The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  Unhappily, Mrong Banh caught him as he was unlacing his armor, and the astrologer bore a message.

  The Emperor wished a word with his most disappointing son.

  AN UNWITTING JUG

  The royal baths along the north wall of the palace complex were usually busy with courtiers and court ladies. Much gossip was exchanged in the partitioned rooms, and many an intrigue was accompanied by hot or tepid water—the character for graft, after all, was two ministers in the same tub. The attendants moved through mist in winter and steam in summer, their fingers perpetually wrinkled, and more than one had found a helpful hand among Zhaon’s elite.

  The price for that help was not often immediately visible, but there were no shortage of hands to clasp.

  A bath-girl stood in the curtained doorway, her hands clasped prettily before her, and trembled. Divided skirts and long laced tunic of plain dun cloth showed she was of the most junior of those artists of cleanliness. But the girl’s black braids, wrapped around her head, held a long ironwood pin with a single mellow golden bead, a gift from a patron of high status.

  Mirrorlight glowed through steam, gleamed upon oiled wooden walls sealed against the daily moisture. Second Prince Kurin settled in hot water in a satin-smooth stone tub reserved for royalty, hissing a long, pleased exhale. “Don’t be so shy,” he said, quietly. “Come forward. Anha, is it?” Almost a kaburei’s name, saved by an extra syllable.

  “Yes, Your Highness. Dho Anha.” An oval face, eyebrows fine as thin brushstrokes, a pale but budding mouth. Her hands looked small but capable, but were clasped hard enough to whiten the knuckles. “Your servant.”

  “Anha.” The characters for it could not be noble, but there were at least a plethora of pleasing options. “What a pretty word, for a pretty girl.” He beckoned again, his hurai glinting. “Do come closer.”

  “Do you wish some citrus for your bath, Your Highness?” She was quite alarmingly pale, too. “Perhaps some sweet oil—”

  “When I wish for such things, I will tell you. Come here.”

  She did, unwilling step by unwilling step. Bare feet upon white and dark tiles, toes straight but somewhat overlarge. Altogether she was a nonentity. What did his father see in this particular bath-girl? Or was she simply inoffensive enough to be soothing, a blank face to paint whatever character he wished upon?

  “That’s a good girl.” Kurin relaxed against the back of the stone-carved tub, lazily moving his own princely toes. The nails were a little too long, but that was work for a close-servant, not a bath attendant. “Now, Dho Anha, you are a very good servant, are you not? Especially to my father.”

  Her reply was almost too soft to be audible. “I try to be, Second Prince.” That golden bead upon her hairpin glittered in mirrorlight; steam rose in lazy curls. Outside, summer heat was choking, in here, healthful essences were spread upon water or rubbed into skin, and ministers sat in damp rooms with eunuchs, discussing the races, the theater, the policies, Zhaon itself.

  “I am told he often takes solace in your company.” Kurin examined her again from top to foot, searching for whatever his father found so attractive in this creature.

  “I am merely a bath-girl, Your Highness.” Her trembling intensified. The girl looked ready to faint, and he hadn’t even truly started questioning her yet.

  Irritated, Kurin shook his head, and rested it in a convenient hollow. “Wash my hair.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Of course, what else could she say? Scurrying movement filled the hall outside this private room reserved for royalty, whispers flooding the corners along with oil scraped from limbs with bone implements and spent water.

  If her position was difficult with one royal patron, two would simply make it that more acute. She had quick fingers, and worked at his wet scalp gingerly.

  “Harder,” Kurin said. Soaking was pleasant no matter the weather, and a pour-over of tepid liquid would provide contrast and freshness to the afternoon once he left. “How long have you been attending my father, Anha?”

  “I’ve been at the baths for two winters, Your Highness.” She poured cold water over the long red-black strands, shielding his eyes with one soft, wrinkled palm.

  “That is not what I asked, bath-girl.”

  “I… well, I attend whoever asks for me, or anyone when I am Second or Third Attendant. So, perhaps… I do not know. Your servant does not recall, Your Highness.”

  A cagey little thing. His mother would, no doubt, have already been at belittling the girl if she did not prefer bathing in the privacy of the Kaeje.

  But Kurin had other methods. “You do not recall the first time you were called to attend the Emperor of all Zhaon?” He sounded baffled, and extremely mild.

  “Oh, I do. It was in the first summer, and I was so nervous I dropped a jar of su-zhin clay. I expected a scolding but His Majesty said…”

  “What did His Majesty say?” Was she really just a creeping, cringing mouse? The First Queen called the Second Concubine that, though it took some doing for that woman to cling to life as Gamwone’s opponent, however slight the rivalry.

  What his mother called this little bath-girl did not bear repeating.

  “He was very kind, and said that the damp makes a grip uncertain.” She paused, then rushed onward, as if defending herself from accusation. “Sometimes he calls me to attend his dressing, for my hands are often cool in summer.”

  “An imbalance in your humors.” Kurin’s chin tipped up as she rinsed his hair again. Cold water there, heat all along his body, his bathing-clout floating… it was a fine sensation, to have your head doused. “Perhaps a physician should be consulted.”

  “I will try, Your Highness.” Almost pathetically eager to please, forgetting to be afraid.

  “My father seems to find solace in your company,” Kurin prodded again, gently enough.

  “I do not know, Your Highness Second Prince.”

  Irritation rasped at his nerves. Either she was so skilled at dissimulation she put Makar—and Kurin himself—to shame, or she was simply cloudfur44-stupid. A small fragile ornament, and not even much of one at that. Looking at that pinched, frightened face was enough to destroy a man’s appetite.

  At least she did not pull his hair while wringing it dry. She knew her trade after two winters. “And how did you come to be a bath attendant, Dho Anha?”

  “My aunt was one, Your Highness. When she died, Mother offered me to take her place, and the Head of Baths agreed.”

  Simple enough. “Is it good work? Do you like it?”

  “Yes, very much.” She wrung the ends of his hair, and again did not pull. There was nothing to fault in her attentions, rare enough in any servant.

  So he was disposed to be kind, at least for the moment. Kurin watched the ceiling, water gathering on heavy-resined beams and sucking-plaster that would not rot under the assault of moisture. “Your family, Dho? Yes, Dho. Where do they live?”

  “Beyond the city walls, Your Highness. In Suyon, along the West Road.”

  Ah. Petty traders, then, possibly with an inn. He could find out later. Kurin relaxed as she chafed at his hair with a drycloth.

  “Shall I comb, Your Highness?” the girl asked, meekly.

  “Yes.” He restrained yet more impatience. Cloudfur-stupid, indeed. Was Father simply amusing himself, or did he actually enjoy conversation with an empty-headed, cringing trader’s daughter? His queens were highly cultured, and even his concubines were of noble blood.

  There were those who liked female terror, thinking it added spice to brothel-games. Courtesans trained in imitation of noble girls’ shocked modesty were much in demand. Or perhaps the Emperor only wished for rustic fare, like at the Knee-High or the Last Flower festivals.

  Which reminded him, the Blossom Festival was soon, but he had no intention of attending Sabwone during it. Whispers had reached his ears, very disturbing ones. His beautiful sister, sold like a prize animal. In the end, however beautiful and clawing, Sabwone was helpless against poli
tical necessity.

  For a few moments, Kurin allowed himself to think upon his plans—which ones could be set in motion, which reserved forces could be marshaled. There was simply no way of making an attempt at rescue Sabwone could be grateful for. Not yet.

  If Heaven was kind and the Crown Prince as foolish as he usually was, they would see. It would be quite useful to have Sabwone well-disposed to her brother Kurin, if his suspicions proved correct.

  The bath-girl drew a horn comb through his hair, the tines scraping his scalp just enough to send a pleasurable shiver down his spine. He could decide later how to handle her. Other whispers had reached him concerning his royal father, and this colorless little thing was only one avenue of verifying their truth.

  Still, it would not do to abandon his groundwork halfway. So Kurin half-floated, enjoying his bath, and took care to speak as pleasantly as possible to Dho Anha as she brought citrus and kon-leaf infusion. He would ask for her to attend him again, and soon. After that, he would make much of her, very subtly. The Emperor might not even notice, if Kurin was careful.

  But this little trader’s brat would notice. Much could be drained from an unwitting jug.

  The turn of phrase delighted him, and he smiled, resolving to write it down, as the bath-girl finished combing long black strands and asked, very shyly, if he wished for a temporary topknot to hold it free of his soaking.

  TO PROMOTE FRIENDSHIP

  A white stone gazebo, familiar now, provided welcome shade. Trained vines threaded through waist-high lattices and ran thin juicy fingers up the roof supports, tiny buds swelling where maha flowers would bloom, pale and waxen, as summer deepened. “Lift your wrist, so.” Second Concubine Kanbina stroked sathron strings, producing a liquid rill. “Gently, gently, my dear.”

  “My playing is barely passable,” Yala said, as she had so many times before. Each time, the embarrassment was just as acute. “I despair of it.”

  “The sathron is jealous. It wants all your time.” Kanbina’s hair was loosely braided today, and there were shadows under her liquid eyes. Her starflower-patterned robes were loose, an invalid’s dishevelment. If you do not mind my disarray, I would very much like to see you today, her invitation had read, thin careful brushstrokes full of frailty. “Of course, I used to stay up all night playing, when I was younger. It was a comfort.”

  Yala nodded. No doubt this woman had learned to take comfort where she found it—a very classical lesson indeed. “Sometimes I play for my princess, though not often. She is much better at it. The music does not speak to me.”

  Kanbina’s wan smile lit her thin face like a candle in a darkened room. “Is that what they say in Khir? Here we say the music is its own master.”

  “What a lovely sentiment.” Especially when one thought of the characters that could be used to express it. Perhaps she should write it upon a scroll and make it a gift to the Second Concubine. The idea was as pleasing as this new dress, and her hairpin’s amber bead.

  Kanbina laid her thin hand flat over resonating strings, and breeze-sound replaced instrument-breath. Bright interest showed in her dark gaze, and she pushed a few stray strands of red-black hair away, tucking them behind her ear. “Do you think it untrue?”

  Yala gazed across the garden. Somewhere, a water-clock of babu thunk-clicked, a comforting sound. Kanbina was silent, waiting upon her answer.

  So few people listened instead of filling their heads with whatever they wished to say next. It was one more thing to like about the woman. When the water-clock spoke again, Yala followed suit. “So few can claim to be their own master.”

  “Only the Emperor is free, and we are not?” Kanbina, thoughtful, stretched her fingers one by one, a musician’s habitual movements.

  Yala followed suit. Her hands would ache before long. “Is ruling freedom?”

  Kanbina considered the question, her fingers dropping to the instrument and plucking an endless note from the sathron’s deepest string. The drone became a rhythm, and when it halted, she smiled slightly. Color had returned to her cheeks, now that she was settled and resting. “Long ago, I would have said yes. Now, though, I know better.”

  “A difficult lesson.” Yala’s neck had loosened, and her back likewise. Last night’s practice had done her good. It was also very pleasant among this green and flowing water, the gazebo’s shade a mercy. The afternoon heat was circling, about to settle like a fowl over nesting eggs. “Zho Zhuon the Yellow Sage says true freedom lies in accepting one’s lot.”

  The elder woman’s mouth tightened, and she dropped her gaze to the sathron’s face. “Do you agree?”

  “I have bent before the current all my life.” Yala plucked a series of jagged notes, ugly and clashing.

  Kanbina’s wrist lifted, her fingers drummed, and the discordancies were resolved into harmony, a long phrase of exquisite music. Dragonwings, their bright carapaces flashing, zipped over placid water, and somewhere in the garden’s recesses a bird took flight, clapping wings a startled heartbeat broken in half by the water-clock’s thunk-click. Yala smiled and plucked an extremely simple counterpoint, one almost impossible to fumble. The music dipped, rose, flew—but she was content to keep her part small.

  Easier to avoid a mistake.

  Kanbina’s eyes half-lidded; the music soaked through her and into the sathron, only needing the lightest of touches to set it free. It rose like the immortal whitebirds in Anwei’s great harbor, with their distinctive bowed wings and habit of sleeping upon the waves; it flowed like the Golden River in the fabled land of Qin far past Ch’han’s great girdling deserts; it cried out in anguish sharp as the Moon Maiden’s when she realized her lover was wounded by the poison blade. Sometimes Kanbina’s eyes closed entirely, and Yala had the chance to admire a true artist lost in creation.

  It would not be so bad to be immured in a small gemlike palace, able to spend her time as she wished. Sewing, riding—but Kanbina did not ride. Perhaps she should; it would bring strength to her frame. In the meantime, Yala continued her soft rhythmic accompaniment, taking no chances, letting the other player set the direction.

  Like all restful moments, it was over too soon. There was a well-regulated bustle behind the verandah; another guest had arrived. Kanbina’s music wound to a languid, melancholy finish just as Zakkar Kai, in dark subtle silk embroidered with blue, appeared. He halted in the gloom, looking toward the gazebo, and Yala was suddenly aware of her fingers aching.

  The sathron bit those who touched it casually, or those who did not respect it enough to practice in increments.

  “Kai!” Kanbina rose hurriedly; her step turned as light and quick as a young girl’s.

  He met her halfway on the raised path to the gazebo, clasping her hands. “I heard beautiful music, like Shi Hanh before the Battle of Sonon. Come, back into the shade with you, Mother.”

  “Shuh, now look at you, Head General, ordering me about like one of your soldiers.”

  “A disobedient one, no doubt. Physician Kihon tells me your sleep was troubled.” He cupped her elbow with his palm, steadying her upon the gazebo step. Dragonwings dove and whirled behind him; even though he was robed, he had likely arrived in soldier’s boots, since his house-slippers were those Yala had seen him wear before in these halls.

  “Carrying tales. I shall scold him.” Kanbina clicked her tongue and settled upon her cushion again. Kaburei and servants appeared, bearing a small table and a cushion for the new guest; she directed them with languid movements. “And your sleep, my son?”

  “Untroubled, except by rain.” He quoted the proverb with a smile, and bowed to Yala. “Lady Komor.”

  “General Zakkar.” She kneaded her fingertips. “I fear my sathron practice has suffered.”

  “You should see my hands.” Kanbina spread them. “The calluses sometimes rip free, when I am unable to sleep. I play, and play.”

  “Like Shih Ao’s Milk-White Sister.” Yala stretched her own fingers again. No more playing for her today, if she could avoid
it. “Playing a horse into life, to run with the wind.”

  “Or a white boar, to lead hunters astray.” Zakkar Kai examined the gazebo carefully as a battleground before lowering himself to the offered cushion. Judging by its slightly tattered orange and black stripes, it was perhaps made for him many years ago. “Have you ever hunted boar, Lady Komor?”

  “That would not be seemly. I have ridden to deer, and with hawk. Once or twice to wolf, as part of a kha-iyu.45 Princess Mahara did not often hunt, but my brother did.” Bai hunted only to ride, really—he did not care much for the joy of the kill, but the freedom of a gallop enchanted him much as it did Yala herself.

  “Your brother?” Kanbina indicated the precise spot where she wished the tea-table set. Her close-maid, red-faced except for the white scar along her jawline, hovered at her shoulder, ready to aid her frail lady.

  Yala did not mind so much when there was no malice in the question. “He rides the Great Fields.”

  “May the wind carry him,” Kai said, softly, in Khir.

  She dropped her hands into her lap. Her sathron made a faint breathing noise as the breeze touched its strings. What would Bai think of this man?

  You respected your enemies, of course. To do otherwise was to court disaster. “Eternally to the Sun,” she replied, blinking back a suspicious saltwater fullness.

  “What does she say?” Kanbina asked, somewhat anxiously.

  “Her brother has ascended to the ancestors.” Zakkar Kai accepted a cup from a heavyset kaburei in the Second Concubine’s livery and blew across the top to cool its cargo.

  “Ah.” Kanbina’s worried gaze bent upon Yala next, and there was no reason to make the older woman uncomfortable.

  So Yala smiled encouragingly and settled her borrowed sathron in its case. “What is this tea, may I ask?”