The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  “It is the formal invitation, now that the Shan are gone with Sabwone, for me to move into his household and stop bothering you.” Takshin glanced at Lady Komor, who studied the implements upon the table with a great deal of interest that might even be genuine.

  Etiquette had demanded the Third Prince observe his distance until the Crown Princess’s wedding seclusion had at least run most of its course, and further demanded he be available for the high-ranking among the delegation. Now that Sabwone had left the city in the care of her bridegroom’s guards, perhaps the palace complex would settle, a sleeper turning and dozing after a disturbance.

  It was not likely, but Banh could still hope. And he was willing to wager there was more in Takyeo’s letter—but if Komor Yala was disposed to gossip, she would know only the invitation. “You are never a bother, Third Prince.”

  “Liar.” Takshin accepted his own cup with quite uncharacteristic etiquette. “Since when do you drink eong?”

  “It was a gift.”

  Bright interest bloomed in Takshin’s gaze as he settled in his usual chair. He had waited until Komor Yala chose her own seat, and that was different, too. “From whom?” He had not looked this much at ease since… oh, Banh could not remember.

  “A certain lady.” A very upright one, too, worried over the prospects of an adoptive-daughter’s marriage. Banh had been able to set her mind at ease and it had not taken art to do so, merely common sense. “Do not ask more, for I cannot say.”

  Normally, Takshin would tease him mercilessly until he gave a name. But now, the Third Prince studied Lady Komor over the cluttered table. “And what do you think, little lure?”

  If it was an insult, she bore it with grace; if it was a nickname, it was a strange one. The lady inhaled the fragrance of eong again, soft satisfaction blooming upon her features. “Of what, Third Prince Garan Takshin?” She lilted the honorifics, and Banh realized he was hearing a woman—a court lady—tease Garan Takshin.

  Well. Perhaps the stars were just as shocked by this event as Banh himself.

  Takshin’s smile held no trace of wolfish ill-humor at all. He did not put his boots upon the table, either. “Would it please you to have me in the Jonwa?”

  “It is my lord the Crown Prince’s house.” She lowered her eyelids, apparently considering that the end of the matter, completely unmoved by Takshin’s sudden glare. “Honorable Mrong, is it possible that I might study some of your fine books upon farming? Perhaps I might bring you some tea, too, since you seem a man of fine tastes.”

  “He eats bodong,”51 Takshin muttered, and Mrong Banh had to try very hard not to smile.

  “Lady Komor, you are welcome to borrow any of my humble scrolls or manuscripts at will. I am sure the clutter of my home is painful to a lady of refinement, but you are a most honored guest at any hour you choose to visit.” He inclined the top half of his body, and her slight almost-bow in return was finely graded, conscious of the difference in their station but also quite kind, without any severity.

  “He’s never this nice to me,” Takshin muttered, a little louder.

  “Perhaps because you are less decorative, and more…” Lady Komor raised her eyebrows. “… princely?” It was delivered so sweetly, and with such grace, that Mrong Banh lost the battle with himself, dropping into his own chair and choking back a braying laugh.

  Amazingly, Third Prince Takshin’s mouth twitched, and he shook his head. “Your tongue is sharp, little lure. Tell my brother I shall accept his offer with all haste.”

  Lady Komor studied him for a moment, her head cocked slightly and her hairpin aglitter. “Should you not write him a reply, since he has written to ask?”

  “I prefer to have it carried in your pretty head.” Takshin took a gulp of tea, and Mrong Banh almost winced. It could not have been comfortable, fresh-brewed and still hot as it was, but the Third Prince showed no sign of scorching. “What else would he have of me, this eldest brother of mine?”

  “I was simply to deliver the letter, my lord.”

  “Ah. We’ve grown a little more informal. It will be Takshin before long, as Banh here addresses me.”

  “I am sure the Honorable Mrong Banh is allowed such familiarity with the princes of Zhaon.” She took a decorous sip. “I am a mere lady-in-waiting, and cannot dream of such things.”

  Banh choked, merry tears streaming down his cheeks. Takshin granted him an irritated glance. “You are enjoying this, astrologer?”

  “Not at all,” he spluttered. “Not at all, Taktak.”

  Now it was Lady Komor’s turn to smile without reserve, and a wistful almost-beauty bloomed over her odd face and strange pale eyes. One legend said the Khir used to stare into the sun during the Golden Times, that bountiful age of miracles, to honor their horse-goddess who walked the Land of the Five Winds among the humans she and her fellows had created. The sun had bleached Khir irises and given them a hunger for conquest as all fires craved fuel.

  It could even be true.

  Lady Komor turned the conversation to astrology, asking small questions about the stars that showed she had at least read Cao Hu Shuzien upon the motion of heavenly bodies and Zho Zhaong’s lone treatise on constellations. Takshin settled with his tea and listened, eventually leaning back in his chair and tapping at his knee with strong, scarred fingers. When the cups were dry and Lady Komor had twice refused more, she rose, and both men hurried to their feet.

  She made her good-byes quietly, formally, and took her sunbell and the two-part Treatise upon the Lower Rivers, a fine overview of farming methods during the Third Dynasty. When she had gone Takshin’s expression clouded, and the prince retreated upstairs with his letter—and without a single further word to Mrong Banh.

  Who smiled, shaking his head, and began clearing the table, his hands working independently of his mind, which raced with several very intriguing thoughts. The Lady Komor did not seem so much decorative as clever, restrained, and miraculously capable of moderating Garan Takshin’s black temper.

  Wonders were still alive in the Land of Five Winds.

  GIRL-RING, SINUOUS SNAKE

  Great towering black clouds threatened a return of the afternoon storms, moving over Zhaon-An like a slow eyelid winking. If they had held any concomitant promise of coolness, Yala would have been overjoyed. As it was, she opened her sunbell with a snap in the bruised afternoon light and almost pitied poor Anh, struggling with the oiled cloaks the kaburei insisted they bring along in case of rain. “We must hurry, to return in time for the dressing.”

  “My first formal banquet.” Behind her veil, Mahara might have grimaced. “Inconvenient, but one must.”

  Yala managed a faint smile behind her own. It was too stifling under another layer of cloth, no matter how fine. “You already sound like a lady of Zhaon.”

  Flanked by a quartet of golden-armored guards was not the most discreet way to pierce the Great Market’s bustle and noise, but it was more comfortable than Yala’s other expeditions. With Anh alone, she was buffeted and had to be mindful of her reticule and sleeves; with Third Prince Takshin a certain amount of space was accorded but his fierce glare and scarred countenance caused inevitable comment. With Anh fussing at the guards and directing them at the top of her lungs while she maneuvered the cloaks—Mahara’s deep scarlet, a wedding gift, and Yala’s a drab brown but sturdy and well-made—there was little to do but amuse Mahara and keep a sharp eye upon the eddy and flow of the crowd.

  “That was what Father told me,” Mahara said, somewhat darkly. “You must become a lady of Zhaon.”

  Yala nodded. Her veil, a necessary irritation since she was abroad with her princess’s honor to keep unstained as well as her own, did nothing to blur the cacophony of sellersongs and cries, animals bleating—pets and small livestock, both a sign of abundance since famine would thin their ranks to almost nothing—and fierce bargaining. “We seem to have both succeeded in that.”

  Mahara slowed, eyeing a trio of acrobats in knotted clouts, sweat grea
sing bronzed skin twitching with long straps of muscle. One was a woman, her shallow breasts all but nonexistent, bent into a backward hoop. She clasped her thin ankles, and the other two lifted her to make the character for house, a circle over walls. Horn-callused feet slipped against grit-dusty stone paving, and Yala gasped as one acrobat’s hand slipped…

  … but the girl-ring became a sinuous snake, and Mahara clasped her hands to her chin like a child as the female acrobat, her hair a short-shaven crop like her brothers’, landed lightly upon her own blunt-toed, flexible feet. Yala lifted a hand to her veiled mouth to catch a sound of surprised wonder as well. The three bowed, Mahara gestured, and their third Golden Guard, his sleeve knotted with a scrap of cloth bearing a snow-pard’s print to show which prince he guarded today, tossed a handful of small alloy bits in the general direction of their set-out basket.

  The acrobats descended upon the slivers, picking them from the dust, and knee-bowed even more deeply.

  “Generous,” Yala commented, and nodded to the guard. His flat dark gaze gave no sign of caring, passing over the flow of market traffic in smooth arcs.

  “They made you laugh.” Mahara’s tone was amused, now, and they swept on.

  Yala wondered if accompanying the prince’s foreign wife was a duty the Golden relished. Certainly it was a prestigious one, and now she knew the names of the two guards Anh was fussing over in front of them, if only because the kaburei girl addressed them familiarly. Another court lady would have been welcome to rein Anh and flank Mahara’s other side, but they were all three busy with the last-minute details of tonight’s banquet robes.

  She almost wished they were at the Jonwa in the princess’s quarters, stifling warm but at least shaded and with small feathers to dip in earthen jars of cool water and draw across the arms or the tops of breasts, as well as fans to give an illusion of coolness with moving air. But the metalsmith had sent word the blunted preliminary blade was done, and having Mahara handle it, in the guise of approving a present for her husband, was necessary at this point.

  Besides, the princess was fretful, full of strange aches, seeking new amusement, and her last red time had been scanty indeed. It was difficult to tell if she was a-swell with new life, but Yala hoped.

  “Ai! Crown Princess, ai!” The shout pierced market noise and Yala’s head snapped up, chin held high, shoulders tensing.

  It was Sixth Prince Jin, his topknot in a cheerful yellow leather band and his walking-robes echoing the sunshine. The guards recognized him and drew aside as he bowed deeply to Mahara, accepting Yala’s bow with a smile and a half-incline of his torso. They drew aside into uncertain shade under a striped awning, a restaurant fronting the Market’s bustle suddenly alive with faces peering through grillwork windows as august personages were noticed. “I thought it was you,” he said cheerfully, by way of greeting. “Out shopping for the banquet?”

  “We are to a metalsmith’s, for a princely present,” Yala answered smoothly. “And yourself, Sixth Prince?”

  “I like to watch the sword-dancers. There are some very fine ones upon the northern end, and in the south they work with foreign weapons.”

  “You are quite the warrior.” Mahara did not push her veil aside—she could not—but her warm tone more than made up for it. “My husband says you must only touch a weapon to know all its secrets.”

  The youngest prince swept her another bow to thank her for the compliment. “Ai, if only that were true. Zakkar Kai says it’s only because I practice, having nothing else to occupy me, being the youngest.” He dabbed at his smooth brow with a folded cotton square, yellow as his topknot-cage. “May I accompany you, and escort you to the palace afterward? Or perhaps engage a teahouse room, and pass some time?”

  Mahara’s delight was visible even through the veil. “We must return for the dressing, for tonight’s banquet. But your company is most welcome, should you choose to share it.”

  “Excellent!” He offered Mahara his arm, and Yala trailed them, somewhat relieved at not having to make more conversation in the terrible, oppressive heat.

  Mahara chattered away, her Zhaon remarkably fluid—of course, the Sixth Prince had such an easy manner, and was so cheerful, it was hard not to relax and smile fondly. Yala concentrated upon her feet, and told the lightness in her head to cease. It was only heat, and soon they would return to the Jonwa. If she pleaded a headache, she could perhaps nap before the dressing. The banquet itself was likely to be entirely tedious, despite the prospect of entertainment.

  “Have you heard from the First Princess?” Mahara inquired, solicitously.

  “She writes a letter at every stop.” Prince Jin’s mouth turned down at the corners. Yala suppressed a twinge of ill temper—he could go abroad without a veil, and without being swathed in several layers. “She’s… oh, I don’t know how to say it.”

  Yala thought it quite likely the Sixth Prince knew exactly how to describe his sister, but what good brother could use such terms?

  “It is difficult to leave your home to marry,” Mahara said, diplomatically.

  “Well, yes.” Jin glanced down at Mahara. He had a pleasant face, broad and open, and held his arm solicitously at the angle most likely to support Mahara’s smaller stature. “Was it difficult for you?”

  “Very. But I have Yala. And my husband is kind.” Mahara’s gloved hand lay lightly upon his arm. “What manner of man is King Suon Kiron, do you know?”

  “Well, Takshin says he’s good. But Taktak has his own pins for measuring; that could mean anything.”

  Taktak. A child’s nickname, one the astrologer had used as well. Had the Third Prince ever been a child? It seemed unlikely, and yet he must have.

  Yala almost flinched as a deep, nasty rumble echoed overhead; the market crowd began to scatter. Hot, stinging drops danced in the dust, a brief spatter-prelude. Yala’s sunbell dipped—it was not meant for storms, and its thin taut fabric might well fray under a serious assault. She should have brought her rainbell, instead.

  “Come, it’s not far,” Anh cried, and even the guards hurried, loath to risk a soaking of their gleaming armor. It must be like an oven inside such a burnished casing, Yala thought, and her skirts threatened to tangle her ankles. At least she was not wearing jatajatas, though if mud rose in the unpaved alleys she might well wish for their height.

  At first she thought the crashing noise was another peal from Heaven, spears shivered in celestial battle. But it was the guard behind her, the one who had thrown the bits to the acrobats. He went down hard, metal plates sewn onto leather chiming and his helmet spinning away, its cheekpiece breaking with a small sweet lost sound, and a bright blue feather at his throat was the fletching of an arrow buried in flesh.

  The world halted for a moment, shock greying the edges of Yala’s vision, before the consciousness of danger filled her with crimson-copper fear.

  “Run!” she shrieked in Khir, and a bright fork of lightning flashed over Zhaon-An’s Great Market.

  BAIT, SWEETENED

  He didn’t think it would be like this. The two rearguards were down, arrows blooming upon their corpses, and Jin ducked uselessly as another arrow split the air by his cheek, burying itself in the back of the guard before him. The kaburei girl, shocked into silence, had halted with her arms full of cloak and Heaven alone knew what else, but Lady Komor’s cry forced her into dream-slow motion. The princess, her waist-length veil spotted with raindrops and golden dust, made a queer gulping sound, and Jin thought perhaps she had been hit before the last guard spun aside, putting his shoulder to a splintering door. Lady Komor hit Jin’s back, and that forced him into motion too.

  The biggest surprise was how he seemed to have all the time in the world to think, but no time at all to act. He blundered after the remaining guard’s broad back, yellowish instead of gold in the strange stormlight, and carried the kaburei girl before him.

  Screams and shouts spread in a rippling ring from the sudden advent of death, and more thunder crackle-boomed.
Jin gulped at air gone hard and stale, and Lady Komor shoved her veil aside. “At least two upon the roof,” she snapped, in heavily accented Zhaon. “Princess, my princess, are you injured?”

  “No, I…” Princess Mahara gasped. “No, I think I am quite—”

  The guard threw his helmet into the corner. The clatter was the only warning Jin received, but it was enough for one who had spent countless hours under Zakkar Kai’s tutelage on the drillfield or over padded mats in the practice-room. Jin’s body moved without his conscious direction, his hand flashing down onto the hilt to smash the guard’s sword back into its scabbard. He leaned aside, the guard exhaling sourness into his face, and a moment of confusion filled him—he did not recognize the fellow at all, and it smelled like he had a rotten tooth.

  Then the consciousness of battle took over, and his free hand batted away a strike aimed for his own face, helping the gauntleted fist upon its path. Do not meet force with force if you can help it, Kai had said more than once. Rather, let your enemy expend uselessly, then strike.

  Footwork was half the battle, and the guard’s boots were better than Jin’s softer market-walkers with their thin leather soles. Still, speed was a princely edge and he used it, his hip dropping and the room—a dim, fusty warehouse stacked with goods under sheeting or locked in crates—spinning around them both. The small splintered door leading to the Yaol’s tangle had been left unlocked, and was not shattered.

  Treachery? More than likely, but he had enough to occupy him at the moment without wondering about such prospects.

  The bigger man went down face-first, his commitment to battle carrying him as a river carried small waxed-paper boats. Jin skipped neatly over one leg, stopped, and drove the point of his toe deep into the man’s now exposed nethers where the armored back-skirt, split for riding, flipped up. He caught a patch of deeper resistance, and hoped he’d managed to find the bastard’s twinfruits.

  “Anh. The cloaks.” Lady Komor could give Kai snapping lessons; her tone was brisk and no-nonsense. “Sixth Prince Jin, are you harmed? Are you?”