The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  Still, Huo Banh had been a good brother, and would disappear so no treason attached itself to his family or his poor, about-to-be wedded sister.

  “Kai. Bring the lamp.” Takshin crouched, easy and leonine, near the rag-pile. Water ran from his sleeves and hair, his topknot smashed almost flat. He was now deadly pale, and his eyes held a gleam Kai had not often seen.

  “I found his payment.” Kai carefully extricated the ingots. “He intended to return, then.”

  “He is dead, I care little.” Takshin’s leashed calm was more deadly than any irritation. “Bring the lamp.”

  “Yes, oh impatient one.” Kai’s own half-armor was soaked, and stray hairs pushed loose by the downpour fell into his eyes. He swiped at his forehead, irritated.

  Takshin made a short frustrated sound. “There is a lady waiting upon us, Zakkar Kai, and I have no mind to tarry.”

  Kai knew it very well, indeed. He also knew more haste would not necessarily grant them a quicker finding. “What have you there?”

  “I will not know until you bring the fucking lamp, now will I?” The last few words were uttered in a tone that suggested the Third Prince was losing his hold upon his temper.

  Kai wisely chose not to answer, negotiated the few steps over uneven wooden boards, and lowered the guttering flame.

  A scrap of rai-paper made soft stealthy sounds as Takshin spread it out and studied the markings. The lamp steadied, shedding its ration of light.

  “Ah.” Kai pointed. “The Great Market. There is the Ta Kau Theater. And there, at the edge, where the stone stalls for the metalsmiths… that must be the ambush, marked.”

  “What idiots, to leave a map behind.” Takshin sniffed, but his gaze was avid, devouring all brushstroke details.

  “Pawns, Taktak.” And the thin, very cheap rai-paper would vanish once the damp touched it. “Upon a board too big for them.”

  “And we are chariots.” With greater latitude to move came greater risk, though. “We should play again soon, Kai. It’s been years.”

  “Certainly not.” Kai studied the markings, fixing them in memory. “I am aware that you cheat.”

  Takshin’s grim laugh was unamused, a fox’s sharp bark. “And you do not?”

  “Oh, only so much as necessary. Look.” Hasty brushstrokes like eggbirds scrabbling in a courtyard, careful dots, and another location marked with a shaky character—rest, with its sinuous indication of tangled blankets, at the west end of the Great Market’s uneven triangular protrusion, where the Great Fire of the Third Dynasty had scraped out the heart of the old city. The palace-liver, the seat of Zhaon’s courage, had been left scarred but mostly intact, a tree standing after the scythe passed through fields all around it. “And there, and there.”

  Kai’s damp fingers traced the markings. The third location was at the other edge of the Left Market, where the Spine Road poured from the South Gate and emptied into the Yuin like a river to a swamp—within the very same area that the imperfect trail left in the clothing of the latest assassin, the one Takyeo had slain in his own bedroom, had gone cold. “That is where they will meet their master,” he said.

  “So here is where they were to regroup, or pass the night?” Takshin’s jaw was a piece of iron. “Amused with themselves, no doubt.”

  Or amusing themselves. Kai’s hands ached for his swordhilt, and the rest of him was not far behind. Yala. Simply stay alive, we shall handle the rest. “Let us be on our way, then.”

  “Should we separate?” Takshin obviously did not think much of the idea, but he had to ask. “One to find Lady Yala, the other to find the author of this misery?”

  No. Everything in him rebelled at the thought. Kai shook his head. “An attempt this well planned, with enough time and funds to seduce a Golden? I think it likely there are more blades waiting, and to split our forces would be folly.”

  “There speaks a strategist.” Takshin smiled and refolded the map after a last long glance. He straightened, and the lampflame’s dancing made shadows bend and waver as well. “You think we should find the head of this snake first, I presume?”

  They should. Their duty to the Emperor and to Takyeo demanded it. Zakkar Kai struggled for a brief moment. “I think we should find Lady Yala. If she vanishes outright, there will be much gossip. Then we may cut the head from the snake. Besides, this artist is not likely to view what he has wrought until the appointed time.”

  The Third Prince looked up, studying Zakkar Kai in the uncertain lamplight for a few fractions of a moment too long. Kai’s secret was no doubt blazoned upon his face, and there would be no end of teasing if Takshin caught it.

  If he did, though, Kai would bear any jibe with good grace, for it would mean Yala was by some miracle whole and well—perhaps a little bruised, perhaps insulted, but not outraged.

  And not dead.

  Zakkar Kai was neither priest nor monk able to petition Heaven. His ancestors were silent, for their tablet held only a guess at their names. If there was a miracle of rescue to be wrought here, it rested upon him and Takshin alone.

  “As you like.” Takshin straightened, and that deep, chilling, familiar gleam intensified in his gaze. “Come, let us away to the Great Market, to see what we may find.”

  POOL OF DEEP INK

  Her teeth chattered unless she clenched them, and then her head ached so badly she imagined her yue had been forced through her skull. That was ridiculous, though, because it was in her hand, and she was propped against cold stone, her breath deep and slow despite the shivering that scraped her damp shoulders against the unforgiving wall.

  They were asleep, or close to it. She had crept to the very end of the boxes and peered at them, three men huddled around a dying fire, the archer propped against a mound of rags with his mouth open, showing donjba-blackened teeth as his eyelids fluttered. The thick-legged man, his back to her, stretched out on a pallet that looked none too fresh, but her bones ached at the thought of rest, no matter how filthy and stinking the rough brownish pad might be.

  She longed for a hot bath. Unscented, silky water cradling her, heat tingling fiercely in her numb fingertips.

  The masked man had laid aside his cloth, revealing a round, pockmarked peasant face. He stared into the fire, poking at it idly when embers seemed in danger of dying. She had thought him asleep and gathered herself, but then he opened his eyes, shoveling more dung-pats onto the fire and adding a few sticks of scavenged wood. His eyes were puffy, and their dark irises gleamed.

  Kaburei eyes, shifty and secretive. Not like a Khir noble’s clear, light gaze.

  Had her princess reached safety? Or was Yala still alive because nobody knew where Mahara was? The city would be a roiling hive if the Crown Princess was missing upon a royal banquet night, but Yala was a straw in a bale; who would think to look for her here?

  She mattered little. If only she could be certain her princess was safe.

  The leader’s head nodded. He was on watch, but it had been an exacting day, and his chin dropped to his chest. Yala sought to peel herself from the wall’s support and managed to rise, shakily, her legs protesting. Her market-shoes were wet clear through and faint threads of steam rose from her hands as she worked them to bring the warmth back, opening and closing, stretching her fingers, her eyes rolling and mouth opening a little as Ka-Ha-Nua, that vengeful fairy responsible for keeping the humors flowing in each limb, went about her work with ill grace.

  She kept to the deep shadows, her yue held below her slipping sash, hidden in her torn skirt. The leader was across the fire; its glow would keep her hidden.

  Or so she hoped.

  She studied the three men, blinking furiously as her vision blurred. Her hair was heavy and still rain-wet, twisted low upon her nape and secured with Mahara’s pin, its dangling glitter wrapped away so it would not betray her. She gauged the distance to the stairs, the depths of shadow outside uncertain rubescent glow. Her pupils expanded, and she carefully did not stare at the fire, turning her head slightly to
preserve her night-eyes. The boxes were stacked perhaps to her shoulder, and she swam within a pool of deep ink.

  She could, perhaps, move excruciatingly slowly over straw that might crackle or shift at the slightest provocation, and try to gain the stairs. If they lunged for her, then, they would be sleep-mazed, and the yue could bite them.

  Yala braced herself. Once she reached the top of the stairs—oh, they looked very long, a sharp slope for a weary pair of legs—she would be faced with the problem of a city. An alley, perhaps, filthy and piled with refuse, or—

  A soft, sliding sound struck her straining ears. Yala froze. The shivers made it difficult to think; she glared at the stairs and their promise of freedom, smoke drifting uneasily into a night probably much warmer than this dank hole. The weeping wall at her back was no friend, probably exhaling summerplague into her bones. Would she swell with the boils and cough up blood?

  Worry about that later, Yala. It was enough that she was freed of her bonds and carrying her yue.

  Another soft sound. Yala tilted her head. Was it the structure overhead speaking in its dreams like the thick-legged man, murmuring restlessly? Or something else, a product of her fevered imagination?

  No, for it came again, and there was a flicker amid the smoke in the low stone doorway.

  Yala inhaled sharply. The movement paused. Whoever it was wore black, a blot against the shadows, and her heart pounded so hard her hair threatened to shake itself free and go riding the night winds, a sucking ghost ready to strangle children.

  Strange, how the tales told to frighten a small, helpless child returned. Yala’s shoulder hit the wall as the figure slipped down the stairs, booted feet moving with soft assurance, not a sound from leather or fabric, its topknot in a dark, sober cage…

  … and a gleam of gold at its left ear.

  Behind Third Prince Takshin came another shadow, this one slightly taller, his dark-ringed eyes glittering almost as feverishly as Yala’s own.

  She sagged against the wall, her legs gone soft as hot-pounded rai with relief, and Third Prince Takshin took the last few stairs in a rush, gathering speed. His sword gleamed, its blade making a low sweet sound as it clove rising smoke, and the first blow splashed blood in a high rising arc.

  The leader, free of his mask, died with a horrid gurgle.

  Yala let out a soft, sipping breath. It all seemed very far away, shadow-figures moving upon a painted screen. The thick-legged man surged upright; Zakkar Kai cuffed him back onto his thin pallet. Takshin kicked the fire and coals sprayed over the archer, who had reached for his bow with the speed of a man accustomed to rough awakenings.

  He did not have the chance to draw, for a solid silver semicircle cut seasoned, recurved wood and resin with a slight brittle sound of a bone snapping. The slightly curved Shan blade was quick, and shook the pockmarked leader’s blood free of its shining as it clove hissing air.

  “Don’t kill him,” Zakkar Kai called, the greenstone dragon on his swordhilt snarling atop his back. He kicked the thick-legged man, gauging the force merely to stun instead of truly damage. Yala’s own cry was a wounded bird’s; she slid down the wall and landed with a thump upon her sodden skirts. It was not that she minded the filthy peasant getting a boot to the belly. Rather, the tension of her achingly silent progress snapped, and the release forced a noise through her dry, cracking lips. “Yala, Lady Yala. It’s Zakkar Kai and Prince Takshin, you are safe.”

  Nowhere is safe. She gathered her wits and coughed. Her yue slipped against slick palms, but Prince Takshin had the archer at swordpoint against the opposite wall, his back turned.

  “And stay there, like a good cur.” The Third Prince sounded soft, reflective. “Kai, is that indeed Lady Komor?”

  “It appears to be,” the general said, calmly enough. “Don’t get up, fatherless dog.” That last was directed at the thick-legged man, who curled about his violated belly, whimpering. “Lady Komor, simply stay where you are. All is well.”

  Her throat would not work. She simply sagged there, amid the dirty straw, and shut her eyes.

  In short order the two traitors were trussed and their fire built into a respectable blaze licking broken wooden boxes, fresh smoke billowing for the stairs. Zakkar Kai drew Yala to warmth and light. He examined her face while she blinked back swimming tears. “My princess,” she whispered, and realized she had spoken in Khir. She found the words in Zhaon, with a harsh internal effort. “My princess, General? Tell me my princess is well.”

  He studied her wrists, stripped of the awful bindings. “Takshin? They tied her wrists; she’s bleeding.”

  “Princess Mahara is well, and attending the banquet.” Prince Takshin’s lip curled, a silent snarl, the scar twitching madly. “Did they…?”

  She realized what he was asking when Zakkar Kai’s face changed. Yala shook her head.

  “They did not… outrage me.” Her mouth was dry as a just-fired bowl. “They thought I was Mahara. They were waiting to take me to another man. The Big Man, they called him.” There was more to tell, but her head ached so dreadfully.

  “A well-thrown lure.” Prince Takshin settled his sheathed sword upon his back. The dragon-hilt over Zakkar Kai’s shoulder watched them all, its cheeks bunched with a snarl very much like the Third Prince’s. “How badly is she hurt?”

  “My wrists…” Yala peered at them. She hadn’t even noticed the cord wearing through her skin. No wonder her yue had been slippery. “I do not know.”

  Zakkar Kai moved each of her fingers in turn, his calluses rasping against her dirty, blood-slick skin. She flinched once or twice, more from a strange man’s proximity than the pain of numbed appendages regaining vital fluid. Her yue was a reassuring weight against her right thigh again, and he had not remarked upon it. Perhaps he had not even noticed. “You shall play the sathron again, Lady Yala. Never fear.”

  I doubt my playing will be improved, however. It was a sane thought, an amusing one, and it bolstered her. “Yes, but shall I dance? They tied my ankles too.”

  “Are you—” He bent as if to look, his hand twitching at her skirt, but Yala backed away, two quick stumbling steps. Her hip hit a wooden crate, and she swayed. “Easy, my lady. All is well.”

  “I think I should return to the Jonwa.” She sounded very young, as if she had been embarrassed at a feast or a gathering and wished to flee. “My princess…” They said she was well. Attending the banquet. Relief filled her much as her humors filled her tingling fingers, and her head grew light. Zakkar Kai caught her arm as she swayed again, his hand warm and oddly gentle.

  “Take her back, General.” Prince Takshin glanced at her, and his scarred cheek twitched once, twice. Or perhaps it was the leaping firelight. “She will not wish to see this.”

  The general braced her, an efficient, impersonal movement. “Perhaps we should bring one of these curs to the palace. Zan Fein will—”

  “No, Kai. You’ve done your work, run along.” Prince Takshin turned back to the archer, who lay on his side, gagged with a piece of cord. “Put the lady to bed, she is out well past the gong.”

  “I am not a child.” Yala’s voice was a husk. She had no wish to stay and see what transpired, but must he sound so… chiding, almost? As if she had meant to be carried away by a pair of filthy miscreants.

  “You are not, Lady Komor. We are simply relieved at finding you unharmed.” Zakkar Kai did not seem to take offense. “Takshin, are you certain you do not wish—”

  “I know exactly what I wish,” the Third Prince said coldly. “Take the little lure home and put her back in the cabinet, my friend; leave this to me. I will have answers, I care little how I extract them, and I would not have my lady see this.”

  With the matter put in such a fashion, Yala did not wish to remain. “Yes,” she murmured. “Take me from here, Zakkar Kai.”

  “As you like, Taktak.” The general’s grasp softened further. He offered his arm, and she experimented with a few unsteady steps, clinging to him. Relief fille
d her head like stolen sips of sohju, and she swayed. “Slowly, slowly.”

  “Carry her up the stairs, grandson.” It was a phrase from an old drinking song common in both lands, and Takshin’s hand dropped to his belt. He drew free a Shan knife, curved like the crescent moon. A flawed ruby glittered in its hilt. “I shall visit you in a short while, Lady Yala.” Faintly informal, his inflection was nevertheless sharp as her own yue. “Try not to be taken captive again in the meantime.”

  Irritation cleared her head and strengthened her knees. “I shall do my best, Third Prince.”

  “Come along.” Zakkar Kai drew her up the stairs and out through a pall of smoke into a rain-freshened, steaming night.

  BE BRIEF

  The storm had sunk into dripping steam-heat, the Jonwa’s heavy quiet enfolded both Crown Prince and Princess, Takyeo waved servants aside as they traversed the halls. He suspected Mahara’s composure would not hold much longer, and when they gained his chambers he shut the door almost in the attendants’ faces.

  He slid his shoulders free of heavy, stiff-embroidered banquet-robe and sighed. His wife, her plump soft hands shaking, drew thick material away with admirable efficiency. The small shield covering her left smallest finger clicked against a button of gold-edged horn.

  “You did well,” Takyeo repeated, louder since there were no banqueters or servants to hear. “The servants may attend to me in a few moments, Mahara. I merely wished to give you a few moments to gather yourself.”

  “It is my honor.” She set her chin, her large, pale eyes glimmering in lamplight. She had not broken, nor had she wept, but those eyes brimmed with salt water. “It is a beautiful robe, too. Do you think they will find her?”

  “Takshin is… effective.” And thank the gods Zakkar Kai had gone with him; the general was a moderating influence. Taktak might strike before wringing information from a traitor, but Kai was possessed of cooler humors. “If there is a sliver of hope, they will work a miracle.”