by S. C. Emmett
He had not thought Lady Komor would appear, but she had. And now, at Kanbina’s request, he walked her to the Crown Prince’s palace. There are drunken men about tonight, his adoptive-mother said, quelling Komor Yala’s protest.
He did not know whether to be grateful or blushing, like the young man in the Swallow’s Song. Kanbina saw more than most, even through her protective walls.
The Khir woman watched the graveled path before them, choosing her steps with care. A string of beads from her hairpin swung in time; she did not hurry. “I am told you were very young, and the Emperor…?”
“Bandits razed a northwestron village, a long time ago. Garan Tamuron’s scouts saw the smoke, and found me.” He took care to make each syllable precise. Why speak to her of the reek of the dead, the sick-sweet of roasted human flesh, the sand and scorching in a child’s throat? Or the confusion of being found and bracing himself, a broken spear clutched in his small hands, determined to sell his life dear if it was the bandits returning.
“How old were you?” Was it merely curiosity? She did not look at him, but that could be etiquette. He could expound upon the subject or turn them to another without fear of rudeness.
“I don’t recall.” He recalled nothing but the night spent wandering between flaming huts and the cold dawn that followed, bringing with it more thunder of horse-hooves. “Five or six winters, or so they told me.”
She nodded. Her hairpin’s beads depended from a small, irregular stone, wrapped with silken crimson thread as if precious. If it gleamed, the fireflowers did not show it. “And the Emperor adopted you?”
“Not until recently. I began as an archer’s carrier.” Bundles of arrows too heavy for his thin arms, but he hauled them nonetheless, ox-stubborn. And at least with the Garan warlord there was all the food child-Kai could eat, and his potential was remarked upon by a young astrologer Tamuron had invited along after a stop in a Yulehi tavern. “But Garan Tamuron said a boy who could survive a night of ashes was meant for great things.”
“I see.” That seemed to amuse her. Or rather, she smiled, and a drench of red from the fireflowers cast shadows under her pale Khir eyes. The plainness of her gown did not detract from its heavy sumptuousness. She was noble enough to wear silk to match the princess, which made her, in Khir, very noble indeed. “And are you meant for great things?”
“I cannot tell.” Would she like it better if he lied, pretended a surety? Khir valued strength; those who did not fight were merely fodder. “My adoptive-mother is a gentle soul. She likes you.”
“I am fond of gentle souls.” Lady Komor’s smile had lost its defensive quality. She clasped her hands inside her sleeves, settling the cuffs with an entirely feminine motion. Her profile, as she tilted her head up to view another burst of thundering light, was sharp as a statue’s. “Do you remember your parents? In the village?”
“No.” His own fingers tightened against each other at the small of his back, and he watched the walk before them. There was nothing in their way and the servants would sweep aside detritus, but he did not wish Komor Yala to stumble. “Only fire.” Even his name was not his own. Kai was the only part he remembered when questioned, and Tamuron had chosen Zakkar because the characters looked attractive next to each other, and made a phrase of good luck. Wolf-I-found, it could mean, or fang-on-the-ground, depending upon how you wrote it.
“Born in fire.” Lady Komor’s pace slowed further. “They call you the God of War.” The kaburei holding the lamps were no doubt eager to return to Kanbina’s house and the remains of the feast, but neither of them dared an attempt to hurry the Head General and his companion.
Kai almost winced. Winning a few battles was as dangerous as losing one, or so Zhe Har the Archer said. “He may hear, and take offense.”
He had been reading the Archer much, of late. Especially a certain tale concerning a moon maiden’s torn sleeve, with a sad but fitting end.
“Would that trouble you?” Softly, as if she were curious.
“When Heaven takes offense…”
“… the wise man trembles. Zhe Har.” She accented the name a little strangely; Khir shaped the ar differently than Zhaon. “Are you shaking, Zakkar Kai?” Lady Komor raised her sleeve a little, as if to catch a laugh. Her smile widened, teeth glinting, and it was pleasant to see.
So he did amuse her. Well enough. “Are you offended?” And did she have that slim, sharp blade sewn into this blue dress?
It was enjoyable, to know something of her that none other suspected. Except perhaps the Crown Princess.
Yala halted. Her skirts swung, and she faced him. The smile retreated into her habitual somberness, and the lamps swayed as the kaburei halted as well. “What is it you wish of me, General Zakkar?”
Did she think he had an unpleasant answer to such a question? He had written the invitation thrice, crumpling and burning the first two and sealing the third before he could lose his nerve. A cousin of the gut-clenching feeling before a battle accompanied the messenger, though that man was probably unaware of the hope riding upon such a thin piece of paper. “A little of your time, Lady Komor.”
Now she was on her guard, that clear Khir gaze level as one of her country’s soldiers. “For what purpose?”
“Must there be one?” And what would she consider an acceptable reason? The crackle of sparksticks echoed, and children’s laughter with it; many servants had young ones, and they were having a fine time of it tonight.
Komor Yala considered him closely for a long while; he suffered it. When she spoke, it was soft, reflective. “My brother joined our ancestors at Three Rivers.”
Ah. Did she think he was personally responsible? Garan Tamuron said fight, and Zakkar Kai fought. The leash was slipped and the pit-dog leapt. That was truth, and likely to be cold comfort to a grieving sister. “I shall offer incense to his shade, then.” Dead soldiers held no grudges, the classics said, being occupied with their living descendants, if they had any.
Still, he wondered. Did the shades of dead soldiers follow him, held back only by incense and prayers, or by the lamp kindled in every human liver by the goddess of fate?
A spate of blue fireflowers turned Komor Yala pale, brought out the depths of her silk, and glinted in her hair. “I do not think he would approve.”
“Of what?” He was not, after all, courting her. Was he?
It was a good thing he had his hands occupied with clutching each other. Otherwise, the slight weight in his left sleeve—pearls, and a scrap of silk—might have drawn his touch like a needle brushed with a dragonstone found north.
Komor Yala made a small, restless movement, instantly controlled. “I ask you to be plain. What do you want?” If the blade was in her sleeve, was she touching the hilt?
What would it be like, to spar with a woman? He would have to hold back, but the thought had a certain charm. Fighting was close to dancing, and both were close to other acts performed with a willing partner. “What do you think I want?” An opponent would often give you the advantage just for asking.
“To watch my princess, to see if we are treacherous women.” Her chin set and her shoulders settled, taking on a burden far too heavy for their slimness. “To see if there may be an advantage in befriending a foreigner in a conqueror’s court. To amuse yourself.”
“That is a heavy list.” He was almost relieved she did not add more charges. The servants would see the general and the lady-in-waiting deep in conversation, facing each other and lit by heavenly explosions. Gossip might spread.
He found he did not mind.
“Is it untrue? Any of it?”
“Your suspicions are natural. But yes, untrue.” He was well within range, should she decide to strike. When did she practice the blade’s use? Perhaps at night, though not in the gardens now. Or so he could hope. “I wish to be your friend, Lady Komor. What shall I do to prove it?”
She glanced at the patiently waiting kaburei, and her voice lowered further. “You have already disposed of a co
rpse, and since I was not questioned you obviously did not mention my involvement.”
Not only that, but she was certain to have heard of his method of disposal. Kai had surmised the ring would provide a clue, and he could not very well leave a finger with an indentation or merely chop off one digit. He had also meant the mutilation to send a message, and perhaps she was uncertain of its meaning since it had not been aimed in her direction. He contented himself with a single word. “Obviously.”
“Which means you will not, or you are waiting to use the information to your advantage.”
If he told her the assassin’s fingers were in a garden pond, feeding fat bronzefish and slow, bottom-sucking cahuan with their bristled mouths, would she be comforted? “You are an adept fencer, Lady Komor, but you are striking an enemy who does not exist. You need allies, I am one—if for no other reason than your kindness to Second Concubine Kanbina. She has had no easy time of it, and you will not either.”
“That, at least, we may agree upon.” More fireflowers, this time yellow as Kanbina’s livery, drenched the palace complex in jaundice.
Zakkar Kai pointed. “The Crown Prince’s door is there. I shall not approach, if you do not wish me to.”
“You might as well, or Auntie will be cross.” Her smile had returned, welcome as the rai itself, and her shoulders had eased somewhat. “I would like an ally, General.”
So would I. Kai swallowed. The sohju left his throat dry as the sands. His hands did not know quite what to do without a hilt or a bow to fill them, but he could not keep them clutched behind him. His belt was too tight, as well. “All you must do is call, and I shall answer.”
They reached the Crown Prince’s steps. Lights hurried to and fro in the hallway, and there was a buzz of activity. Lady Komor halted upon the lowest step, perhaps wishing for higher ground to face him from. “Thank you for your invitation, General.”
If I send another, will you answer? There was a better way to ask that particular question, though, to receive the answer he wanted. Much of a victory was choosing the battleground to your liking. “When may we see you again, my mother and I?”
“Second Concubine Kanbina may see me any time she likes; if she writes, I shall make time to visit.” Yala hesitated. “And if you are there, Zakkar Kai, I will not ignore you.”
Zakkar Kai’s chest filled with a fireflower of its own, and the sensation was not as transitory as the sky-blossoms. It lingered, and he hoped he was not smiling too broadly. “Then I shall be an attentive son.” He watched her sway gently up the steps and through the great door, slightly ajar to welcome the good luck of spring. Waiting until she was lost to sight, simply so he could be certain of her safety as Kanbina had charged.
Or at least, so he told himself.
It was upon his return to the Second Concubine’s palace that the Emperor’s messenger found him and gasped out news of an assassin.
TONGUES
It was ill-luck to spend the Knee-High in a dungeon, but duty respected no festival. Zan Fein’s toes curled and released in turn as he eased down the rough-cut stairs into a long, malodorous stone rectangle lit with rufuous lamp-flickers. His slat-sandals were difficult, yes, and his back ached when a day involved more than casual movement, but they reminded him with each step of his position and his pride.
In the eunuchs’ quarters, the festival was proceeding apace with khansa—the Children of Two-Face drank no sohju, only the weaker frothing their patron had invented—and trays of sweet paste-pastries after the platters of roasted fowl and rosettes of pickled, preserved, and early spring vegetables.
But Zan Fein, like any good father, was called away upon business and went without complaint. It was strange to think of himself as such and he prayed Two-Face would forgive him, but there was no use in arguing with the heart. Man, woman, or eunuch, a human could control their breath, their manners, their behavior.
But the heart? That organ did what it willed inside its fortress of ribs. What one prayed for was forgiveness, and the strength to keep the walls intact. So they feasted and were merry, the only children he would ever have, in their long black robes, while Zan Fein edged into a version of Hell.
He was not the last to arrive, for when he was halfway down the stairs the door swung wide and Zakkar Kai was admitted, dressed in festival finery and a thunderous scowl.
A palace Golden with a lean, very dark face hurried to turn the lamps up. Crown Prince Takyeo’s nose did not wrinkle, but his expression was set. And there was Third Prince Takshin, disdainful as always, who folded his arms and watched as the acrobat-assassin, still wrapped in green cotton, was laid with tender care upon a thick wooden slab.
You wanted them whole before they were broken, Zan Fein reflected. Just like horses, and children called to Two-Face’s service. “Crown Prince, Third Prince, greetings,” he murmured, and bowed.
Mrong Banh was in the shadows, flushed and smelling of sohju. He had little stomach for this work; his inclination was the dry fields of Heaven where the stars rode their strange wavering chariots. Still, he was quick, and he did not make the mistake of thinking Zan Fein had lost his liver and brain along with his twinfruits. For that, he had Zan Fein’s respect, if not quite his liking.
Then again, it did not matter. They were both in the service of the Emperor, and specialized tools were needed by any artist. “Crown Prince,” Zan Fein said, urbanely. “Are you injured?”
“No, Honorable Zan Fein.” Takyeo dropped his chin slightly, acknowledging his bow and the inquiry.
“And your wife?” There would be much disorder if the Crown Princess was struck. And at a festival, too.
“Unharmed as well.” The Crown Prince’s expression changed slightly. If he looked thus more often, the rumors of his soft heart might well find little purchase. “I sent her home.”
“A woman’s place.” Zan Fein studied the quivering body upon the slab. “Unwrap the head. Let us see what we have.”
The Golden with the dark face—there was, no doubt, some very faraway blood in his lineage—finished locking manacles about the acrobat’s ankles, and hurried to the head. Green cloth parted, starred with bright welling crimson.
Prince Takshin had not been gentle. Zan Fein could see no other wounds, but he was certain they existed. The boy who had been sent to Shan had returned with a temper to match that barbarous land. His ruthlessness was far more suited to the heirdom than Prince Takyeo’s kindness, but the considerations of an Emperor were deeper than a mere eunuch’s understanding, were they not?
Zhaon was served well by Garan Tamuron, and Zan Fein was content. Perhaps what was necessary to keep the realm a father had conquered was not more conquering. Time would tell.
“What happened?” Zakkar Kai asked, in an undertone. It was Takshin who gave him a more complete understanding in a few clipped sentences, while Zan Fein busied himself with the long roll of heavy felted cloth he had carried step by step from his own quarters.
When unrolled, it revealed bright metal, lovingly polished, leather guarding whisper-keen edges. Tongs of various sizes, bentpins and crookpins, fine hair-thin needles and thicker ones in many lengths. Other curious shapes lay under cunningly sewn flaps, waiting to be revealed at the proper moment. The lamps brightened, a soft hiss of approval drowned by other noise.
Listening to the subtle as well as the spoken was the heart of much art, and his was no different.
“Has he spoken?” Zakkar Kai surveyed the unwrapping, and his jaw was iron. He eschewed the silk he now had rights to, preferring to dress plainly, but there was unwonted care taken with his topknot today.
Interesting.
“Not yet.” Takyeo was not pale, but his gaze held a quite unwonted gleam. By all accounts, he was quite enamored of his new foreign wife. Had the Khir girl been ugly, no doubt it would have been a different tale, but a young man’s heart followed his eyes, and his liver, that seat of courage, was not far behind. Perhaps a threat to the winsome new wife would prove the sharpening the
Crown Prince needed.
“He will,” Takshin said, softly. Almost caressingly. “You should return to the feast.”
“In a short while.” The Crown Prince dropped his hands. “I should also thank you, Taktak.” An affectionate diminutive, and Zan Fein expected the Third Prince to bridle at it.
He did not, though. Instead, the scarred young man regarded the unwrapped face, his lips slightly curved, and leaned over the table, causing the stupefied thing to flinch. “Thank me when this piece of offal is on the heap where it belongs.”
The acrobat was male, which was a good sign. The habit of childbirth gave women greater resistance to the Art of the Tongue, no matter that many treatises called them intrinsically weak.
“Give it some water.” Zan Fein smiled kindly into the dazed, uncomprehending glare of a stunned child. The acrobat’s gaze was muddy, and its lips crack-dried. “Are you certain you wish to stay, Crown Prince? You may leave this to me, I shall take great care with it.”
“Perhaps he will save himself some pain, and tell us who sent him.” Mrong Banh had turned decidedly greenish. He did not enjoy watching Zan Fein work.
It was a shame. Someday, perhaps someone would appreciate the Art of the Tongue, and he would teach all his secrets with care. Only Fifth Prince Sensheo seemed interested at all, but he was not an aesthete. Too much undiluted cruelty lurked in the Fifth Prince’s manicured hands.
The Tongue had to be administered with coolness, not malice.
First came the revealing. Zan Fein attended to it personally, cutting layers of green cloth free. Was it a mute? It said nothing, even with the cold scrape of the blunt backs of paired blades against the skin underneath. The musculature revealed was quite fine, and the Golden—now Zan Fein remembered his name, Uyek—brought the lamps closer without being told.
“Was there only one?” Zakkar Kai examined the acrobat’s head. “And did you maze his wits, Takshin?”
