by S. C. Emmett
“Yes, and the storms are somewhat different too. I am well enough, and honored at your asking.” Mahara’s Zhaon was still careful, but it was easier now. She found a smile for Fourth Prince Makar, too. “Good morning, Prince Makar. I trust you are well?”
“Well, and missing my conversations with Lady Komor.” Makar’s bow was slight, but his dark eyes kindled. “We still have not resolved our argument over Tang Shun’s last words.”
“Argument?” Mahara’s brow creased. Had something happened? Impossible, Yala would have told her—but the prince was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and she gathered argument was not the word it was in Khir.
“A small disagreement at most.” Yala did not move from her place at Mahara’s shoulder, and indicated the scarred man. “My lady, this is Third Prince Takshin.”
So they had been introduced, at least, and Yala had not thought him worth speaking upon.
“Crown Princess.” The ill-favored one’s bow was perfunctory at best. Oh, his cloth was fine, black Shan silk and dark leather, and his topknot was graceful enough. He even had warrior’s scars. But the Third Prince’s gaze was cold as a cave-mouth in winter, pupil and iris almost the same shade, and he seemed ill at ease. Mahara strained to remember what present he had sent, and if it warranted a mention.
“He has returned from Shan,” Makar added helpfully, “and the manners there are somewhat different.”
Yala’s stillness was unusual. The Third Prince looked past Mahara, all but staring at her friend. Yala would have told her princess of any danger from this quarter, would she not?
The Third Prince barely glanced at his younger brother. “I lack the polish of those who have not ridden to war.” Tossed like a challenge, the syllables sharp and cruel. His lip twisted as he finished, and the scar sliding under his hair would no doubt flush when he grew angry.
“A warrior’s manners are no stranger to the Khir,” Yala replied, deft and certain. Mahara hid a smile—it was like watching her with the yue, every fluid motion accompanied by a bright sharp glitter. Yala was more than capable of handling this prince, so Mahara could simply let her.
Which was a relief.
“He has been rude since birth.” Queen Gamwone tossed her head, and her piled hair did not move. Even her hairpin decorations simply gave a muted clicking, as if afraid to call attention to their swaying. “Come, Crown Princess. Take a small walk with us.”
Mahara would have preferred to go directly to riding, but there was no way to avoid it. Yala, of course, had to trail at a distance, her gaze upon her princess’s back, a comforting warmth and support. A murmur of conversation—the princes, or at least Makar, making well-bred allusions, which of course Yala would match in her accented but quite proper Zhaon.
“Tell me.” Queen Gamwone produced a jeon-wood fan from her sleeve, and began to move it in quick, sharp arcs. “How do you like married life, Crown Princess?” She used Zhaon’s informal address, and said the title as if it were a slightly obscene word.
“My husband is kind.” Mahara’s stomach turned into a fist. If Takyeo’s mother were alive, would she be this disdainful? Mothers-in-law were supposed to be unpleasant, or at least severe. “And Zhaon is mighty.” Surely there could be no argument with that statement, even for a queen.
“Yes, the Khir like war, do they not?” Still informal, each word overenunciated, as if she spoke to a child. Queen Gamwone’s scent was a mixture of umu-blossom and an attar of crushflowers, perhaps very expensive. “It is good to be with the winners.”
As if she did not know that Khir’s borders were still inviolate, and Mahara’s marriage was to bring peace for Zhaon as well as her own country. “Have you found it so?” Mahara strove for an artless tone. If the First Queen thought her stupid, she might escape some needling.
Queen Haesara laughed, low and melodious. “The First Queen is always a victor.”
“First among rivals.” Queen Gamwone stared straight ahead, swaying upon high-boned jatajatas as if she feared the loss of her vital energies into the earth. “I must ask, child, where are you going, dressed like that?”
Mahara strangled a sharp bite of irritation. “Lady Komor and I are riding today.”
“Surely that is not advisable?” The First Queen’s zhu-powdered face turned into a mask of concern, her eyes glittering like an angry doll’s and her crimson-dabbed mouth turning into a round O of surprise. She shook her head again, with that same muffled clicking. “What if you were in a… delicate condition?”
“A delicate condition?” The words were strange, and she could not glance at Yala for aid.
“She means, you must protect the Crown Prince’s heir,” Queen Haesara supplied. She took Mahara’s other arm, and for a moment Mahara thought the two were about to halt and commence pulling, one on either side, children at a rope or dogs with a choice pile of offal. “A Zhaon conqueror needs many sons.”
Your Emperor certainly does. Mahara’s veil swayed. Hopefully neither woman could read her expression behind its fine weave. “A strong rider makes strong sons.”
“How quaint!” Queen Gamwone let loose a high, tittering sound of amusement. “But think of it. All that jostling cannot be good for your insides. Did your mother ride?”
My mother is dead. Mahara’s lips curved just a little, the armored smile necessary for long formal dinners at her father’s table. A Khir noblewoman must never speak upon politics, nor when a man was speaking, but she could listen, and Mahara had.
Listened, and learned as much as she was able. “My mother rides the Great Fields.”
“Does she?” A shade of bafflement crossed over Gamwone’s round, zhu-pale face. The First Queen had expected some other answer, obviously, but Mahara thought it just as well that she gain only this one.
“What does that mean?” Queen Haesara wanted to know.
“It means she died in battle.” The childbed was a battlefield too, and Ashani Zlorih’s wife had met the enemy and conquered twice before winning her last battle bringing Mahara into the world. That she died afterward and only brought out a daughter did not detract from earlier victories.
Queen Gamwone raised her free hand, laying a thoughtful, claw-nailed finger alongside her reddened mouth. “I thought Khir women were all chained in the house, used only for rutting and cooking.”
Queen Haesara halted, which meant Mahara had to as well. “We are keeping you from your riding,” she said, softly. “You must be about it, or the day’s heat will be bad for your mount. My son!” She beckoned, and Prince Makar hurried forward, his blue robe just a few shades lighter than hers.
“I suppose if you must ride, we must let you.” Gamwone’s small, satisfied smirk was a cat’s. “I shall send you herbs to strengthen you, Crown Princess.”
“Your generosity is extreme,” Mahara parried. In other words, she was well aware of the insulting wedding gift, and looked forward to more of the same.
“Careful,” Queen Haesara remarked, apparently to empty air. The pearls in her hair glowed. “A true artist does not sing the same song twice.”
That made the First Queen drop Mahara’s arm as if it burned her, and she darted a venomous glance across bright morning air. “You are so interesting, Crown Princess,” she cooed. “I hope you will invite me to dinner again.”
“Certainly, if you agree to bring Princess Gamnae. She is a most gracious guest.” Mahara half-turned, finding Yala approaching as well. Her friend’s veil was held aside with a bentpin, and her cheeks were damp as well as unwonted pale. “Come, we are for the stables.”
“Yes, my princess.” Yala’s farewell bow to the princes was respectful enough; the kaburei behind her had to trot to catch up. “Thank you, Fourth Prince. We shall have to continue another time.”
“I look forward to it.” From the gleam in his fine dark eyes, it might even be true, and Mahara wondered if he felt an affection for Yala.
It would be nice, she thought, to have her lady marry a prince as well.
“Takshin!” Gamwone turned, the bee ornaments glitter-swinging and refusing to make more than a soft clicking.
Third Prince Takshin, however, was nowhere in sight. Mahara, reprieved, did not hurry away but dawdled while they were still in sight of the palanquins.
When she was certain they could not be witnessed she pushed aside her own veil and gasped in a deep breath. “That woman is a plague,” she muttered, in Khir.
Yala did not disagree.
FEASIBLE
His mother kept the slatted window upon the right of her palanquin open, so Makar drifted along at the pace of the kaburei carrying her, his hands clasped behind his back and his soft palace shoes finding every stray pebble. Keeping his expression while he bruised his feet was good practice. Spring sun showed every crack and divot in the paving, poured gold over Zhaon-An, and beat unmercifully upon the shoulders of prince and peasant alike.
“What did you speak of, with her lady-in-waiting?” Queen Haesara looked thoughtful, but Makar noticed the tension in her decorously clasped hands.
Did she worry he was likely to amuse himself with a foreign woman? He felt a curl of not-quite-irritation at the thought. “We disagree upon the matter of a sage’s last words. In Khir they are given differently.”
“And?” She did not move, and her tension did not abate.
He could have pretended to misunderstand. His own irritation at Queen Gamwone stationing herself on his mother’s return route from the apothecaries of the Artisans’ Home was, however, quite considerable. A beautiful spring morning spoiled, and all for that round, venomous nincompoop’s pettiness. “Lady Komor is one to watch.”
That earned him a single sideways glance. “In what fashion, son of mine?”
“A worthy ally, Mother.” Others would think Komor Yala simply plain and retiring, a blank page at the side of the Crown Princess. Behind that blank page lurked a very agile mind indeed, one steeped in the Hundreds. She was adept at hiding her feelings, too, and he wondered just what her role had been at home in Khir.
“Hm.” Another sharp sideways glance, and his mother’s pearled braids swung. “I detect admiration, Maki.” An affectionate nickname, and from her it did not irritate.
“Your senses are ever sharp.”
“And your brother?”
“What has he done now?” His brother’s brain, while agile, was not quite deep enough to remain unruffled; his fingers were not skilled enough to stay still, like a bad sathron player’s. Also, if his mother had discovered one or two more of Sensheo’s small intrigues, she might be peeved again.
He had not told her Zakkar Kai almost certainly knew whom to blame for the most recent assassin, despite Makar’s own best efforts. It would only worry her more; let her have some peace, his decorous dam.
“What does he think of Lady Komor?”
In other words, was Sensheo likely to commit some foolishness in that quarter? “She does not seem his preferred prey.” Makar pressed his sweating fingers together. Both Khir women were overdressed for riding, and Lady Komor’s cheeks held a sheen of sweat. If she were softer, rounder, and a little taller, she would be accounted arresting, but would never be a beauty. Provincial, of course.
It was the Crown Princess who possessed beauty to spare, and that was fortunate. Takyeo would not have complained of an ugly wife, but he had few enough joys as it was.
“One worry less, then.” But Makar’s mother could always find a fresh concern. To have children was to have disquiet, all the sages agreed. Even the most filial of offspring were hostages to Fate. “Has he been drinking in the city again?”
More like plotting with a shred of drink to oil the hinges. “A few times near the Left Market. He has been visiting fortune-tellers, of late.” Makar’s foot rolled over a small, sharp stone; he quelled a wince. Not all battle-practice required weaponry.
“Seeking answers from Heaven?” The Second Queen did not sound as if the prospect soothed her, and well it should not. The fortune-tellers Sensheo visited were not known for accuracy, choosing instead to pass word of paying clients to other artisans in much darker guilds.
“Or other quarters.” There was no reason to add to his mother’s disquiet, Makar told himself again. The palanquin moved slowly through a slice of shade, a projecting roof blocking the sun’s fury for a few blessed moments.
“It worries me, my eldest.”
He searched for the right tone, found it. Calm and steady, to tell her he had the matter well in hand and she could turn her attention to other matters. “And me, my mother.”
“What of the Third Prince?”
“He merely left as soon as was feasible, Mother.” Takshin did not like the First Queen any more than Makar did. If Gamwone showed him any affection that might change, but such a thing did not seem in her nature. Even her eldest, favorite son received his share of ill treatment from that woman.
Well, what could one expect from a merchant family? They might have bought power and influence, and their coffers paid for a warlord’s road to the Throne of Five Winds, but greasy palms and purchased goatskin genealogies would show through any aping of nobility.
“Will he return to Shan?” Queen Haesara sounded curious, and thoughtful. Her fingers relaxed a fraction, then a fraction more.
“I do not think it is his intention.” Which was putting it mildly. Takshin would probably rather peel his own scarred skin free than return to that land.
“That must please her.”
It was a mistake to think Gamwone would be satisfied by anything. “Very little seems to do so, Mother.”
Her small laugh was a reward all its own. “Hm.” She wished to make another comment, but doing so within earshot of straining kaburei was not prudent. “Will you have tea with me, Makar?”
“The very thought fills me with joy.” She was ever calm, his dam, and beautiful in the style of Hanweo. Her cleverness was much deeper than Sensheo’s, but still… Makar saw even her small, subtle intrigues, and moved to forestall those with the potential to cause her embarrassment. Like the copper bracelets affair, or her repeated snubs of Mrong Banh.
A son cared for his mother, and an eldest brother reined his siblings. Sensheo was mostly harmless, as long as Makar kept him leashed. It was growing more difficult lately, and Mother was at the end of her considerable patience.
If only Takyeo possessed Second Prince Kurin’s ruthlessness, the throne would be assured and Sensheo’s little indiscretions could be allowed to reach their natural conclusion without help or hindrance from Makar’s quarter. As it was, he was uneasy, and he suspected his mother had further complaints about Sensheo to voice over cold hurang tea.
Queen Haesara closed the small sliding window, and Makar quickened his pace. The kaburei, bare callus-horned feet shushing upon pavers, stared straight ahead. Shade and sun were all the same to them.
He knew one of the bearers was Sensheo’s creature. One was his own, as were two of his mother’s maids. Takyeo’s staff were loyal, but Makar would have felt better if he could have—oh, very quietly, of course—inserted a pair of eyes close to the Crown Prince.
In the absence of such a thing, perhaps a pair near the Crown Princess might do as well. As long as Lady Komor was unaware.
Or… helpful.
Therein lay the problem, and the neatest solution would be, of course, applying some care to the lady herself, alone and adrift in a foreign court. It would require no little patience, if he were to attempt it.
Fortunately, Fourth Prince Garan Makar possessed that quality in abundance. Even if his little brother was straining its outer borders.
OF SERVICE
It was spring, and the big greys—royal and guard mounts, petted and preened—were restive. Like soldiers, they required action to drain away fear and exhaust them into docility. Kai’s left shoulder ached from the strike of a weighted practice sword taken on the drillground, Jin’s enthusiasm providing an opening where skill alone would not. Now he had the prospect of riding for the
rest of the morning and retiring before the heat of the day crested and the usual afternoon storm made the beasts restive, and he was not enchanted with the notion at all.
He’d ridden under worse conditions, and not for pleasure. It was good practice, and it would keep him out of the palace for council meetings. If he was a-horseback, it would be more difficult for Tamuron to call him back. Even a hawk did not rise every time.
It took a few moments for the buzz at one end of the stable complex to register, and when it did he halted. He was somewhat sweat-stained and his topknot was awry, but the discomfort vanished in an instant as he gently pushed aside Khaneng’s muzzle and peered over the half-door to the grey’s stall.
“It is well enough,” Lady Komor was saying, in Khir. She was dressed for riding, albeit a bit heavily. But the Khir were modest, and she did not seem one to loosen a belt, so to speak.
Not unless attacked by an assassin.
Kai hurried out of Khaneng’s stall. He did not tug at his long tunic or straighten his topknot, but his hands itched to do so.
“I wished for us to ride a matched set.” The Crown Princess’s wide, pretty smile robbed her tone of any petulance. She was overdressed too, but looked very fine. “Come, let us be gone.”
“A moment.” Lady Komor tested the girth again, and clucked at the chestnut mare she’d chosen. “I do not like this bridle, but I suppose the others are worse.”
Crown Princess Mahara laughed, a winsome, trilling sound. “Will you blame the bridle if you lose a race?”
“Too hot for a race, my princess.” Lilting and affectionate, the phrase dropped into hay-scented, dust-ridden air. She shifted to informal Khir, addressing the bay. “Come then, my fine lady. Let us see.”
“General Zakkar.” The Crown Princess peered around her own mare, a fine-chested black eager to be out and away from the stable. “Are you today for riding?” She winced very prettily, realizing her Zhaon was mixed with Khir. “Ah, no, forgive my lapse in manners. Are you about to ride?”
