by S. C. Emmett
“Precarious. But then, such is often the case with poison.”
Banh winced visibly. Knowing was one thing, knowing something rumor was occasionally correct about was another, and hearing the rumor confirmed with disarming candor was yet another.
Tamuron stroked at his beard. “You would not happen to be able to discern which poison, would you?”
“Not at this point. And if I did, would it be healthy to possess such knowledge, Your Majesty?”
This fellow was certainly a sharp one. The Emperor made certain his shoulders were set correctly, and bent his gaze—royal and impartial now—upon Kihon Jiao’s face. “A physician concerned with his own health?”
The man looked singularly unmoved. “I cannot aid others if I am unwell, Your Majesty.”
Or dead. Which he would be, if Gamwone knew her crime could be proven instead of simply suspected. Tamuron nodded. “Indeed. Banh, draw up a commission for the physician. He may take it to the Under-Steward Narung Hei and begin court attendance immediately.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” they chorused, and for once, Tamuron found the ritual response soothing.
Yet Banh’s intimation of information gleaned from an unspeaking assassin was troubling. Tamuron half-lidded his eyes, his fingers searching for the beaded kombin in his pocket as the two men withdrew to Banh’s scribe-table and made small conversation while the commission was brushed and sealed.
By the time Mrong Banh approached for the great seal to affix to the commission, Garan Tamuron had arrived at his answer, helped by satiny wooden beads slipping through his fingers, and he did not like it at all. It was simple, really. He had assumed Takyeo was the assassin’s target.
But that might not be the case.
SUDDEN HURRY
The needle went in easily and Mahara hissed, swallowing the sound almost as soon as it was born. She took care to set the silk down before snatching her hand away and examining her fingertip.
“Let me see.” Yala was already reaching for a small jeweled box with a hinged lid.
“Third time today.” The princess sighed. “I wish we were playing kaibok instead.” Takyeo had not outright denied permission, but she thought it unwise to ask.
In any case, she did not feel like riding, or like swathing herself in the habit necessary to such an endeavor. Here, on a shaded porch, listening to small birds hiding in a tiny jewel of the Jonwa’s private central garden, she was safe. Even if she kept stabbing herself with the sliver-needles for fine work.
“Yes.” Yala took her hand, blowing upon the wounded fingertip to push away ill-luck. Deft and certain, with her head bent and a string of silver beads falling from her hairpin, she was the embodiment of a noble Khir girl attending to her lady. A dab of stinging, jellied jau to cleanse the wound, more soft breath to push the pain away in trembling drops, then a small felted pad to stopper the hole and convince Mahara’s blood it was more congenial inside than out, as well as to bar the passage of any lurking evil spirit. “We could, if you like.”
“No.” Mahara shifted slightly, the saffron silk of her skirt making a slight pleasing sound. Her tenderest parts were not quite raw, but certainly unaccustomed to such use. Her husband was somewhat enthusiastic in performing his duty, and she longed to be obedient, but… how could she tell him not tonight, my lord? What did a Zhaon woman say, and would he be angered? “Yala?”
“Hm?” Yala peeled the felt away, delicately, clicked her tongue and replaced it. “A little longer. Yes, my princess?”
“We must find you a husband.”
Yala laughed, her hair-ornament swinging with merriment. “What, here?” She sobered quickly after glancing at Mahara’s expression and reading seriousness instead of jest. “Do you think so, then?”
“Perhaps I shall write to my father?” Mahara’s monthly letters, formal and restrained, were also excruciating. She would welcome a change of subject; it would give her something real to put into brushstrokes instead of empty formality and wishes for his continued good health. He had even added a note to his own last brief missive, telling her not to bother him with frivolous southron gossip. A Khir woman did not speak of politics. “A good Khir noble, one who can come to this place and… or should I ask my husband first?”
Yala considered the question, but she apparently arrived at no answer, for she changed the subject. “Whence comes this sudden hurry?”
“You must marry too, so we may speak of our husbands.” Or could she—should she—speak freely of the night-habits of men? It was, after all, Yala.
“Is there aught you wish to speak upon?” Yala’s smile returned, familiar and reassuring. “And I thought you did not wish to share me.”
“But you will still be here. I merely wish to see you settled.” Mahara bit her lip. “It is my responsibility.”
“There are more weighty matters at hand.” Yala’s gaze was clear but troubled. A faint misting of sweat showed along one side of her neck, and her dress today was of Zhaon cut, cut low enough to see a faint dewing upon the top slopes of her small breasts. In Khir it would have been scandalous, but here it was too hot to wear a proper neckline. “Such as your yue.” She glanced at the garden, a quick sideways motion, though they were more at risk of being heard from the hallway.
“Father said I would not need it.” In fact, he had demanded it of her before she left, and Mahara, a dutiful daughter, had expected it to be merely a test.
But he had kept the thin, ancient, hateful piece of sharp metal, and she had been glad.
“And yet.” Yala’s fingers were gentle. She held Mahara’s hand, a soft, warm touch that comforted even though both of them were sweating. “My princess, I cannot be with you at every banquet.”
“Perhaps if you were married, you could?” It was a silly idea, but she was not quite ready to admit defeat just yet. A hot breeze skipped over the garden walls, touched the surface of a pond, and rustled secretively among flowers and leaves. The birds paused before continuing their small chirping and twittering. They were drab little things, but they sounded cheerful indeed.
“Only to a prince, and which one would sacrifice his chances for a Khir lady-in-waiting?” Yala suppressed a laugh at the thought and shook her head, her hairpin’s beads swinging again. “There is another solution. My princess, perhaps yue practice might provide you with some safety.”
“I…” Mahara’s voice dropped. “I am afraid of it,” she finally whispered, bending over her hand as well, as if it pained her. An onlooker would only see two well-born women conferring. “The scars.” She had seen them upon her friend many times, and the thought filled her with unsteadiness, like sohju trembling in a jostled cup.
“Then we practice with a blunted blade at first.” Of course, the solution was obvious, and Yala would see as much. “It is not so difficult, my princess.”
Sometimes it was annoying to have such a practical lady-in-waiting. What Mahara really wanted was a solution that did not require swinging one of those nasty, sharp slivers. “How will we steal away for practice, then?”
“Let us not rush.” Yala’s expression turned to deep thoughtfulness, which softened her sharp face considerably. “First, I must acquire a yue for you. I cannot do so in the Artisans’ Home; it will require their Great Market. I dare not go to the smaller one, even with a chaperone. I gather it is not wholesome, even as the Zhaon account such things.” Yala took the pad away. “There. Where is your thimble?”
“I do not like it for this fine work. The silk is beautiful.” It had arrived with a small note from the Second Queen, perhaps an apology for the First Queen’s insults before the festival. Mahara had already embroidered four handkerchiefs with Queen Haesara’s personal device; she had only to finish the fifth and send them to express her thanks.
“The Second Queen is not so bad.” Yala tucked the bloody felt into her sleeve. Disposing of something so precious would have to wait until she found a brazier.
The thought of more heat on this awful day made Mahara
’s sweat prickle even worse. “No. But her daughter, shuh.”
Yala’s laughter, now free to rise, was the same as it had always been, and it cheered Mahara roundly. They bent over their work again, small expert stitches and tiny knots, color and meaning made steadfast in cloth. Perhaps even the winter would be warm here, and that was a blessed thought.
They sewed in companionable silence. In a little while, tea would be brought, and they would compare progress. “Would you really go to the Market?” Mahara finally asked. Alone, she meant to add, but of course Yala would.
She was fearless.
“The only question is when,” Yala replied, softly, as if she had already thought the matter through.
It was good, Mahara thought, to have a lady you could trust.
A TRANQUIL HEART
The Crown Prince’s palace had an attic, furniture, and other items standing shroud-silent sentinel. Dust lay thick in forgotten corners, but Lady Kue’s housekeeping discipline was seen in the tidiness of every pile and the arrangement of winter linens in ceduan-packed crates, as well as the marks of recent sweeping.
Yala bent, fingers tucked under her toes, and exhaled. Her braid slithered forward, landed upon the floor. Mahara was in the Crown Prince’s bedroom; on evenings when he was called away or his ardor cooled, they could begin practice. It was, Yala thought, somewhat similar to a lover waiting for a lady in the classics, though there was no longing in her impatience.
Only fear.
Yala flattened her palms upon grit-dusty floorboards, exhaled, and pitched forward. Toes leaving the ground, her shoulders creaking, knees tucked on the outside of elbows, her face growing scarlet with effort. Sweat began, and she held her position for five breaths. Seven.
Her strength had faded. Stealing enough time to continue her own practice was difficult here.
That is not an excuse, her father’s voice said, softly, in the halls of memory.
Nine breaths. Yala’s slippered feet hit the floor with a thump; she froze and exhaled, listening.
When she was certain, she unfolded, breathing through the momentary dizziness as her humors rebalanced. She flowed into the stretches—the archer’s pose, the hawk in flight, the startled lizard, the lesser and greater wheel poses. Finally, warmed and loosened, she reached for her left thigh, and her yue whispered from its sheath.
A blunt, weighted practice yue was given to a noble girl upon her fifth winter, when the threat of demons carrying off a child was greatly reduced and her name added to the clan register. Yala was fairly certain she could find something similar in the Great Market. It was the question of finding an actual blade that occupied her most, and she moved through her practice at half-speed, stances blurring into each other instead of crisp and distinct.
Now, of course, so much more made sense. The particular way of holding the wrist, the twist at the end of certain movements to free the blade from the suction of muscle, the bracing of certain small jabs with the other hand… all intended to prick an attacker like a festival bladder and let his blood out into open air.
Two assassins already. More would certainly come. The Zhaon apparently loved to kill in darkness instead of honorably. It mattered little who sent them; Yala’s only concern was halting the blades before damage was done.
Should she speak to Mahara’s husband of the blade she herself carried? Or to Lady Kue? Zakkar Kai already knew. Keep it secret, he counseled. And I wish to be an ally.
He had disposed of the corpse, and even cut the man’s fingers off. If he did not know what the shinkesai was, why had he done such a thing? Put that way, the answer was blinding-obvious: He had not known, he had only thought it might be important or personally identifiable, and Yala, by her knowledge, may have made herself suspect.
And yet, he had said nothing. He appeared that rarity, a man who could keep news within his own ears instead of spilling it from the mouth at the slightest provocation.
She flowed into the Dancer’s Pose, and began working through very simple, short movements.
The First Queen’s eldest son was next in the line of succession; perhaps Zakkar Kai would not comment until he could prove the provenance of the assassin. Or maybe his silence was merely meant to confuse. Asking would do no good; it was enough that the man did not spill Yala’s secrets.
Thinking upon that particular matter brought her no closer to a solution to the problem of finding Mahara a yue. A court lady in a smithy would be a spur to gossip, and she could not send Anh. Lady Kue would be bound to report Yala sending a kaburei upon such an errand to the Crown Prince.
And would Zakkar Kai? She should not trust him with such a thing. He was far too trusted already.
“Shuh,” she hissed, and closed her eyes, falling into Mountain Pose. The yue quivered. It was thirsty tonight, and she was distracted.
She imagined the spires of Khir’s Great Keep and its bowl-city seen from the mountainside tombs, smoke rising from chimneys, the palace roof glittering scarlet with red tiles repainted every third summer, and Komori itself lost among other dark roofs and quiet, noble houses. Her father’s face, and his last letter.
The king’s heir visits often. He mentions he has written you. A worried question behind the brushstrokes, Komori Dasho writing in his study while spring’s full spate reached the highlands at last. What was Daoyan’s purpose?
We must find you a husband, Mahara said. Did she think it so easy? What was Yala’s duty—to marry for her clan, or to protect her princess?
If she kept swinging her yue in this state she would mark herself badly. She stilled, listening to the creaks and mutters of a timbered hall at night. Dust tickled her nose; sweat prickled under her loose-belted sleeping-robe.
Slowly, the fretting inside her bones calmed. She imagined Bai crouching next to her, peering over the edge of a rooftop. The shortest road to the goal may not be the quickest, little one.
The answer was laughably simple. Of course she could not commission a blade for Mahara.
But nothing stopped her from obtaining a gift for an ally. Or for Mahara’s husband.
Yala smiled in the darkness. She touched her lips to the yue’s cold flat, her weight shifted, and she began to practice with a tranquil heart.
The yue did not sting her that night, and when she slipped past a sleeping kaburei’s door to seek her own bed, dreams did not trouble her.
SUCH IDEAS
A princess hurried along darkened halls, slippers shush-shushing and hairpin’s beads tucked into a twisted braid so their swaying would not clink and betray her. A veil touched her nose, irritant and comfort all at once, and surely this dark silk was unremarkable enough. She could be any court lady upon her way to an assignation, or even a rich commoner come to seine coin from a palace notable’s pocket.
There was much activity in the palace complex at night. Rule did not rest, reign did not sleep, and intrigue kept its glowing eyes open in every corner of day or night. A sleek fish in dark waters, she avoided the torchlit passages and hurried through a spring night luxurious with blossom and the heavy smell of incense from wayside shrines, sweetening the air and keeping night-riding spirits at bay.
She was not quite late. He was, and First Princess Sabwone spent a short while in an overgrown garden they had often played barbarians within, her brothers hiding from Mrong Banh and tutors’ endless lessons in history, brushwork, poetry, Sabwone hiding from the governesses her mother insisted upon saddling her with.
Gamnae never played here. The little idiot cried if you pushed her, and went running to the First Queen. A creeping, nasty, spiteful little child, just like her mother.
But she was Father’s favorite daughter now, so Sabwone simply smiled. At least she’d make a good marriage first, and rule her own household. She drew into the shadow of a hau43 tree, its unpruned branches fountaining down. A shaded, scented bower, like in the songs of the Moon Maiden.
She watched the garden entrance but still almost missed him, a flicker in the deeper darkness,
his step light and his robe as dark as her own. Sabwone smiled.
Of all her brothers, she liked him best.
He halted, cocking his head, and glided straight for her hiding place. She made no noise, but still, something had given her away.
“Well?” he said, quietly, just outside the hau-bower.
“Won’t you come inside, Fourth Prince? You are expected.” She used the same tone as some of the court ladies—soft, a suggestion of the First Queen’s affected lisp, but not enough to make the words unclear. Mother would be livid, of course; she did not quite say they spoke like the flowers of the Theater District, but it was close.
“Of course not, Sabwone. I have other business, and you should be at rest.” Garan Makar stood just out of whisper-range, clasping his hands behind his back. He’d started doing that when he was twelve, solemn-faced and tall for his age, and it had been funny at first. Now she wondered what he could not keep his hands from that he must hold them so. “What is so important?”
Could he see her pout? Unbecoming, but it was dark. “I wanted to talk.”
“You could have visited.”
He didn’t have to wear a veil at night, or tell his mother where he was going whenever he wished to step outside. He could simply stand and go. Even Jin could move without Mother’s heavy hand upon him, and he was a baby. “Oh, I know I’m supposed to be locked in the Kaeje. Mother is cross with me.”
“Did you pinch Gamnae again?” Makar’s head tilted slightly, his listening look. “Or perhaps put something in Jin’s soup?”
“Don’t be silly, Makar.” Childhood pranks were all very well, but she was a woman now. And to prove it, she was out after dark with a veil, her bedding rolled and rumpled to suggest a sleep-shape if her mother or a servant should glance in. “She just doesn’t like Kurin visiting me.”
His chin lifted a little. “I would not either, were I her.”
