but too much caution was worse than none at all, and he had reached his limit for the day.
Hailung’s step faltered, the even swaying of his courtier’s robe arrested, fabric moving uncertainly. “You are a mannerless dog, General.” He hissed the title, though his pleasant expression did not falter. “I long to see you collared.”
“Careful, Lord. I am not quite tame.” Kai lifted his left hand, the hurai gleaming mellow-greenstone, and strode away toward the clustered shoe-servants.
If they continued calling him a dog, he might decide to bite. But not today.
RED TIME
Filtered mirrorlight softened every edge in the small stone room, fell through dancing dust motes upon the far wall. Mahara sighed fretfully, laid her head upon Yala’s bare shoulder. “Will they be angry?”
“I think not. Your honor is known double now.” Yala shifted on the padded bench. Always, at the red time, her lower back ached. During her flow, a noblewoman did not practice with the yue. Instead, she stretched, working out the stiffness of a day spent abed or upon a slatted, padded bloodcatcher. Even thrice-daily baths did not help the low spine-grinding.
“They seem not to concern themselves with it much here. The princesses act very strangely.”
If by strangely Mahara meant that one was an empty-headed bird and the other a nose-high cat, Yala agreed. “They are daughters of the house.” In other words, their behavior was not scrutinized as a new wife’s would be.
“Mh. They are old.” Mahara loosed her wrap, folding it at her waist, and dabbed at the tops of her breasts with a citron-soaked rag. Her nipples, larger and paler than Yala’s, moved gently with the motion. “Will they marry?”
“There is no gossip yet.” Yala loosened her own rectangular wrap as well, damp heat from the braziers collecting in every corner and wringing sweat from her underarms. “The Emperor may not wish to let his daughters go.”
“But if he waits too long, nobody will want them.” The princess’s cheeks flushed, but not with embarrassment. “Especially Sabwone.”
“She is a sour fruit, indeed.” And a poisonous one, unless I miss my guess. In Khir, the play upon Sabwone’s name was delightful.
Mahara giggled. They lapsed into silence. Often, their red times overlapped, and had ever since menarche. The bloodroom in this palace was much warmer than the ones in Khir and full of soft mirrorlight, maids occasionally moving behind the partition near the door. There was a bell to call for attendants; kaburei upon their red time in Zhaon wore cotton clouts and went about their duties.
Yala almost thought them luckier. If she could ride, perhaps the aching would ease. On a hunt, a woman upon her red time was held to call better prey—wolves, boars, fiercer birds. It was worth a stained saddle to have such quarry, the old masters said.
She had thought travel would save her the inconvenience of Red Woman’s gift, but it seemed to have jarred the flood loose instead. Changes in food, in bedding, in temperature or harvest—all were things that could halt the red times and disturb the delicate balance necessary for the generation of life, or have a reverse effect. If she was lucky, and ate sparely, she might return to her normal courses.
Of course, even when Yala’s red time was merely a thin trickle Mahara sometimes had a full flow, and must be attended in a familiar bloodroom. The one at the Great Keep, with its stone floor worn to satin by many generations of soft-slippered feet, was small, the tapestries to wrap the walls threadbare. The room at
Komori was even smaller, and sometimes Yala had attended to her flow alone, books filched from forbidden shelves in her father’s library consumed whole by mirrorlight cast through thin crimson weavings.
Even her dreams were red, then.
Mahara’s head was heavy upon her shoulder. A simmering iron tang reached Yala’s nose, as familiar as her own sweat or hair-oil. This was the heaviest day, and when the mystery receded they could bathe thrice and go about the Jonwa again.
It was well enough. She did not wish to be alone just now.
“Yala?”
“Hm.” She stirred slightly, to show she attended. At least here she and Mahara were safe from prying gazes, and could speak somewhat freely.
“It is not so bad here.”
Yala’s thighs stuck to the padding. She enforced stillness again, her body a mount requiring firmness. “No.” Not if what they had expected was dishonor, or worse.
“I like it better than home.” A whisper, caught guiltily behind a soft, cupped hand.
I do not. Did her princess think Yala likely to be angered by such a confession? Angered was not precisely the word. Slightly surprised, perhaps. Yala’s hair was a heavy damp weight against her back, an unwelcome shawl. “Do you really?”
“There are fields in a part of Zhaon that belong to me. There is my name upon paper, and a seal.”
Yala had seen the latter, a finely crafted greenstone weight, Mahara’s name and title in Zhaon carved into its end. A heavy, substantial mark of her rank and station, setting her name in a holy stone. “Fields?”
“The income from the fields is mine. For spending, or saving.” The princess did not quite credit the notion, it was plain. “The fields belong to me, and the kaburei too. They grow flax, mhung, and rai.”
All good crops, and the beans could follow the rai to keep the fields from exhaustion. “The land…” Yala thought about this. “It says the land belongs to you?”
“Yes.” Mahara repeated it in Zhaon, belongs to me. “That is exactly what was said.”
“So different,” Yala murmured. In Khir, a woman owned nothing. A daughter passed to a husband, a widow to a brother or uncle of her husband, or back to her father’s home. An unmarried woman was the clan’s burden, even the fabric of her robes technically the clan’s possession. “You have the papers? I may examine them?”
“Of course.” Mahara shifted, as if to say that was a silly question. “I must hire a steward, no?”
Which meant Yala must delicately find a way of broaching the subject with someone, most probably Lady Kue, since Mahara must not concern herself directly with grubby merchant tasks. “Yes. I shall take care of it.” There were arrangements to be made, and now Yala was glad her father had let her listen to the balancing of household accounts with his own steward Haelon Nujin as soon as she could add and subtract.
“And we must have dresses, Yala.” Mahara sounded pleased indeed at the prospect. “Of new cloth.”
“Mh.” Many of the wedding gifts had included silk. There was also the artist’s quarter inside the walls, and that without. Anh would no doubt be full of information about the latter, and while it was not quite proper in Khir, no doubt in Zhaon Yala could leave the palace upon her princess’s errands with a close-servant in tow as a nod to propriety. “That means measuring and sewing. We must ride regularly, too. You must strengthen yourself.”
“Yes.” Mahara shivered, though she was far from cold. “I must give them a son. And soon.”
“Not tonight, though.” Yala smiled at Mahara’s soft laughter. She reached for a round silvery tray upon a low-crouching table, and poured a measure of crushed fruit from a sweating clay jug. Apparently Zhaon women ate unpolished rai and drank soups during their red times. “I am glad you do not hate your husband. Even if he is Zhaon.”
“He is kind, Yala. He does not yell or pound the table. He is even gentle, at night.”
Yala considered this, as well. “I suppose you wish to tell me exactly how—”
“Yala!” Scandalized, Mahara bumped her with a rounded elbow. “I must find you a husband.”
“A Zhaon?” I would rather open my own throat. The thought was reflexive, and Yala’s back chilled, pinflesh walking in rivers along either side of her spine. How long ago had she thought quite clearly that she wanted to live, and dragged her yue across a man’s throat instead of her own?
And the shinkesai. It was, she supposed, just barely possible that it was a coincidence. The Yellow Tribes were not homefast, and perhaps there was an enclave of their kind in Zhaon-An’s great seething heap. Among that enclave, no doubt there was a death-bringer or two, working as a laborer or a guildfree artisan and waiting for their other talents to be called upon.
“Perhaps one can be found for you.” Mahara’s tone was light, laughing, but practical. “A rich one, and old, so he may die soon and—”
“Mahara!” It was her turn to sound shocked, and their paired laughter was bright plumage ruffling. Shadows moved behind the partitions, but for once, Yala did not hush her princess or herself.
She had not told Mahara of the assassin. The secret lay behind her breastbone, a cold stone, and it would not shrink when shared. Let her princess worry upon other matters, for this blade had probably been meant for her husband instead. This was Yala’s burden to carry.
Her mother’s yue had tasted blood in defense of Ashan Mahara, and Yala suspected it would do so again, sooner or later.
INSUFFERABLE TODAY
On a small, crooked street with no name close to the palace walls sat a ramshackle inn, its bottom half full of tables and partitions upstairs to provide a patron privacy—if he paid enough. “More.” Takshin gestured at the bowls, and the wide-eyed kaburei hastened to comply, pouring somewhat sloppily into unglazed earthenware. No doubt they would charge him for overflow as well as for anything that vanished down his princely gullet.
Let them charge. There was no shortage of alloy chips, iron, or silver to pay his bill. There was a distinct lack of company, however, which was just as well. The faraway sound of clinking and conversation from under the floorboards or past other flimsy partitions was a low irritant. There were other inns more suited to a prince, with gardens and pretty flowers playing sathrons—and eyes in the walls eating you alive, as well as tiny tapping feet ready to carry tales.
The small, quick-fingered kaburei flinched when Takshin raised his bowl. Any serving-boy would hesitate, pouring for a man with a sword. The scars probably gave Takshin away, as well as his clothing.
Let his mother hear he drank in flea-bitten holes. Let anyone hear it.
Yes, he was in a fine mood, but at least it did not blacken when the partition slid aside and Zakkar Kai appeared, a dark mantle over his half-armor despite rising spring heat. He did not surrender his sword inside the palace, either. Then again, Kai was probably the son the Emperor wished he had, instead of the rest of them. Except Takyeo.
What would it be like, to know yourself wanted instead of unfinished, unformed, a failure?
“We missed you at Council.” Kai settled easily upon an ancient much-mended cushion and accepted the bowl the kaburei poured. He waved, his hurai glinting, and the leather-braided boy scuttled from the room with more alacrity than was perhaps quite seemly.
“I’m sure you did.” Takshin tossed the sohju far back. It burned, but it was not even close to strong enough. The mirrorlight here was dim, beams losing their vigor as they passed through screens, even the lamplight low and guttering.
Kai came directly to business, as a nobleman would never condescend to. “Your father wishes to speak to you again.”
No, the sohju was definitely not strong enough. He should change to atai35 and take refuge in complete drunkenness, except for the risk of being caught unawares by an enemy real or imagined. “Will he send his golden guards to drag me this time, or just you?”
“I came here to drink, Takshin.” Kai’s mouth turned down. He knew better than to take offense. It was one of his most w
inning qualities.
“Council leave a bad taste in your mouth?” Takshin blinked. His gaze was beginning to unfocus, softening just a trifle. The welcome blur did not soothe him, but it made living inside his own skin a little more bearable.
“Yes.” Kai filled the prince’s bowl, and filled his own as well. He was the elder, but it had always been thus—just one of the small unspoken things added up since Garan Tamuron returned from the deserts with an orphan clinging to his saddle and announced his intention of adopting the brat.
Kurin and Sabwone had done their best to make the castaway learn his place, Sensheo delighted in tormenting anything helpless, and Makar was only interested in scrolls and bound books. It had fallen to Takshin and Takyeo, already hemmed in by expectation and iron parental fencing, to scrape together what welcome they could for a newcomer.
The Third Prince of Zhaon hated thinking about the past with a passion. He hated everything at the moment, except for perhaps the man drinking across the spill-crusted thinwood table. “You look tired, Kai.” Sometimes Takshin wondered if even Takyeo preferred Kai to him.
Probably. Who wouldn’t? It was almost inevitable.
The general’s grin was startling, an echo of his younger self. “Shall we go to the practice ground, and you may see if my edge is blunted?”
“Why drink sugared soh36 when the real thing is so readily available?” But Takshin’s mouth curled up at one corner, almost unwillingly. “Your letters were… quite welcome.” The general had not missed a week, even during the war in the North.
And oh, how that curdled, knowing he was immured in Shan while Zhaon rode to war. It also rankled that he was not present to guard Kai’s back.
Assassins and soldiers Zakkar Kai could manage. It was his adoptive-brothers Takshin had to guard a foundling against, if for no other reason than it pleased him to rub a stone into Kurin’s heel.
Kai poured them both more. His armor did not creak, put to hard use and softened to fit its wearer almost perfectly. “Yours were brief, but ever welcome as well.”
