by S. C. Emmett
The crowd-roar settled as the two-wheeled chariots took their ragged starting line, dokuei56 with ivory batons darting back and forth to arrange them in a marginally fairer manner. Last-moment betting flickered fingers and beads upon counting-strings; fans appeared, children piped high, excited questions, dripping earthenware crocks dispensed tepid, foaming sweetwater for thirsty racegoers.
Makar was forced to think that Sensheo honestly had no idea what had occurred, for his little brother fixed him with a narrow glare. “Well, what is it this time? I’ve done nothing, but if you and Mother keep accusing me, I might as well take a few precautions.”
“Oh, do not be a theater-maiden. Mother simply wishes you to be discreet, that is all.”
“She wants me to swallow being fifth in line, and scrape and bow to that upstart general too.” Sensheo did not bother to say it softly. No, he pitched the words to carry over the crowd-noise, and Makar’s reflexive glance to see who was near to hear lit his brother’s gaze with glee. “Even Sabwone could make him cry when he was a brat fresh from whatever midden Father found him rolling in.”
Ah. Was Sensheo still full of hatred for Kai? Such an irrational distaste should have been set aside with childhood toys. “What irks you about being a prince who may not ever have to sit upon the throne, Sensheo? It is generally considered a pleasant life.”
The green and orange starting-flag waved, and betting halted. The crowd bayed, then subsided to watch, tension building in every packed-tight body.
“Until one of your brothers ascends,” Sensheo said, rather gently, “and decides to rid himself of impediments.”
“Takyeo is not like that.” More was the pity. Their eldest brother did not have the ruthlessness, Takshin did not have the restraint, and Zakkar Kai did not have the bloodline. If only the three of them could have been melded, like the old story of Ti Zhu’s baby in the clay jar, parts shaken together and given the breath of life from a benevolent passing god—the result had been the great general Zao Zheon, who paved the way for the first Emperor of the Third Dynasty.
And married said emperor’s daughter, placing himself at the summit of the world. He had died choking upon poison, an object lesson in reaching too high even for those blessed with heavenly pedigree.
“Oh, nobody is, until they have the means.” Sensheo’s own fan made an appearance, flicking at yet another lazy fly. The shade was welcome here, and a good breeze came from the distant river. Unfortunately, that wind carried dust upon its back, and fine particles would seep into every crack, be it in stone, wood, fabric, or flesh. The rasping was enough to drive even the most reasonable and restrained of men into an ill temper. “And how long do you think our dear Eldest Brother will last, Makar? Honestly. You are supposed to be the clever one.”
“My concern is that you do not do something foolish and smirch our family.” It sounded stiff and prim, but Makar was tired of his brother’s antics. He would much prefer spending today in the Paper Alley, that long street of booksellers and lantern-makers, taking tea at the Brokentail Swallow among the chess-players and scholars. “I am your elder brother, and you are in my affections. Please, simply wait patiently for what may come.”
“Mother always knows how to spoil my fun.” Sensheo leaned back against his pillows, a languid hand summoning a sweating kaburei from the sun outside the awning to pour fresh tea. “Now be quiet, the race is afoot.”
Makar snapped his fan shut and rose, smoothing his dark scholar’s robe. “Enjoy it, little brother.”
“You won’t stay?”
The crowd began to mutter, then yell as the first slow circuit of the Oval was performed. Once the horses passed the starting line after that circuit, they would gallop. A strong restraining hand at the beginning turned aside trouble later.
It was a pity Sensheo could not see as much. Makar readied himself to take his leave. “There is no speaking to you, lately.”
“No,” Sensheo said, his gaze already fixed upon the chariots swinging into the second loop. Whips cracked, and the thunder began in earnest. The striped kaburei was in the lead, and the masked nobleman had locked wheels with the Blue. The archers, focusing on the targets atop pillars of varying heights, were now greased with sweat and powdered with flying dust. “There is not, Elder Brother. Sometimes I am even sorry for it.”
Not sorry enough to halt your stupid, mannerless grasping. But Makar did not say it. There was no point.
The masked nobleman’s archer was quite fine, arrow after arrow thudding home as the driver fought to keep his chariot steady. The Blue’s chariot splintered, horses screaming in fear, rider and archer flung like dolls, pierced by sharp thin spars of lacquered wood. The masked noble pulled ahead, and the two Greens bracketed the striped kaburei, who cracked the whip over his team’s back but did not let it bite their heaving flanks.
That was probably said kaburei’s mistake, Makar thought, and turned away. Wood splintered afresh, and a hoarse yell rose from the stands, splashing down into the bowl.
Sometimes applying the whip more diligently sooner saved one trouble later. But if you had not, if you had chosen more subtle methods and the beast you wished to direct had grown into adult recalcitrance, one could do little but send it to the slaughteryard.
And try again, with another.
CHARACTER AND CLEVERNESS
Second Princess Gamnae was announced, and entered the Jonwa’s smaller receiving-room with a light step and a sunny smile. Bedecked, beribboned, and in sheer pale peach, she looked like a stuffed pad for holding needles. Bracelets chimed upon her plump wrist, and her smile only widened when Mahara greeted her. It was a relief to see her instead of her mother, that much was certain.
“Are you very busy?” Gamnae inquired, once the pleasantries were done. “Mother is fretful and Kurin is gone somewhere; I thought to visit here for some peace.”
“You are more than welcome. We are hard at work sewing.” Mahara indicated bowed heads, servants and noble girls all bent to their tasks. “But I was just thinking a short turn in the shade would be welcome, before the afternoon turns sticky.”
“May I accompany you, then?” A kittenish hopefulness shone from the Second Princess’s features. She seemed to have little guile, and even Yala appeared to like her well enough. “Ah, and there is Lady Komor. May I inquire after her health? I heard she was ill.”
“Certainly. It was merely a passing fever.” Was she after gossip? Mahara beckoned and Yala rose swiftly, pulling her sleeves over her hands properly as she glided to her princess’s side.
“Second Princess Gamnae.” Yala’s bow lacked nothing in grace or decorum, and in her lightly ornamented dark blue, she was quite the foil to Gamnae’s florid furbelows. “You brighten our bower.”
“Very poetic.” Gamnae held out her hands, and after a brief moment, Yala clasped them. The contrast between dark blue and pale peach was piquant, but only for a short while. “I was a bit worried, and brought some small sweet pastries, to tempt your appetite. How are you?”
Mahara thought the girl looked very much like a pastry herself, dressed as she was. But at least she was polite, and a visit was one way to relieve boredom. Besides, she had pricked her fingers again just before Gamnae’s advent, and had been struck with the altogether uncharacteristic desire to throw her work across the room and stamp upon it for good measure, like a boychild with a broken toy.
Yala appeared just the same as ever, though a bit wan. “Much better; I am honored by your concern. Pastries, how thoughtful. You are too kind to a mere lady-in-waiting, Second Princess.”
“Nonsense.” Gamnae squeezed Yala’s hands, but gently, and that mark of high esteem was no doubt remarked by everyone in the receiving-room. “I have a selfish purpose in coming, you shall see. Shall we walk, Crown Princess, Lady Komor?”
Mahara assented with a nod, and kaburei scurried to fetch sunbells. None of the court ladies evinced a desire to come along—it was not quite sticky yet, but it would be, and the Jonwa’s shade was
not to be left lightly.
A short time later, Mahara and her guest ambled down a short colonnade near the Jonwa’s second water-garden, pools rippling and high babu rustling, and Gamnae arrived quickly at her point. “You see, I am very selfish, imposing upon you. I thought I should learn more of Khir. Mother tells me I may be sent there.”
Mahara’s eyebrows rose. She studied a mass of blue and white flowers upon graceful stems, nodding over a slowly running streamlet. “Sent there?”
“The king of Khir has a remaining son, Mother says.” Gamnae’s round, pretty face flushed slightly, and she coughed into her sleeve to denote some embarrassment. Her ear-drops swayed, small rosy stone beads glowing to match her dress. “She says it’s an insult to me but it can’t be helped. Sabwone is gone to be a queen now, and I suppose I must too, if Mother says so. So I wished to ask you about Khir. And to see if the language is difficult to learn.”
“They mean to marry you to Daoyan? But he’s…” Mahara swallowed the words and glanced at Yala, who trailed them at a discreet distance. “I see.”
“What? Is he ugly?” Now Gamnae looked concerned. She had hair enough for the brace of hairpins she wore, but both of them had such ornate heads they appeared to fight over her braids as two myonha over a ripe pearlfruit. “I… well, I suppose if one is a prince it does not matter, but…”
“Prince Daoyan is considered handsome,” Yala said, smoothly, halting beside them. “My brother had the honor of his friendship; he was a frequent visitor to Hai Komori.”
“Your brother? How is he, have you had news from home?” Gamnae’s question was not an unkind one, that much was obvious from the tone. How had the First Queen given birth to such a sweet child? It strained belief.
Yala did not take offense. Her mouth did not even firm slightly. Instead, she glanced away, across a small pond ringed with flat green pads. “He rides the Great Fields.”
“What does that mean?” Gamnae caught herself. “I am sorry, I am very stupid. I remember now, you said that before.”
Who told her she was stupid? Mahara opened her mouth to protest, but Yala won the race. “It is not stupid to ask when you do not know, Second Princess. It is rather a mark of character and cleverness. My Elder Brother fell at the Battle of Three Rivers.”
“That was where Zakkar Kai… I mean, oh. Oh.” Gamnae’s cheeks blanched and her eyes widened. “Forgive me, Lady Yala. I am very rude today.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Second Princess.” Kindly enough, though Yala’s bright gaze was shadowed. Her hands, covered by her long Khir sleeves, might have been clasped a little tightly, but it was not visible. “When a Khir noble says someone rides the Great Fields, it means they have… passed. One does not say more, so as not to call them into returning.”
A hot breeze mouthed all three women. Mahara studied the Second Princess and Yala, and twirled her sunbell’s handle, idly.
“I see.” Gamnae absorbed this. Perhaps she wore so much finery because she feared being ignored or forgotten. And yet, she seemed somewhat shy. “It is different in Zhaon. You must forgive me, Lady Komor, please.”
Mahara let Yala take the conversation, thinking furiously. So, her father-in-law did not think her enough to cement the peace? Or perhaps there was some other consideration. Did they know Daoyan was, well, certainly noble, for his mother Lady Narikh Arasoe was of an old clan by both birth and her marriage into the Narikh. She had been widowed, too, instead of losing her honor while her husband still lived… and yet, the stain of illegitimacy hovered over her son. Do not speak of him or to him, Ashani Zlorih had told his daughter more than once, and she obeyed as always. Now she wondered if she should have.
A strange, altogether terrible idea struck her, and Mahara paused upon the garden path, her sunbell dipping.
She was the surety for peace between Zhaon and Khir, she knew that much. Were there those in her new country, among her husband’s countrymen, who would welcome another war? Khir was weak, since the trade routes had been closed for so long and the flower of the warlike nobles lay dead at Three Rivers. A kidnapping could mean that she was to be taken back to her father like an escaped horse, lather-spattered at the end of a long twisted rope. It would be good to see Khir again. Except she was now a wife, and if she was taken from a husband, even a Zhaon, would she become honorless?
She was not supposed to speak upon politics, but Mahara thought perhaps she should. With Yala, certainly. Or perhaps with her husband, if he would countenance such talk from a woman.
Since she was already thinking about it, there was no harm in continuing while Yala kept Princess Gamnae occupied. Perhaps the kidnapping could mean something not nearly as… well, nice was not the proper word. If she was not to be returned to Khir, what was the other option?
Put that way, even a girl who was not supposed to think upon such things could hardly escape a certain conclusion. Perhaps Mahara was to be returned, but in a state that would leave her father no choice but to call for the nobles to raise banners again, and ride from the Great Keep.
She shuddered, and Yala’s attention focused upon her. “My princess? Are you well?”
“It is very hot,” Gamnae murmured. She looked truly chastened. “We should return, Crown Princess, if it pleases you. The servants will bring us something cool to taste, and more fans.”
“That would be lovely.” Mahara raised her chin. “I am sorry to be such a wilting reed, Second Princess. We are used to the North, Yala and I, and Zhaon’s heat is sometimes oppressive.”
“I was born here, yet I find it the same.” The girl smiled, a wide, uncomplicated expression. How, under Heaven, had that nasty First Queen produced her? Would Mahara’s own children be so different?
That was a question for another time. Mahara offered the Second Princess her arm and they set off, chatting amiably about Khir as Yala paused to allow them precedence. Mahara’s head was abuzz with heat and the prickling, nagging feeling that she was missing something in her careful thoughts about peace, and war, and a princess’s body caught between.
She had no leisure to indulge, either, for when they returned to her receiving-room, another guest had arrived. It was General Zakkar, who bore a letter to Komor Yala from the Second Concubine.
THE HONOR OF UNDERSTANDING
This shaded verandah looked out upon a familiar Jonwa dry-garden, succulents luxuriating in the heat, sand and stone rippling under sunshine. It was less humid than the water-gardens, and Lady Komor poured tea for both of them before breaking the seal upon Kanbina’s letter and scanning the characters within. If it troubled her to be so near to the site of an assassin’s death, she made no sign. Her kaburei maid, settled upon her knees inside the open partition-door to preserve the light fiction of chaperonage, was safely out of earshot if they were not overloud.
“She is somewhat worried for your health,” Kai offered, somewhat awkwardly. He did not know what else Kanbina had written, and Yala’s mouth turned up at the corners. That slight curve settled his liver, but it made his pulse do something strange. He could not decide whether his heart-gallop was too fast or too slow.
“It seems she is.” Yala’s smile broadened. Her ear-drops, small rounded slivers of dark blue glass, would glitter if sunlight reached them. “You are, no doubt, to return to her with a full report upon my condition.”
“Of a certainty.” As a matter of fact, that had been his adoptive-mother’s last command. “I am glad she gave me a reason to visit, for I wished to inquire about your health as well.”
“It seems a day for visits with secondary purposes. I am glad you came, General Zakkar; I wished to speak to you. It seems I am always thanking you.”
That was pleasant, yet Kai wondered what Gamnae’s purpose here was. The First Queen did not send her out to intrigue, perhaps knowing her daughter was less capable than most of such an operation. Still, even the most innocent of puddles could be seined for information.
Kai settled more firmly upon his cushion, glad he was
not in half-armor today. All the same, his robe lacked the weight of leather and metal safety. The new hurai, a heavy satin weight, clasped his finger; he could not tell if it comforted him or not. “I told you I would be useful. And you have not thanked me yet, Lady Komor.”
“Forgive me.” She bowed slightly and refolded the letter with solicitous care. “I have been somewhat indisposed.”
“Yes.” And now he could have scolded himself with a practice-blade, for he had not meant to extract gratitude from her. “It was not my meaning to chide you, merely to remark thanks are unnecessary. And I wish to apologize.”
Her hairpin beads stilled as she did, a watchful feline conserving energy. “For what?” She gazed at him, not upon the garden, and it was pleasant to have her attention.
Even if it did turn his pulse into a lesser battle-gallop, too fast for comfort but too slow for the shock of meeting an enemy. “For arriving so late to your rescue. Unpardonable in a general and even more so in a prince.” If he kept a light tone, it could even be accounted a humorous sally. No matter that he meant it.
“So now you are a prince, as well as a general and a god of war.” She listed them, holding up her slim left hand and counting off like a merchant with kombin. Her sleeve fell back, showing a well-bleached, well-wrapped bandage about her wrist.
He could not hide a smile, though his gut threatened to clench at the reminder. “Do you dislike all three, Lady Komor?”
“I am not given leave to dislike princes, generals I have little experience with, and a god of war seems above any feelings of mine.” Her eyes all but sparkled, and she touched her teacup with a fingertip, gauging the heat. So the lady could enjoy herself, given the chance. “But it would be ill-mannered of me to dislike you, Zakkar Kai. Especially when you carried me from the wild boar’s den with such care.”
