by S. C. Emmett
“No. No indeed.” His ribs heaved. Why was he sweating? It took a few moments for the full realization to douse him, a tepid ducking after a very hot bath. The man on the floor began to curse, breathless. Was he really a guard? Wouldn’t the other three know him, though, since he was of their square? Jin bent to grab the man’s topknot, fingers slipping in sweat and oiled hair, and wrenched his head aside. Get his sword. Once you are armed, everything will be better.
A faint silvery drumming was rain outside. The clouds had burst and would wash market, palace, and field all together. “Listen,” Lady Komor said. “Listen to me. Take my cloak. You and Anh run as if you are afraid; do not take off your veil. Do not stop running until you are at the palace. Raise your arms… there. Yes. Prince Jin? Sixth Prince Jin. They will have others along soon.”
“What will…” Princess Mahara sobbed in a deep, distracted breath. Dust tickled Jin’s nose as he worked at the man’s body. If he could just get the sword—“What will you do? Yala, oh, Yala, no.”
“I shall distract them.” Lady Komor, her thin face pale under its torn veil, shrugged into the oiled crimson cloak. “The only question is how to keep Prince Jin—”
“No,” Jin said, sucked in a breath. Said it louder. “No. I will not be safe when a lady is risking herself. If you are to be bait, Lady Komor, it shall be sweetened.”
She shook her head. “The cloak shall make it sweet enough. Hist, Anh, the door! Where are they?” Lady Komor’s grey eyes glittered feverishly. Her hair had been knocked askew; she thrust her hairpin into Princess Mahara’s braids and took the princess’s own. “Forgive me, my princess.”
Mahara’s hands were soft round fists. “Yala… no…”
Lady Komor pushed at her princess’s shoulders. “Do not take your veil off.”
A scraping clatter above them ran ice through Jin’s veins. “Above us. Of course, for the arrows. And this fellow—” He finally managed to tug the sword free.
“Go!” Yala hissed, pushing the other two women for the door. “Anh, protect my princess. With your life, do you understand?”
“Yes.” The kaburei girl swallowed, her throat moving, her eyes huge, one of her leather-wrapped braids coming loose. “Yes, my lady Komor. With my life.”
“Go.”
Princess Mahara let out a sob. Lady Komor bore down upon Jin, and he almost quailed at the approach. His body reacting to training was one thing, but this was quite another. “Sixth Prince Jin,” she said, quietly, “give me the sword. And follow the princess. They are descending from the roof; they will not see you if you slip out.”
“I cannot,” he began, but she stepped close and laid her hand over his mouth. Her palm was chilly and damp, and those grey eyes blazed.
“Princess Mahara must reach the palace safely,” she whispered, fiercely. “Forgive my impertinence, but they will see us in a few moments. You must reach Crown Prince Takyeo and tell him everything. What happens to me does not matter. Go. Please. I beg of you, go, follow my princess, and deliver her safely.”
Bile crept into Jin’s throat. He glanced at the man upon the floor, and Lady Komor reached for the sword.
“No,” he said, softly, and put the point between two platelets. “I can do this much, at least.” It was not right for a court lady to do this thing when a prince was available. He leaned forward, and there was more resistance than a training-dummy. The man began to thrash, but Jin knew his work, and blood spread in a sticky pool.
Lady Komor plucked at his shoulder. “Away,” she whispered as the clattering overhead resolved into shouts. At least four men, perhaps more. “Please, care for my princess, I beg it of you.”
The storm had broken and rain drummed blindly upon cloaked forms, smudging in the downpour. Whistles blew, but the Market Guard would have a fine time sorting this mess in any time, let alone a reasonable one.
Jin ran, choking on bile.
TO STRIKE A PRINCE
No, no, no,” the kaburei girl whispered, clutching Mahara’s sodden arm. Breathing was torture, but at least they had stopped running. This alley was full of malodorous refuse and only half-paved; the mud was beginning to rise. “We must not be seen, we must not.”
Mahara struggled to think. Yala had sounded so certain. The rain was cold and came in curtains, as if all Heaven’s sluices had opened at once to drown the land of Zhaon like a rai-patch. The veil tried to seal itself to her nose and lips, her soft-shod feet were bruised from running, her sunbell was gone, and Yala, poor Yala… what would they do to her?
“We must not be seen,” Anh repeated. “I know a way, princess, great lady, please.”
“Yes.” Now that she had a moment to catch her breath, she understood. “Yes, a way in without being seen. It would cause talk if we…” Oh, Yala. My brave Yala. The world was roaring too quickly upon its axis, and Mahara’s breath could not catch up. “What will they do to her?”
“Nothing good,” the kaburei said, practically, and pulled Mahara into yet another crooked alley. The middle of the street was a river; temporary stall awnings had collapsed, horses moving nervously as more thunder roll-roiled the tiled roofs. Archers, and a single treacherous guard. If not for Prince Jin, what might have happened?
It was obvious, they wanted Mahara alive. Either that, or… oh, there was no point in trying to decide their motives now. She had to reach the palace and her husband.
Takyeo would do something. He had to. Mahara would cast herself to her knees, if she must, and plead. Yala. What are they doing to you?
A shadow loomed next to her; Mahara’s thin cry of surprise was a bright copper sliver. Anh’s shriek was lost in the thunder, but it was Prince Jin, his topknot draggled and his sodden robes no longer cheerful but the terrible deathly color of a plagued invalid’s face. He slapped aside Anh’s ineffectual windmilling blow, and the kaburei girl went deathly pale to match him.
She had attempted to strike a prince.
“’Tis me!” he called, over the roar of the rain. “’Tis me, come on!”
“We must reach the Jonwa without being seen,” Mahara stuttered, and cursed her recalcitrant tongue as well as the silly Zhaon language. Why couldn’t they just be reasonable and speak solid Khir?
“I know.” Sixth Prince Jin rolled his eyes just as her eldest brother used to, long ago in the bright time before councilors began their worried whispering and Father’s face grew grimmer each day.
Then, her only worry was displeasing Ashani Zlorih, the god of her childhood.
Sixth Prince Jin, wet clear through and with a high hectic flush upon his downy cheeks, made hurrying motions with both hands. “If word gets out… in any case, I know we have to get there quietly. Come on, I know a way.”
Mahara shoved her veil aside. The relief of being able to breathe was deep and instant. “What will they do to her?”
Jin shook his head, as if he could not hear her—or did not wish to answer. He pulled Mahara along, slipping and sliding over pavers awash with rain and a tide of less savory things from the Yaol’s floor, and Anh took Mahara’s other arm. They reeled and slid in mud like drunkards returning home after a festival, and Crown Princess Mahara, future Queen of Zhaon, wept at her own helplessness.
LEAVE IT TO ME
The rain took a deep breath, gathering itself for a damp night. Small comfort to those wishing to sleep, but after the banquet no doubt several would be too deep in sohju’s approximation of slumber to care. The bulk of the Jonwa closed away much of the storm’s fury, but thunder would not be denied. It penetrated stone, wood, bookshelves, and flesh, crouching in bone and breath. The cabinet against the southron wall rattled slightly, everything in its drawers uneasy at the sky’s wrath.
“Quick thinking,” Takshin murmured, his fingers steepled before his face. He had not moved from this seat, his boots propped on Takyeo’s ruthlessly organized desk in defiance of good manners. Even the news had failed to jar him from this lounging insouciance, and Takyeo was too distracted to take him to ta
sk.
Besides, it was best not to let his most difficult brother know he had irritated you, or he would do it again, mercilessly, no matter the emergency they faced. “The kaburei girl will tell whoever asks that Lady Komor returned with a headache, and will not attend the banquet.”
“The guard,” Takshin said, and his eyelids dropped another fraction. “The one who was not shot, Jin.”
Sixth Prince Jin, wet clear through and sadly bedraggled in a soaked yellow robe bearing scallops of deeper sunshine embroidered upon the cuffs, almost hopped from foot to foot with impatience. “I do not know him, Taktak. I saw them in the Yaol and offered to accompany them, then… we must go fetch her, Takyeo. We must. She’s all alone, and when they find out she’s not the princess, they’ll—”
“Shhh.” Takshin lifted a finger to his mouth, staring very hard at a space somewhere to Takyeo’s left, perhaps at the scroll of Hao Fong’s dragon eating the demon of famine. “Let me think.”
“There will be a scandal. Father will be wroth, again.” Takyeo lifted his spread hands, almost wishing he could slam them upon the desk. Such a display was not princely or manly. “We may find some story—Lady Komor taken ill, or—”
“I said to be quiet.” Takshin, very low. He did not move, but his expression had darkened, his scarred lip twitching once. “Let me think, Eldest Brother.”
“What is there to think about?” Jin exploded, shaking water from his hair-ends and robe-hem. “She’s a lady. She kept the princess’s cloak to delay them; she needs rescuing.”
“This is not a novel, Jin.” Takyeo massaged at his temples. His own banquet robes were waiting. His wife, pale and tear-stained, was at the bath with a solicitous Anh, and both women apparently understood very well the need for hiding what had occurred.
“But it’s not right!” Jin’s market-shoes squished as he stamped one foot. It was his perennial cry when Sabwone or Sensheo were tormenting someone and he had failed to halt their games.
“Will both of you stopper your mouths for a single moment so I may think?” Takshin’s tone was ice, but he still did not move. “You are irritating me with your fretting.”
Takyeo rounded upon him. “What are you thinking, Takshin? If you have a solution—”
“Eldest Brother, you are the Emperor’s favorite and I admire you, but if you do not shut up for a few moments I shall be forced to strike you.” Takshin delivered the threat in a monotone; an ugly flush had begun upon his scarred neck, creeping toward jaw and cheekbones.
Takyeo turned away. There were no ears at the door, but all the same, raised voices would not be prudent.
For this was not an assassination attempt. Had it been, arrows from rooftops were efficacious enough and the attackers could have been gone before the screaming crowd trampled each other to paste in confusion. Lady Komor must have realized as much, and perhaps the kaburei had too, who knew? Something would have to be done to ensure the servant’s continuing trustworthiness.
Or her complete, permanent silence. Did Father ever feel this sickened, contemplating such things?
Someone had known of Mahara’s plans made just that morning. I am gone to the market, husband, if you will give leave. It is a surprise.
Well, this certainly was. The Khir women had intended to arrange a fine market-gift for him, Mahara admitted, and looked so pale from her ordeal he had not inquired further.
There is a traitor in my household. First hot, then cold, the waves passed through him.
Only the Great Emperor of Heaven, sitting upon his greenstone throne and listening to the seashell whispers of every human heart, could have known how Takyeo hated this. Was it so much to ask that someone, anyone be trustworthy? That some of them—oh, maybe not Sensheo, but perhaps Kurin—would realize that “Father’s favorite” did not have so many luxuries they took for granted? Other children could fall and skin their knees, but not Garan Takyeo. He had to be better, faster, princely in all ways, and a prince kept a well-ordered household.
Lady Komor was too good to be wasted upon an assassin’s blade, or worse, outraged in some fashion. Honor would demand he avenge such a thing, for she was of his household, a noblewoman, and… yes, his wife’s friend. It was Lady Komor who selected Mahara’s companions, who helped Lady Kue with the daily business of the household, whose steadying presence eased Mahara’s transition into Crown Princess and smoothed over small difficulties in translation whenever they arose. She was the only piece of his wife’s homeland, and poor Mahara should not be robbed of her.
Yet they were all robbed of anything that mattered here in the palace, and the sooner the Crown Princess grew accustomed to the fact, the easier it would be for her. And for Takyeo, though it was unprincely of him to think such things.
“It will cause a scandal,” he murmured, and found he was twisting his hurai. He had dreams where he took the heavy thing off and his feet left the floor, his robes turning thin and transparent along with his skin.
They ended with him awake, gasping and sweating, as they had since childhood.
“No,” Takshin said, and swung his boots from the desk. “It will not, Eldest Brother. Leave it to me.”
“What do you plan to do?” He sounded like a querulous maiden aunt, demanding to be soothed. Takyeo’s hands ached, and his belly was full of sourness.
“Do you really want to ask me that, Ah-Yeo?” The old childish nickname rolled upon his brother’s tongue as Takshin rose, black as a thundercloud in both cloth and expression. “Go to the banquet. Let comment arise about my absence. Oh, and make some sort of excuse for Zakkar Kai.” Takshin’s smile turned wolfish. “I’ll need him.”
“What do I do?” Jin hopped from foot to sodden foot, glassy-eyed and fever-cheeked, a restive horse stamping in anticipation of a task.
“You? Get to the baths without anyone seeing and dress yourself properly. Go to the banquet and amuse the Crown Princess. Keep her from weeping, if she’s prone to such things.” Takshin set off for the door, a long swinging stride. “Your steward has the guard roster, Takyeo?”
“Of course, but—” The relief at someone else attempting to salvage the situation was unprincely as well, especially since Takyeo should be the one with a plan. He should be the one attending to this matter, not delegating it to Takshin. The books on the shelves—annals, treatises, classics—watched in disapproving silence.
“Wait, I want to come with—” Jin reached for Takshin’s sleeve, but the Third Prince stepped aside with a warning look.
Jin’s hand fell back to his side and he gulped, audibly.
“Do as I tell you, and stop worrying. All will be well.” Takshin’s smile intensified, and it was not a pleasant one. “Between us, Kai and I shall set things right.”
“Thank you,” Takyeo began, but Takshin waved it away, his broad back bisected by that cruel wrap-hilted sword.
“Don’t, Eldest Brother. I’ll ask a price for this someday, you know.”
And with that, Third Prince Takshin was gone.
A MATTER FOR HOPE
I need you, Takshin said, bluntly, and Zakkar Kai reached for his dragon-hilted sword.
It was good to know that of a man, and even better when the man asked no questions until they were in one of the long, high-ceilinged Golden barracks, upending a possibly traitorous guard’s basket of personal possessions onto his narrow cot. The barracks were mostly deserted, but their presence would cause some small amount of comment.
Takshin was almost past caring. Na Duanh, the head of the traitor’s shield-square—the five men who trained together, ate together, and took their guard oath at the same time—was pale and uncomfortable, sensing trouble for one of his responsibilities. Shit flowed upriver instead of down in this case; the head of a square was held to account for his underlings as a minister was for his, but without money or influence to cushion the blow.
“His name is Huo Banh; we fought together in the Northern Army, General. He sometimes stays near the Left Market; we all pay for a r
oom there for nights off. So we have a place to take girls, or…” Na Duanh, lean, nervous, and only half in his gleaming armor, bowed when Zakkar Kai glanced at him, a reflexive bobbing like a duck upon troubled water. He had been at a late luncheon with two others of his square; the fourth man was on duty at the fringe of the royal baths and mercifully oblivious. “He stayed there last night, though he shouldn’t have. We had to stuff his bed for roll-call.”
“A square looks after its own.” Zakkar Kai nodded, shortly. He did not judge, that nod said, and his tone—curt but not uncompromising—was no doubt calculated to calm the fellow.
The sergeant looked relieved. “Is he in trouble? He took Mu Dailao’s place at the Jonwa this morning; they were joking about it. Dai’s in love with a girl who works at the baths; that’s why he gets every chance he can to stand there.”
Takshin saw no need to tell the poor fellow one of his square was a traitor. “There was a small altercation in the Yaol.” He finished shaking the basket, and something heavy fell out.
It was a half-ingot, copper, wrapped in a sheet of rai-paper. Careful brushwork upon the inside—a letter, written with the standardized, impersonal brushwork of a public scribe.
“He has a sister,” the head continued, seeing it. “He was always sending scribe’s letters home.”
Takshin read the address. “Huo Liha? His sister?”
“Yes, that’s her name.” The head smoothed his scanty mustache with a nervous fingertip. “A half-ingot. Well, he saves his wages, does Huo Banh.”
Takshin scanned the letter. By the time this reaches you, I will probably be gone. Po will be kind to you, I approve of your marriage. But do not spend this or tell Po, or Mother, or anyone of it. Keep it secret, and think of your brother sometimes.
“What does it say?” Great clear drops of sweat stood out on the square-leader’s forehead. Of course, it boded ill when superiors came to rifle a shield-brother’s belongings.
