by S. C. Emmett
“Come in, come in.” The Second Concubine was a thin, nervous woman with a gentle face, her eyes slow and deep, her eyebrows well-plucked and darkened with a brushing of kohl. Her hair was thinning but still lustrous, piled atop her head with great simplicity and a plum-lacquered pin. She lifted her likewise plum-colored sleeve to her mouth and coughed, slightly, hectic color blooming in pale cheeks. “You honor me, indeed.”
“The honor is ours. We heard your music.” Mahara’s Zhaon, slow and accented, was still proper in every respect, and her half-bow, Crown Princess to elder and royal concubine, was impeccably correct. “Forgive our intrusion onto your solitude.”
“We were drawn by the beauty,” Yala murmured.
“No intrusion at all.” The woman’s smile was wide, and quite lovely. “Music brings a great deal of solace, especially to shy maidens.”
It was a lovely turn of phrase, and Yala could not help but smile in return.
“I am Garan Wurei Kanbina,” the Second Concubine continued, “and you must call me Auntie. May I offer you refreshment?”
“Oh, no, we could not impose. We were simply passing by and heard you playing; we longed to hear more of your sathron.” Mahara fluttered, expressing graceful distress at the thought of putting her hostess to any trouble. Fortunately, Khir manners were much stricter than Zhaon in this respect, so it was impossible for her to overstep.
“Indeed? I love to play, and should very much like to have an audience today. You have a kind face, Crown Princess Mahara. Did I say that correctly?” More anxiety deadened the color in the Second Concubine’s cheeks, but her maids were well trained and moved to forestall any disaster. Palace gossip whispered of dark reasons for her reclusiveness, and Anh had hinted of some unhappiness in her past. Perhaps it was only ill health. A new bride should be careful of that, but still, Mahara had the rubies to shield her from any ill-luck.
Crushed fruit was brought, tea produced, and small new-moon cakes of pounded rai with sweetened paste filling their plump crescent shapes. Lady Wurei Kanbina slowly forgot her shyness, Mahara hers in turn, and after a short interval the older woman beckoned them into a jewel of a water-garden. White lattices rose full of green vines, shaded walks ambled, and in the center of a clear pond a small white pavilion held pillows, braided fans, and a short wooden lap-brace for a sathron.
Her instrument was indeed beautiful, a restrained curve of ironwood with only the faintest of inlay in contrasting varnished yeojhan wood, its strings well tuned. Lady Kanbina played for them, and for a few moments Mahara rested her head upon Yala’s shoulder as if they were girls in Khir again, safe in a bower. Yala was glad of the chance to sit and listen, for it gave her time to turn inward and mull the unpleasant appearance of a ring carved from sin-stone resting in the palm of a Zhaon general.
There was no help for it. She was going to have to use the cipher, and tell her father something. Just what she could not decide, and it occupied her so much she did not enjoy the music as she should have.
It was cool and lovely here, and the Second Concubine, when she halted her afternoon playing, had more tea brought and said quite firmly over and over that they must visit her anon.
“For I am a little lonely, and since you are new to Zhaon, perhaps you are lonely too.” She hid her mouth with her sleeve again, and coughed delicately.
“It seems a very lonely place,” Mahara replied, “even if one is not new to Zhaon.”
“Well said.” Garan Kanbina’s glance was not sharp, but it was intelligent, and kind.
The Second Concubine was too fragile to be an ally, Yala decided that evening as she lay in her bath, but perhaps, just perhaps, Kanbina’s part of the palace complex could be a refuge.
BRUSHSTROKES
Late-spring storms gathered every afternoon, dark masses sweeping furiously across farm, village, town, and finally the city before galloping south or southeast over more clustered habitations until its force was swallowed by the great grain-bowl. There were tales of sages who knew the correct words, forcing a storm to halt while it was still small so they could climb into a dragon’s damp, brocaded saddle, looking down upon Zhaon as rain and thunder galloped through.
Normally, such stories ended with the sage set down in Anwei, where he provided the populace of that city-state with many tales of his experience before saddling a winter storm to take him home. Occasionally, though, Heaven decided to punish such a man for impertinence, dropping him into river or rock. The red smears that rose upon certain iron-rich hills after winter rains were often called scholar-blooms as a result.
Kai pushed his shoulders back, the music of joints crack-popping reminding him of morning’s training on the practice ground. Stormlight pressed close against the shutters, a deep sickly yellow-green, and the heat was just about to crest. It was perhaps unsoldierly to be grateful he was safe under a roof instead of fighting under a canopy of sky-bruise.
He dipped the brush, smoothed it over the inkstone, and set to work again. Curse Tamuron for demanding this of him—his fingers were simply not dexterous enough. Now that he had a judgment of line and twist, he found his own lacking. Just as he could admire Prince Jin’s talent for weapon-play, and know he would never cut the fine figure that lean lithe youth would.
“Hard at work, I see.” Fifth Prince Sensheo brushed away a bowing hall-servant, settling the sleeves of his ceduan-green robe with quick habitual motions. His topknot was caged in ivory today, with a filigree-chased wooden pin. “A credit to the Emperor’s grace.”
“Fifth Prince.” Kai concentrated upon the character—line, space, line, the dot placed just so and held for a bare moment so the ink could spread in fine tendrils, but not too long, which would produce a sodden mess. “An unexpected pleasure.”
“Your steward said you were not to be disturbed, but I said a loving brother would no doubt be welcome.”
He would be, if I had one. Kai set the rough practice sheet aside. In lean years kaburei ate rai-paper scraps, even the red-dyed twists hung from ancestors’ tablets. There was a whole clutch of tales about the consequences of such a repast, too. He glanced up, taking in Sensheo’s long stride, the flutter of his orange robe an early sunset, probably worn in imitation of Second Prince Kurin. “No doubt. What troubles you, Fifth Prince?”
“Trouble?” Sensheo halted, smiling winsomely, his head tilted in a parody of puzzlement and one finger stroking his archer’s thumb-ring. “What could possibly trouble me? I simply came to see you.”
Oh, and if Kai believed that, no doubt there were storytellers and gullcatchers in the Great Market who would relieve him of any coin, sliver, triangular, or round. Still, he laid his brush aside. “Come, sit. They will bring wine for such an august guest.”
Now it was mock astonishment, gap-mouthed and eyes rolling, one of Sensheo’s favorite childhood faces. “Drinking before the storm?”
Kai restrained the urge to shrug. “What better time?” His back straightened; it was just like the Fifth Prince to interrupt a pleasant afternoon. To think, Kai had just been enjoying himself.
Clearly such an event could not be borne. “Indeed.” Sensheo’s face returned to a rueful normality, and he dropped both his hands. He was beginning to soften at shoulder and middle, too much rich living and not enough drill-practice. “You sound like Takshin.”
“A high compliment.” It was probably not meant to be one, but Kai could take it so and remove any sting.
“I went to see him.” Sensheo stood, perhaps very conscious of his green princely silk moving slightly. So he was wary of his welcome here.
Good.
And you could not find him, so decided to seek another victim? “And?” Kai affected curiosity, neatening paper, brushes, touching the inkstone holder to move it forward a fraction.
“He was not at home.” Sensheo managed to sound both baffled and relieved by the event.
Where could home be, for the Third Prince? No doubt Takshin would treat the very word with contempt, and change the s
ubject. “Deep and shadowed are his ways.”
“Gao Lan.” Next, Sensheo tried a careless smile, but he still did not move. “You’ve become quite the scholar.”
“Not necessarily.” How many other knives have you sent, Sensheo? It was not difficult to face the Fifth Prince alone, Kai found. In childhood he had been a terror; now he was simply another palace danger, no more, no less. “I simply practice what the Emperor sets me.”
“You could call him Father, you know.” Even when he attempted to look kindly, Sensheo only managed a smirk. Or perhaps it was only because Kai knew what manner of creature lurked below his adoptive-brother’s silk and leather.
“Could I?” Oh, Hailung Jedao and the First Queen would both have a merry time with that, if it ever crossed Kai’s lips. “Well, the Emperor is father to us all, in Zhaon. In any case he is my lord, and I am very content for it to remain so.” Chew upon that gristle, Fifth Prince. Do you like the taste?
For a moment Kai toyed with the idea of hinting. Proof was another matter entirely, but Kai knew, and letting Sensheo sense as much might even shame him a fraction. Kai suspected his own name had merely been upon a list of potential victims, and the disgraced assassin perhaps had thought him easy prey because he slept relatively alone in the palace complex where servant, kaburei, and attendant clustered each personage of any rank at all.
“Well spoken indeed.” Sensheo waited until the servants scurried in with warmed wine, pillows, a low table to match Kai’s, practice-paper, inkstone, and brushes. “Ah! Does every guest practice when you do?”
“Only the most esteemed.” Kai fought back a smile. His steward Anlon—an old soldier, and a sardonic one—was no doubt commenting upon the ill-mannered man breaking his master’s privacy. “Come, Fifth Prince. Tell me what ails you.”
The Fifth Prince settled gracefully. If he found the soldier’s cushion not soft enough, he made no sign of it, arranging his ceduan-patterned robe and deep green belt, stretching his long fingers. “Nothing ails me, unless it is my conscience.”
I was not aware you possessed one. “I would have thought yours to be untroubled.”
Sensheo affected a small bow at the compliment. “We have not always been kind to each other, General Zakkar.”
A serving of truth, with an undertone of poison. As usual. It would be difficult to be “kind” to an elder prince who had always, without fail, spared no effort to remind Kai of his own muddy bloodline and capped off his efforts by sending a cut-rate blade to press the point home.
“Have we not?” A mild inquiry, as if Kai could not remember, while he scrutinized his brushes.
Sensheo’s reply was equally, deceptively mild. “Children can be cruel.”
“Yes.” Kai laid another practice sheet down, settled the weights to keep it from moving, selected a brush. The ritual had a certain calming power, like sharpening each blade before a battle. “They certainly can.”
“That was in the past, and I would not have the past rule us.”
Kai knew the allusion; he had written similar quotations several times just two days ago. “Sao Shen.” And a play upon Garan Sensheo’s own name, to boot. Even when making allusions, the Fifth Prince could not fathom a single line that did not have something directly to do with his own position.
“Your studies have borne fruit.” Sensheo’s smile was quite winning if you didn’t know him, or if you had never seen him torment a small animal to death while still in a boy’s laced trousers. He cast a critical eye over the brush-rack before selecting one.
Kai studied the blank page. “How could they not, under your august father’s direction?”
“Under his direction, yes.” Sensheo tapped at his lips with the wooden end of the brush. “I shall write a passage, then.”
“Please do.” And then get out, Kai added silently. He suddenly knew what he would write. “I look forward to admiring your brushwork.”
“You are too kind.” The storm-dark deepened; Sensheo had probably timed his visit for just such effect. The dry-garden outside this particular room rustled uneasily under a hot, flirting, unsteady breeze. A brief rattle-spatter of drops hit the stones, but Kai was thinking of quite a different garden, and the thunder of flame-flowers over a spring evening.
He had not seen Lady Komor for a week, and now, as he practiced a long sinuous stroke that was the backbone of the famous Zhe Har poem about a snake in a hawk’s claws, he realized that was a dissatisfaction he could remedy, if he wished to.
Did he?
Sensheo wrote with much swaying, his wrist held at an angle and his sleeve pulled back between two fingers. It took him very little time to finish whatever he wished to accomplish, but Kai kept his gaze upon his own work. Each time the brush lifted, the small tipstroke looked like the curve of a woman’s skirts; each time it dove, it was the flashing of a slim, sharp blade.
Finally, the last character was drawn, and Kai rinsed his brush with fussy precision, set it delicately upon the rack, and spent a moment observing whether it would drip into the shallow rectangular catcher.
“Well.” Sensheo lifted his sheet fingertip-carefully. “Not my best work.” He laid it upon the hinged teacher’s board and lifted it to face Kai.
“Sao Shan again.” Kai nodded, but did not move. Now Sensheo’s purposes—or at least, one of them—became clear. “Does not the wolf wish for freedom, when the Moon rises? But you have used the character for a clouded Sun, instead.” Was it an invitation for Kai to vanish into the distance like a restless warrior at the end of a sad tale, or did he honestly think Tamuron’s head general spent more than a passing thought on what a warlord could win?
The Fifth Prince’s smile had hardened somewhat. “There must be some wolves who hunt by day.”
“In the far North, no doubt, or in the dust beyond Shan.” Be plainer in your meaning, Sensheo. It was not that Kai didn’t suspect, but there was no reason to admit as much. Forcing your opponent to be plain while remaining subtle was a general’s art.
“And you have been to the border of their northern home.”
Was it Khir Sensheo wished to discuss now? Kai longed to be free of this intrusion, but if Sensheo was seeking to gather support or—more likely—start upon a clumsy new intrigue, it was better to know than to suspect. “I saw no wolves. No doubt the Khir have hunted even the day-walking ones.”
“No doubt. Let us see yours, if you’ve a mind to show it.”
Kai did not, but he lifted the practice-paper carefully, fingertip calluses rough against its nap. Heaven sounded its gongs overhead, perhaps celebrating a marriage in its own crystalline halls. Now there would be a subject worthy of a poem, if Kai had any skill with such things.
He lifted his own teacher’s board, and Sensheo glanced at the paper without seeing its contents. “Interesting.” He was back to stroking his thumb-ring. “Uncle came to visit Mother, you know.”
“I would have thought that a very regular occurrence.” Kai lowered the board, somewhat relieved by Sensheo’s inattention.
“He said some very uncomplimentary things about you, Kai.” A lowered tone, a play at speaking in confidence. In this light, Sensheo’s face looked much younger, round cheeks and a slow, rather sweet smile.
“Did he.” This was the point of Sensheo’s visit, then.
“Shall I tell you Mother’s response?”
Kai laid out a fresh sheet. The insult was coming, he was certain. The only surprise would be the shape it would take. “If you must.”
The Fifth Prince forged ahead. He no doubt thought he was being terribly subtle. “She said mistaking a wolf for a dog never ends well.”
That particular proverb was not part of the Hundreds. Hailung Jedao might have uttered his favorite insult to others, having failed to wound Kai personally; it was just barely possible he would do so in his niece’s presence. What beggared belief was the Second Queen lowering herself to comment upon the matter, or Kai himself.
Kai selected another brush, said nothing
. Let Sensheo think his darts would strike.
“When treated kindly, such a creature is loyal, is it not?” Tap-tap, his manicured finger upon the horn thumb-ring; Sensheo’s eyes were sleepier than usual in the storm-dimness.
Kai’s steward was no doubt readying lamps against the momentary night, and would bring them in with some haste. “Wolves have long memories.” Kai allowed himself a slight smile, testing the inkstone and examining bristles, as if the brush needed trimming. “Or so I have been told.” There. Take that as you will. It was also vanishingly unlikely Hailung Jedao had gone scurrying to the Second Queen merely to speak ill of Kai. If he had visited his niece at all, it was only for the business of House Hanweo. Queen Haesara affected to hold herself separate from her clan in the granting of favors or begging the Emperor’s attention, but she was merely far more subtle than the First Queen. How she had birthed a son with Sensheo’s brashness was a mystery, unless Garan Tamuron’s young disdain for his own safety had been distilled and passed through fine material that sieved out some of the Emperor’s intelligence.
If Sensheo had received a full measure of that, he would be dangerous indeed.
“So I understand.” The Fifth Prince lapsed into uneasy silence. Kai’s brevity could be a refusal, or a hint, or something else. More spatters of rain fell upon thirsty, dusty stones. If the downpour was long enough, one or two of the thorn-skinned succulents might flower early. “I would like to be a friend to you, Kai. We are both princes now.”
Is that the measure of your friendship? A hurai and a blade in the dark? “I have always been well-disposed toward you, Sensheo.” And he had. It had taken years of slights and ill treatment before that disposition had changed.
Whatever reply the Fifth Prince might have made was lost in a flash and a crashing of thunder. More rain began, skittering in earnest across dust, gravel, roof-tile, and thatch. Perhaps Sensheo would have lingered, but the lightning began to stab close, thunder following on its heels, and he took his leave in just as much of a hurry as his arrival.
