by S. C. Emmett
He had not gained what he wanted, after all.
When he was gone, Kai settled upon his cushion and stared long at the doorway, while Anlon moved about with a padded stride, arranging lamps. The steward did not speak at all, sensing his master’s mood.
Yes, Sensheo might well have realized, of late, that assassins were nothing to play with. He might further have realized his uncle’s sneering and poking might be a handicap when aimed at a victorious general.
On the other hand… yes, treated kindly, almost any creature was loyal.
Except for a scorpion. Or a prince.
ETIQUETTE OF VISITING
Mother had been livid, of course. Who does that barbarian bitch think I am? I am the First Queen of Zhaon! Gamnae had nodded and made soothing sounds, waiting for the rage to blow itself out. Kurin stared into the garden, visibly bored, until he finally lost patience and told Mother the servants were listening and it was unbecoming of a queen to rave. The silence that fell afterward turned Gamnae’s stomach into a black pit like in the novel of Lady Beohyan’s Passions, the one she had stolen from Sabwone’s room last year. Saba probably knew she’d taken it, but she couldn’t do anything about the fact, and that was a nice change.
In the end, it was decided that Second Princess Gamnae would attend the dinner in Queen Gamwone’s stead, and it wasn’t until afterward that Gamnae realized Mother must have sent a nasty wedding gift like she threatened to but then promised Kurin she wouldn’t.
Kurin probably knew she had, too. Which meant they would fight again, and the pit in her stomach would grow teeth.
So it was Gamnae, heart beating thinly in her throat and her ear-drops chiming softly upon their ribbons, who was loaded into the palanquin and carried along a familiar route. Answering a formal invitation from her elder brother, she couldn’t very well walk, though she would have much preferred it to settle her nerves. Perhaps the new princess—Mahara, a strange name but not entirely unpleasing—would be angry at Mother and revenge herself in some way upon Gamnae?
A court lady could be kind one day and icy the next, like Mother herself. There was no certainty, everyone changed, except Takyeo. And maybe Makar, but he had no time for the younglings. Gamnae touched her hair, settled her cuffs, and blinked, hard. The Crown Princess seemed nice, but she was Khir, and they stole Zhaon babies to eat. That was just a tale to keep children from misbehaving, true, but… what if?
Kurin would have told her she was being ridiculous, if he noticed her distress at all. There was no telling what Takshin would do either, ever. And of course the new Crown Princess had a right to be angry, even if Mother was First Queen. She might decide Gamnae was an easy target.
They will all try to take your place, Mother often said. You must not let them.
But it was so hard. It was the palace, Gamnae had decided. It made people cruel, like houses built in defiance of ancestors. Father had chosen this place because it was the oldest, the First Emperor’s home, and surely the wisest man in all Zhaon wouldn’t have gone against the ancestors.
It was too big a question for her, so Gamnae tugged at her sleeves again and hoped she’d chosen the right dress, plain dark green silk with segmented yellow babu-shoots upon the cuffs. Sabwone always knew what to wear; she had been born knowing. She would cut her gaze at Gamnae’s dress and her eyebrows would rise, and Kurin would laugh. Sensheo only told Gamnae she was a child before he hurried away upon whatever errand he had set himself, and Makar was always reading one book or another.
It was far better to steal away with Jin, though all he ever wanted to play was warriors. Swinging blunted blades was stupid, and he always won, but at least he didn’t laugh at her. And sometimes they could walk along the riverbank and talk.
He never called her stupid, at least. She didn’t even sense he thought it; everyone else did, though. Including Father, who petted and praised her, but never for anything she had done.
The palanquin stopped, and the etiquette of visiting took over. A runner sent to the door to announce her presence, a hurrying of the Crown Prince’s guards to make a hedge of honor, a swaying of skirts as Gamnae was freed from the palanquin’s interior, rising gracefully as her hair decorations and ear-drops chimed. Music followed a princess wherever she stepped, especially in novels.
Lady Kue, tall and severe in her dark Shan dress, and the Khir lady-in-waiting stood on the steps. Lady Kue did not smile, but Lady Komor did, gently, her sharp, unattractive face starred with those strange, ghostly eyes. Her dress was a sober dark blue, again, low-waisted and long-sleeved despite spring heat. Yesterday’s storm had opened the floodgates, and the weather had grown torrid-wet. Another storm would arrive, probably during tea.
Lady Kue bowed deeply; Lady Komor a shade less so. “Second Princess Gamnae.” At least the Khir woman had tolerable Zhaon. “We are quite honored to receive you.”
Which was exactly what she should say. Gamnae could have sniffed, like Mother no doubt would have. “It is my honor to visit my esteemed Eldest Brother and his new wife,” she said instead. Her voice trembled, but maybe they did not notice. “Lady Komor, is it?”
“Yes, Second Princess.” The Khir woman straightened; Gamnae minced past, her high, formal jatajatas click-clacking upon worn stone. Her ankle almost turned as she climbed the second step, but Lady Komor’s hand cupped her elbow and steadied her, a movement so neat and graceful it was all but invisible. “Pardon my clumsiness,” the Khir woman murmured, her hand vanishing back into her sleeve.
“It’s quite all right.” A rushing filled Gamnae’s ears. She could never do anything right, but at least the Khir woman hadn’t let her fall. Would it be all over the palace tomorrow, how she’d almost gone sprawling?
“I’m glad you’ve come,” Lady Komor continued, as the doors opened before them. “My princess is eager to receive you.”
Lady Kue would stay upon the steps for some short while, giving directions to arrange the palanquin for Gamnae’s return, dismissing the quartet of the First Queen’s household guards, and arranging whatever presents would be sent back in Gamnae’s wake.
Maybe that was where the insult would be.
Takyeo’s entry hall looked just the same as it ever had—high, dark, and spare, with that strange air of warm refinement so different from Mother’s well-padded quarters. There was Takyeo himself, a genuine grin creasing his usually somber face. Princess Mahara trailed him by three steps, in the fashion of Khir wives, and she did not dart Gamnae a piercing look. Instead, she beamed too, a pacific smile Gamnae could find no hint of anger or reproach lingering in.
“Gamnae!” Takyeo did not halt and expect her to bow. Instead, he swept her into a bear hug, as he had when they were young. “What a pleasure! I am sorry the First Queen is ill.”
“H-her nerves.” Gamnae’s voice firmed, became natural. Takyeo wouldn’t let anyone insult her, at least not openly. “It has been rather trying for her, lately.”
“So I understand.” Takyeo pretended he didn’t know what Mother said about him. He always had. “Please, come in. You have met Mahara, I know, but may I present her again? Wife, this is my favorite sister.”
Was that true? Of course, Takyeo had always protected Jin and Kai from Sensheo and Kurin; Sabwone had lost interest once Gamnae was able to stop crying.
Give her nothing to see, and even the most vengeful cat went looking elsewhere.
So Gamnae put on her prettiest smile and clasped the Khir princess’s warm, soft hands.
“I shall call you sister,” Mahara said, and there seemed no anger in her fingers either. “If you will let me.”
Gamnae could find no reason to disagree. “So shall I call you,” she replied, and hoped it was not a misstep.
GENEROUS
She is not so bad.” Anh drew the comb through Yala’s hair. “She and the First Princess were very friendly when they were children. Then, the First Princess put away her dolls, and for a short while the Second Princess was her doll.”
“Hm.�
�� Yala drew a small damp cloth down her arm. The bath was tepid, unscented, just the thing to end a hot day upon. Another afternoon storm hung over the city, not quite breaking, oppression lingering in every corner.
Dinner was well underway. The Second Princess was losing her hunted-fawn look, the Crown Prince was no doubt relieved the First Queen had not deigned to appear, and Mahara doubly so. They were at tea, so Yala could withdraw. Lady Kue had the arrangements well in hand, and the gifts for the First Queen were tasteful, appropriate, and a high contrast to the wedding cotton.
All in all, the dinner was a success.
“I think they would still be very friendly, if the Second Princess were still a doll.” Anh clicked her tongue, a soft thoughtful sound as she arranged the light dinner-robe’s sleeves. “But little girls grow up.” It had all the quality of a Zhaon proverb.
“They do.” Yala passed the wet cloth down her other arm as Anh finished combing and moved away, knowing her mistress preferred fine-combing after her bath instead of during. Water lapped against the tub sides, and if she could only stay in water until the summer was past, it might be bearable. “Sometimes I wish I had not.”
“I like it.” The kaburei girl brushed at Yala’s dinner-robe, settling it upon the stand and turning to the fine, folded linen shift, shaking it open and searching for anything amiss. At least she did not poke and pry too badly; the yue was safely hidden. “I was always afraid, as a child.”
A childhood knowing you could be sold away did sound somewhat frightening. A kaburei girl did not even have the faint comfort of marriage as her asking-price. “And now?”
“Only sometimes.” Anh decided the shift was in acceptable condition and refolded it. “If I work well, I may be manumit. If not, I go into the Weavers’ House outside the west wall when I am old, to drink tea and scold everyone else.”
“And weave?” Yala could not help but smile. The girl was a slice of bright mirrorlight, always cheerful.
“Well, yes.” Anh settled at the cosmetic table and passed a practiced gaze over the jars, the two combs, the hairpins on a pad of folded cotton. “Old women are best at the looms, and at packing donjba.”
“So they say.” Yala lifted her right toes from the water, examined them. She would turn into a dried fruit if she stayed here much longer. “Is it often this… sticky, in summer?”
“’Tis still spring.” Anh set about organizing, though the table did not need it. “The real heat hasn’t come yet.”
“It gets worse?” Of course it did. Zhaon was a land of deepening worseness. She longed for home, for a clean wind from the mountains and a good hunt or two, a hawk at her wrist, and a light-hooved horse. For Hai Komori’s dark ceilings and chill-damp corners, even for the Great Keep’s frowning bulk.
“Oh yes. There is the Dry Time at the end of summer, too, no rains to break the heat.”
That sounded utterly unpleasant. “How do you bear it?”
“There are the baths, it’s not so bad.” Anh checked the zhu-powder container. It was still half full; Yala used but little. “But you are northern. The heat will make you wilt.”
Too late. I am already wilted. “I certainly hope not.”
“We must water you. Many baths, like a rai field.” The kaburei’s chatter was amusing, and just on the edge of familiarity.
Yala was disposed to be generous, but not familiar. Or perhaps she was fretful in the heat, a horse denied a chance to dust-roll and work burrs from its coat. “Flowers fade,” she murmured in Khir. “Only the blade survives.” And even that may tarnish. She could manage a translation into Zhaon, and not a bad one, but lacking some polish. She should spend some time upon it, perhaps her father… but no, he would worry over the implied meaning.
And he would find plenty else in her planned letter to worry over, already.
“My lady?” Anh’s busy hands halted.
“Nothing.” It was annoying, to have to speak in Zhaon. “A phrase I must translate, perhaps. Two braids for dinner today.”
“Yes, my lady.” If she bridled at the implicit rebuke, at least she did not do so openly. Instead, she brought both combs back, her quick fingers going to work.
And since the kaburei was graceful and cheersome, Yala was prepared to offer her a treat in exchange. “After dinner you may retire, and do as you please.” Besides, she longed to practice. Stiffness had settled in, and Yala was uneasy.
There was much to be uneasy about, and the discipline of the yue helped her think.
“Are you certain?” Anh pressed at her hair with a thirsty cloth and set to work. “You may wish for something cooling, before bed.”
“I will be well enough. Perhaps there is someone you would wish to visit, in a little spare time?”
“I could go to the baths.” Shyly. “I would like that.”
Yala nodded, careful not to disturb the girl’s work. “Then you may.” The palace baths were a social occasion as well as a cleanly one, especially for servants.
“Many thanks, my lady.” Anh’s fingers, quick and gentle, braided expertly. When Yala rose, dripping and cool for a few moments, there was the pad to blot her dry, and Anh lingered upon arms and thighs. “What are these? Some punishment?”
“Hawk’s kisses,” Yala murmured, again in Khir. “The marks of a noblewoman,” she added in Zhaon. “Here, along the arm, is where the talons may slice, and if you earn such a mark, ink is often rubbed in to show it proudly.”
“Does the princess…” Anh caught herself, bowing her head. “Ah, forgive me, my lady.”
“She is royal, Anh.” And you are too familiar. There was no need for a lady-in-waiting’s servant, even a close-servant, to comment upon the body of a princess. “My robe.”
Loosely belted in gossamer linen and thin evening silk already sticking to damp skin, Yala settled at her own tiny round table with covered dishes—a much smaller repast than the one served to Mahara tonight. At least Second Princess Gamwone was not likely to be actively harmful, except for the tales she would carry to her mother.
More than a morsel of pickled urjo,37 that purveyor of vigor, polished rai, curd very much in the style of Khir, greens that were tender and no doubt from palace gardens. Beef in the Zhaon charcoal-cooked fashion, with a piquant sauce—needing some little spice, but a rare treat nonetheless. She did not quite hurry her meal, but did not take her time either. It would be beneath her to linger when she had promised the girl a few moments of her own, even if Anh was kaburei.
A nobleman is measured by his kindness in victory, Cao Shan said, though Yala had read enough of the histories to know such a kindness was very rare indeed.
The mirrorlight in her chamber dimmed as Anh set about lighting a lamp or two. Yala’s second piece of beef was accompanied by a crack of thunder, its violence muffled by the Jonwa’s bulk, and Yala was startled into a watchful glance directed at the ceiling, as if she would find the clouds gathering there.
If the storm continued past dark, she could practice without fear of being overheard.
Finally smiling, a wry, wistful expression, Yala continued her dinner.
DELICATE CONDITION
It was not a perfect day for riding, but, as Komori Baiyan had often said, if they waited for a perfect day they would die before setting foot in stirrup. So Mahara essayed permission from her husband, and was surprised to be told that as a married woman past the first full moon of her seclusion she could go where she willed in the palace complex, and go riding outside at her will too as long as she took Yala and a brace of golden-armored palace guards.
“Does he not fear for my honor?” she asked Yala worriedly, but her lady-in-waiting shook her head firmly.
“No, of course he does not. It is Zhaon, they do such things here.”
So it was hats, gloves, veils, long tunics, and wide-legged Zhaon riding trousers for both of them, and two kaburei hurrying after them with closed sunbells. There was only a suggestion of a breeze if one stayed near the water-gardens. It was there, along th
e bank of a tamed creek with clipped green edges, that the Crown Princess saw brightly colored motion in the near distance and stiffened, her arm through Yala’s. “Should we turn aside?”
“Nowhere to go,” Yala answered, her lips barely moving. They had to pass this way to reach the royal stables. “Besides, they have seen us.”
Mahara’s heart sank at the prospect of halting to exchange pleasantries. “Bad luck.”
“Fear not, Ha Jin. Our swords are sharp.” Yala’s voice dropped into an imitation of a man’s, with a broad nasal accent, painfully refined.
Laughter rose in Mahara’s chest, was swiftly repressed. How long ago had Yala seen that play, coming back to report faithfully on every aspect, even wrapping herself in half a curtain to declaim as the sage Ha San, that perpetually drunken but very wise master of fate? And Ha Jin—no relation—his ever luckless and drunken companion, too.
“And we can outdrink them,” Mahara whispered the next line in return.
Yala had to cough to hide her amusement, hiding her mouth with a bound sleeve. The party farther along the bank turned out to be the two queens of Zhaon, their retinues waiting behind ornamented palanquins, and a pair of Garan princes to boot.
Greetings were exchanged in Zhaon. Queen Gamwone, round and soft, held her lacquered head high, the pins thrust through her hair’s fantastical architecture shivering with tiny gems set in bright wire bees. She accepted Mahara’s polite inquiry after her health with a sniff, but Queen Haesara, her own hair in a high, asymmetrical pile with a cascade of pearl-laced braids on the left, took both Mahara’s hands and kissed her cheeks. The tall woman, her robe the plain sumptuous blue of a summer sky in late afternoon, was an elongated Second Dynasty statue next to Gamwone’s plump, bejeweled glitter.
“And how is your health, Crown Princess?” Queen Haesara inquired in her well-bred swallow’s-tone, lilting the Zhaon almost as if singing. “It is much warmer here than in Khir.”
