by S. C. Emmett
“Really?” Mahara thought this over. It was strange to not be in a skirt or shift; the undergarments for their kaibok wraps allowed far more freedom of movement. The attic space was stuffy and close, umbrous with dying mirrorlight, but her husband had left to confer with his father, Lady Kue had gone to the baths, maids and court ladies were absent on assorted errands, and they had a short while to practice before dressing for a dinner taken in the cool of the evening, perhaps on the long porch near the water-garden. Bloodflies would be thick; coursers and brown nightbirds would be swooping through to sup upon the ghoulish bloodsuckers though the smoke of taik lanterns would keep the worst unpleasantness away. Besides, it was too hot to eat much. “So. The peasants know the Emperor is unwell.” She had to use the Zhaon word for emperor, since Khir had no equivalent. The king was the Great Rider, tall in the saddle, instead.
“And they blame Shan for it.” Yala’s voice was muffled by the floor. “Or at least, some of them do.”
Peasants blamed anything new or strange for their ill-luck, it was in their nature. “No wonder there is plague, it is so hot here.” Mahara sighed, trying to relax as bonelessly as Yala was able to. “And the Third Prince?”
“He restrained General Zakkar.” Yala’s toes pointed, flexed. She moved her shoulders slightly, too, settling her long flexible spine.
“That is strange.” The scarred, dark man did not seem the type to restrain. “He gives me the shivers.”
“Why is that?” Yala did not move, but her attention sharpened. Mahara could feel it.
“Always so cold, and never with a nice word.” A shudder raced through her, settling in her aching thighs. Her lower back ached too, and her breasts were overly tender. Her red time was late, too. “Why did you give him a kyeogra?”
“He asked.” As if it were the simplest thing in the world. “And he has lain near the Great Fields not just once, though he only told me about the well.”
“Imagine. Throwing a boychild down a well.” Dust and heat tickled her nose. It was all very well to drown useless girl mouths during a famine—sad, of course, but the stories were full of such things. But a boy? A prince, even if adopted? “This Mad Queen sounds truly mad.”
“I gather she was indeed.” Yala sighed once more and straightened, pointing her toes again. “Now to the left, my princess.”
“Did you find a metalsmith?” It was a dilemma—she hated the idea of another yue, but upon the other hand, having something better than a paring knife if another shadow intruded upon her husband’s bedroom was a powerfully comforting prospect.
“A few. I commissioned a blunted copy from one the Third Prince recommended, as a test. We shall see.” Yala reached up with her right hand, bent leftward, and became a hua character. “He did not seem to find my search strange, and thought the proposed gift a fine one.”
Mahara did her best to emulate. Childhood stretching had not been this onerous. “My husband says Third Prince Takshin is trustworthy.”
Her lady-in-waiting exhaled, a long sigh, and her stretch deepened. The sharp curve of her ribs sloping into her waist was a master’s decided brushstroke. “That is good to know.”
Well, it was his brother, of course her husband would think so. Mahara was more interested in Yala’s estimation of the scarred, cold Third Prince. “Do you agree?”
“Perhaps. He reminds me of my Elder Brother.” Yala’s eyes closed, her face become a still, somber mask.
She did not often speak of Bai. Not since Three Rivers, and the news from the south, and Father’s ashen face in the great hall of the Keep, before the giant stone calendar-wheel that filled Mahara’s dreams with uneasiness. My daughter, he had said. You must save us now.
Strange, that after the men’s battles it was a girlchild’s duty to save the whole of Khir. What if she had been thrown in a well?
It was a troubling thought, and one Mahara did not much like. “What do you think of the Su girl?” Yala had been quietly building a retinue for Mahara, and so far her choices were very good. Decorous, perhaps a little quiet, but at least none of them seemed haughty or likely to run about carrying tales to other households.
“I think her clan wishes for her to make a good marriage.” Yala flowed upright again, stretched her left arm overhead, and bent to the right to make another hua. Mahara copied her. “I also think she is very glad not to be at home.”
In that, Mahara suspected, they were akin. “If you could go home, would you?”
“My place is with you, my princess.” Yala’s smile, though strained as she stretched, was a contented curve. Her ankles swelled as she flexed both feet. Around them, shrouded shapes kept sentinel. “Ai, I am stiff. We must ride more often, and not just pleasure-jaunts.”
“But would you go home? If I were to send you?” After all, Lord Komori was fearsome—but not loud. He did not yell and bang upon the table.
The idea seemed to give Yala pause, and her lips skinned back from her teeth briefly as she encountered a knot of tension somewhere. “Have I displeased you, my princess?”
“Of course not.” The very idea was absurd; what would she do without her lady’s steady attentions? “I just…” Mahara sucked in a long breath, her ribs spreading, the insides of her thighs burning, her arm shaking as she held the proper curve. “I wish to know your feelings, that is all. If you could, Yala, would you prefer to?”
“I am not certain.” Yala’s eyes half-lidded. A comforting, honest gaze, focused just past Mahara’s shoulder. “It is too warm here, the food is bland, I dislike this stone warren, and the darkness is full of sharp things and bad dreams. And yet.”
Put that way, only a madwoman would remain. “And yet?”
“The land your husband gave you is good.” Yala’s arm trembled too. So even she found stretching difficult sometimes. “The income will be very good, and Steward Ur Kahn is most diligent.” Lady Kue had indeed recommended a fine steward, not overly round but not painfully thin, with plain but clear handwriting. “And it is yours, as the Zhaon do things. It cannot be taken away.”
That was indeed a consideration. “True.”
“Would you return to Khir, given the chance?” Yala sounded only mildly curious.
Mahara took the chance to sit upright. She had hated practicing at home, but now it was a comfort to have something from childhood within her breath and bone. It was also comforting to think of another yue close at hand, sharp and ready to do service. If she mastered her fear of the sharp tooth, she would truly be a warrior wife. “I like it here,” she said, softly. “Even though it is too hot, and dangerous. The other night…” Could she admit to fear? Would Yala understand? Her voice dropped even further. “I do not wish to return to Khir. Unless my husband should cast me off.”
“Well, if he does, we may retire to your Zhaon land.” Yala straightened, too; her cheeks had flushed with effort. “There is a manor there, it could be made ready. We will worry over crops and taxes, and the steward will argue with laborers. We will hold festivals for the kaburei and name their children.”
Said thus, it did not sound so bad. “I know nothing of farming.”
“Nor do I, but there are treatises. We may learn.” Yala nodded, a single sharp motion putting all worries in their proper baskets. “Now, come, up we get. Do you remember your stances, my princess?”
Mahara almost groaned. But she gathered herself and flowed obediently upright. “I am glad you came with me, and no other.”
“I am glad to be here as well.” Yala pushed her simple braid over her shoulder. “Now, we will begin with Mountain Pose. Your knees, my princess, remember your knees. Good. The hand comes up—see, you remember this. It is easy.”
“Not so easy,” Mahara grumbled, but as long as she had Yala to follow, she did indeed remember it well. “Yala?”
“Hm? No, turn your wrist like so… good. Yes?”
“You are my best friend.”
“And you are my princess.” Yala smiled, almost achieving a wistful beauty t
hough her face was not nearly round enough. She would never be likened to the Moon Maiden or to Fair Ta Chei. “We shall survive here, two small pearls inside our own shell. The sea of Zhaon is large, but we may live very happily in our own tiny corner. Now, lift your hand—no, that movement comes later, running ahead, my princess? There, very good. Follow me.”
She was a much gentler teacher than the mistress tutors of the Great Keep, that was for certain. They could not perform all the movements, for time was short, but Mahara was warmed and loosened when they hurried to slip back into their bathing-robes and steal out of the attic and down a cramped, dusty back staircase while dusk robbed the mirrorlights of their shine. And Yala, her hand warm and certain and sure, was there to lead Mahara without a misstep through the gloom.
LESS DECORATIVE
Mrong Banh peered up from a table littered with scrolls and flat-bound books, alembics, flat metal instruments for measuring star-angles, and all the minutiae of his vocation, scratching luxuriously at his loose topknot. “Who on earth—ah. Kho-ador, is it? Khir lady to the Crown Princess?”
“Komor,” the girl said, flowing into a slight bow he hastened to answer more deeply. “I am Komor Yala, Honorable Mrong Banh.” She mispronounced his name, but then again, even his own countrymen did so at the slightest provocation, and he had butchered hers. Her hairpin, thrust into a nest of sober braids with a gilt dragonwing at its head, glittered. “I apologize for disturbing you; there was no steward below in the entry hall.”
“I have no need of one, I am not a great man. Come, come, sit. Do you care for tea? I have some very fine eong,50 I was just about to put the water on.” It was a lie, but one must be civil even when interrupted in the blue-tiled Old Tower.
“I would not put you to any trouble, Honorable.” She was cat-faced and pale-eyed, this lady, in deep green low-waisted in the Khir fashion but Zhaon-cut at the neck and sleeves. She laid her bright crimson sunbell aside near the door and straightened her sleeves—embroidered with tiny pale jaelo flowers—as she inspected the scroll-racks and bookcases, smiling faintly. It could be an appreciative expression, Mrong Banh decided. She was supposed to be somewhat of a scholar.
“It is no trouble at all. What may a humble astrologer help a lady with today?” It was faintly rude to ask so directly, but he was no lord, and anyway, a noblewoman would not deign to take offense at him any more than at a merchant inquiring when she planned to pay a bill. Such offense was for stewards and servants to deploy.
“I come bearing a message from Crown Prince Garan Takyeo, and am in search of Third Prince Garan Takshin to deliver it unto.” Her smile widened as she approached the bookcases, and perhaps her eyes were sparkling. “I was not told you stored treasure in this tower, though, so I may seek to charm you so I may return to admire afresh.”
What a pretty turn of phrase, though wasted upon one of his rank. “Treasure?” He spread his arms, his brown sleeves flapping slightly. “Only dusty scrolls and unscholarly flatbooks full of strange things. Nothing to tempt a lady.” She would not find certain of the, er, racier texts; those were well hidden where prying young princes could not get at them without approval. Except Jin—the boy had a longtail’s cunning, and had dropped a certain treatise in a fountain just last week.
“So, you are of the opinion that a woman should not read?” Her hairpin darkened as she moved out of a bar of mirrorlight. “Some among my countrymen are, though my father was not.”
Oh, dear. Mrong Banh shook his head, clicking his tongue dolefully. At least she looked amused. “Oh, no, Lady Komor. Merely that my poor library may hold nothing of interest for someone so gently born. It is, however, entirely at your service, and so am I. Takshin is upstairs searching for something or another, I shall put the water on and fetch him.” He brushed his hands against his robe-front, realizing too late he had ink upon his fingers.
“I would not like to disturb your work,” she began, but Banh clicked his tongue again.
“None of that, my lady. I should warn you, though, the Third Prince is in a fine temper today.”
Her smile widened still further and crinkled the corners of her strange eyes. Her Zhaon was remarkably good, though almost painfully formal. “Is he not in a fine temper every day?”
“Ah, you have some experience of his company, then.” Curiosity warred with manners—she was an unknown quantity, but on the other hand, where would she gossip? To Takyeo? The Crown Prince already knew Takshin’s temper, such as it was. Light, familiar steps on the stairs reached Banh’s ears. “Ai, here he comes. Perhaps he knows we have a visitor.”
“Banh, I can’t find a single shred of—” Takshin, in dark Shan cloth with his topknot caged in leather, pushed the door-hanging aside and caught sight of Lady Komor. “Ah, little lure. Come to taunt the wolf in his den?”
“I came to deliver a letter, Third Prince.” Her equanimity was staggering, in the face of Takshin’s glower. “But now that I have been granted a sight of this library, I shall stay to read as long as I may. There is also an offer of tea; the Honorable Mrong Banh is an excellent host.”
“So he tells me.” Takshin actually smiled, a lopsided grin that made his lip-scar crinkle as well. Banh’s jaw threatened to drop. “What does Takyeo want that cannot wait for me to call at the Jonwa?”
Lady Komor produced a letter from her sleeve, its thick waxen seal bearing the snow-pard of the Crown Prince. “I do not know. I was merely asked to bring this, since he thought you might ignore a lowly messenger.”
“Even the lowliest of his messengers is worthy of respect,” Mrong Banh said, severely, and earned himself a glower from Takshin. At least that was usual.
Takshin skirted the table and bore down upon Lady Komor, but did not snatch the letter with a snarl. Instead, he held out both hands and executed a very proper, very slight bow as she placed it gently in his palms. “My thanks, little lure.”
“It is merely my duty, Third Prince.” The Khir woman did not retreat hastily, though he loomed over her.
Takshin did not move away, either. “Will you stay for tea?”
Mrong Banh’s jaw did not merely threaten to drop; it hung almost to his chest. He stepped outside, onto the small floating-porch holding the charcoal stove, and strained his ears.
“I have been invited to.” Lady Komor’s tone did not change at all. Polite, restrained—but with a thread of mischief, lilting at formal Zhaon.
Takshin was equally mischievous, which was no surprise. The startlement lay only in his matching politeness. “But does that mean you will?”
“Would it disturb you if I did?”
“Not overly.” Who was the man using Takshin’s voice? He sounded very amused.
“Then perhaps I shall.” Laughter ran underneath the lady’s syllables. “The books are very attractive.”
“You are a scholar, Lady Yala.” Was Takshin glowering at her while he slouched through polite conversation? Or was he—it beggared belief—actually being polite?
“Merely a reader, Third Prince.”
“You do yourself too little credit.”
Banh shook his head, examining his ink-stained robe. He was lucky he hadn’t rubbed at his face; he would be striped like the gounha of Qin in faraway Ch’han were rumored to be.
“It is kind of you to say so.” Did Komor Yala bow, accepting the compliment? He could not see.
The creaking kettle was brought to a boil with little fuss. Mrong Banh almost resented it, both for the slight noise and for the time spent attending its humors. Was Third Prince Garan Takshin actually attempting to make pleasant conversation with a court lady? The stars had given no notice of this amazing occurrence, or perhaps Banh had not looked closely enough.
When he re-entered, carefully carrying a hot, steeping iron pot of eong upon a padded tray, Lady Komor was examining a collection of turquoise-titled flatbooks while Takshin, at the other window, had broken the seal of the Crown Prince’s letter and was reading, his forehead furrowed and his mouth drawin
g down. His new earring—a small gold hoop, not a courtesan’s dangle or a nobleman’s heavy stud—glinted, somehow very fitting against black hair, copper skin, and his dark Shan longshirt buttoned at the side. At least there were three matching cups, small rough-glazed Raema ware. Two of them were even clean, and Mrong Banh poured for the noblewoman and the prince, reserving the cup that held a half-ili of sohju from last night’s late session with the stars for his own use. It would taste terrible with strong, smoky eong, but that was his own fault for not accepting a servant to wash his cups. “Come, the tea is ready.”
The lady turned from the bookcase, her hairpin glimmering. “You have much of interest here, Honorable Mrong Banh.” Mispronouncing his name again, as she approached the table.
Still, he was charmed by her effort. “You are familiar with Su Rhon?” he asked, offering one of the clean cups and its cargo of tea.
She accepted with pretty grace. “Only as referenced in the Hundreds.”
“It is farming itself that interests you, then?” A strange idea, a noblewoman interested in rai growing and pig-breeding. Khir nobles left such things strictly to the lower classes.
“My lady princess was gifted an estate by the Crown Prince.” She inhaled the eong’s fragrance, her strange eyes half-lidding with appreciation. “The steward is most diligent, but it does not hurt to accustom oneself with a matter one has entrusted to a servant’s care.”
Wise of her, and the Crown Princess, to recognize as much. “Quite right. Takshin, come, there is tea.”
“Hrm.” Takshin refolded the letter and tucked it into his sleeve. “Do you know what my saintly eldest brother wants, Banh?”
He clucked his tongue sharply. “I am sure I cannot guess.”
