by S. C. Emmett
“Ah. Yes. Well.” Did his cheeks redden? He could blame it upon the weather, perhaps. The afternoon was young, and a storm was lingering in the distance, perhaps to be driven off by the dry days arriving early. At least, there was room to hope the sky would not dump yet more water upon them. He was no farmer, to know or care if the field had enough rain. “Takshin and I were anxious to find you.”
She raised a charcoal eyebrow, resettling her sleeve. The faint dewing of sweat upon the curve of her neck was a jeweled glitter. “To find me, and not the author of the plot?”
“It was very likely that one would lead to the other, Lady Komor. In any case, had we separated, we would have been less efficient at finding either.” Somehow the “Big Man” the hapless kidnappers had referred to had sensed Takshin’s arrival, or observed a prudent distance from the meeting place and been warned. There was no need to inform her more deeply, though.
A lady should not have to worry over such things. She had enough to worry her, as her next question proved. She leaned forward slightly, pale gaze fixed upon him. “And… you did not tell Prince Takshin of my yue.”
“Of course not.” He schooled himself to stillness, his gaze fixed upon her mouth. If he concentrated there, perhaps he would not stare at her neckline. Too high for a Zhaon dress, and yet lower than a Khir’s, a fascinating slice of pale copper skin just showing the beginning of tender swellings that marked a woman. “That is how you freed yourself from the bindings.”
“Yes.” Her lips were slightly dry; they shaped the word with care. Now she glanced away at the dry-garden, and just as quickly settled her gaze upon Kanbina’s letter, waiting patiently for a reply. “I was waiting for the masked… for the one Prince Takshin struck first to sleep a little more deeply before I attempted my escape.”
“Hm.” They had arrived in time, then. Just barely. “You did not trust that help would arrive?”
“It seemed a very slender chance. In any case, I could not risk staying in their clutches, for obvious reasons.”
“Which were?” He could think of many, but he wished to hear her speak. If he knew where her concerns lay, he could soothe them; knowing how she thought and what she dreaded was the first step in his plan. If he did, indeed, have a plan, and not just a collection of half-formed wishes.
He was treating this as a battlefield, and could not shake the habit.
“Can you not guess?” She touched her cup again, perhaps impatient for her tea to cool. Her sleeve hid the bandage, but knowing it was there, that her blood had been loosed by harsh treatment, brought back the colorless sohju rage.
He throttled it. “Enlighten me.” Speak more, my lady, for I welcome it. Zhe Har, again. The Archer had written much upon women.
Hopefully, he knew what he was about, and his guidance would not lead Kai astray.
“Well.” Yala settled, tucking Kanbina’s folded letter in her sleeve, and all her attention settled upon Kai, rain after a long thirst. “First, I had to move before I grew too weak to fight. And they were to take me to their Big Man, the author of the plot—”
“Or merely the middleman who paid them. He was wise to reserve some portion of the payment until your safe delivery.” Perhaps he should tell her the man had escaped. This attempt had been expensive, though—who would waste another such investment? And why worry her, at all?
Yala made a brief restrained motion of agreement. “Well, yes, if one must plot, one must do so wisely. He could very well have discerned I was not my princess, and I had to act before that was a possibility. And I also did not think the three of them likely to keep any vows respecting their captive’s condition before surrendered.”
“Ah. Yes.” Now he glanced away, embarrassed. “Had they outraged you, Lady Komor—”
Her back stiffened, and all trace of levity or enjoyment left her tone. “I would have cut my own throat with my yue before I allowed such a thing.”
“I see.” He had meant other injury, but she, of course, did not. She was determined, and spoke of opening her own throat as if it were an accepted risk of living.
Were all Khir women like her? Had they had been allowed to take the field, Three Rivers would have been a different battle indeed.
She finally turned away, ostensibly watching the heat-ripples, the dusty succulents glowing green. One or two had flowered, bright spikes of desert color atop swollen buttons and columns starred with spikes. Come winter, they would shrink and become dry sticks, waiting for more clement temperatures. But her attention was focused inward, and whatever she saw, it was not sand or greenery. “That is what the maiden’s blade is for.”
“You did not think rescue would come?” He was repeating himself but could not help it. Imagining how alone, how frightened even such a contained, pragmatic lady must have felt pained him, an oblique pang inside his higher ribs.
“I am not quite sure how you managed to find me.” She examined her lap now, dark blue silk lying decorously heavy against fragile skin.
Now was the time to ease her anxieties, if he could. “Sheer dogged cunning, my lady. And Takshin is a good tracker.”
“Is he.” The mention of the Third Prince did not startle her.
Of course, Takshin lived in the Jonwa now. The Crown Prince was relying upon him to lend protection to Princess Mahara as well, which meant Taktak would pass words with Yala regularly. “One of the best.” The Shan did not hunt with hawks, but read ground-signs of an animal’s passage to find their prey. They also hunted bandits, and a Shan nobleman without a few marks of that nature upon his spear was accounted a sorry figure indeed.
She was not content to let the matter rest. “I suppose a city is a wilderness, but—”
“One day I shall tell you how we found you, but you are already pale. I should cease troubling you with this subject and return you to your princess; you are perhaps not recovered.”
“It was a severe shock,” she agreed. “But we have not yet finished our tea, and besides, I am made of strong silk, General Zakkar.”
Oh, she was indeed. But even the strongest silk could be torn, or marred. Such fine material required care, and he would be the one to provide it. “It’s Kai.”
“And I am Yala,” she said, softly. “It would be ill-mannered of me, also, to refuse you my name.”
“You are gracious, my lady.” He picked up his own cup. Its glow was different from the sun’s heat, and it would cool him wonderfully once he drank enough to raise a sweat. “Yala.”
“Hm?” She tested her tea with a decorous sip. Her shoulders had eased somewhat.
He risked a moment of absolute truthfulness. “You shall not ever be placed in that uncertainty again.”
“I find it unlikely the attempts upon the Crown Prince’s life, or upon my princess, will cease.” She blew across the top of steaming liquid. “Even when the Emperor—long may he battle—is gone, they will not stop.”
“I suppose not. But you are under the protection of a general now, Lady Yala. When you wish to leave the palace, I shall accompany you.” There. His standards had risen; he was committed. Did she have the strategy to see as much?
She might not have, for she studied her teacup with an abstract, worried air. “I could not trouble you so. The Crown Princess already has guards—”
“Do me the honor, Lady Yala, of understanding me.” Kai waited until her startled gaze returned to him. “The Crown Princess is in Takyeo’s capable hands, and he is making arrangements. I am… concerned for you.”
“Ah.”
The silence was very long, and his heart thundered. How much plainer would he have to be? It was useless, of course, if she was already fond of Takshin, but…
“I think my father would like you, General Zakkar Kai.” Her tone was not sharp, but instead, almost wondering. “He admires honorable men. I think his grief at Khir’s defeat would be ameliorated somewhat, knowing you are such.”
There were worse things to be called, and he had heard many of them applied to him. “A
high compliment.”
“One you are more than worthy of.” Another gentle, altogether beautiful smile, lighting her pale eyes and changing her face from sharp-solemn to wistfully pretty. “You have kept my secrets admirably, and I shall strive to be worthy of your friendship.”
Kai’s chest eased. There was time, perhaps. At least he had chosen the ground for this campaign, and had room to maneuver. “Are we indeed friends?”
“I would like to be, if that is not irksome to you.” She paused, weighing her response, and added more. A tinge of ruddiness had crept into her cheeks. “Perhaps you will accompany me, and linger while I write a reply to your mother?”
Hope bloomed sharp, bright, and vicious inside him, a weapon far sharper than any assassin’s. “I wish for nothing else in this world, my lady. Allow me also, then, to accompany you should you need to visit the world outside the palace walls again. I shall make time for such sorties.”
She gathered her skirts, preparing to rise, and he hurried to do so as well. “You think I will not be troubled by importunate kidnappers in your presence?” Again, her eyes sparkled, and her quiet amusement was more precious than silver ingots.
“Of course.” He offered his hand. “And it will save me the trouble of coming to look for you.”
“Ah.” She laid her fingers in his, rising slowly, and the torch of her touch put the sun to shame. “This is to save yourself the labor. I see.”
Kai’s laugh surprised him. “Princes are lazy.”
“Laziness does not suit you.” She let her hands fall to her sides, arranged her skirts and sleeves, and darted him a mischievous glance. “Yes, Prince Kai. I will be honored to have your escort, at times convenient to you.”
“Good.” He restrained the urge to give a curt nod, as if she were a soldier accepting orders. “Now we shall repair inside. Mother is anxious to hear from you, but I am under strict orders not to bring you to her until you are quite recovered.”
“Second Concubine Kanbina is very kind,” she murmured, and waited, her eyebrows raised slightly.
Kai realized what she was waiting for, and offered his arm. She accepted it, sliding her small hand into the crook of his elbow, and another soft scalding went through him.
He set a slow pace, and waited while she bent over fine cloth-paper and brushwork at a study-desk in the receiving-hall. When he had the letter for Kanbina he took his leave. The heat did not bother him, and the palace was beautiful under its carapace of red tile and heavy golden sunshine.
He was late for the Great Council, but Zakkar Kai did not care.
RARE BIRDS
Late at night, with a single earthenware cup of cloudy rai brandy, Lord Komori Dasho gazed into a sullen ember-glowing fire. Two letters lay upon his knee, and he saw the characters they contained in the red of the coals, the black of charring, the edges of white ash.
One was from his daughter. There have been some small incidents, but nothing of concern. Above all, I keep my honor unstained. She had chosen a character with knifelike edges, his clever girl. If only she had been born a son… but that was useless.
He would have lost both his children at once, instead of slowly. The shock would not have killed him, but opening his veins afterward would. He would have made certain of it.
Do not be troubled for me. The court ladies here are kind enough, and I have built a small bulwark against ill-luck. My princess’s husband has given her land, can you imagine, Father? An estate, with rai, mungh, flax, and kaburei. I am reading agricultural treatises the court astrologer has collected, in order to know how the steward is managing. It is so busy I have little time for sathron playing, though there is a royal lady here who is quite the artist and I take lessons when I can.
The minutiae of daily life, yet there were hints of unpleasantness scattered all through. Thank Heaven, the winds, and the gods he had insisted upon yue training; the maiden aunts had intimated once or twice that surely, a modern noblewoman should not bear any marks except inked hawk-kisses upon her flesh.
No, Hai Komori Dasho had answered once, his brow full of thunder, the old ways endure in this clan, and in this house.
They had not broached the subject again. Now he only hoped they had trained her thoroughly enough.
We play kaibok whenever we may, and there is a young prince who wishes to learn the game. He is a clumsy rider, but his spirit is generous. It was the term for a well-meaning bumbler, and the slight fillip at the end of her brushstrokes told him she was amused. Which prince? Was she an exotic figure at their court? Did the Zhaon men gather as he had kept the Khir noble boys from doing? It was a nest of snakes, that palace in the heart of the lazy, importunate South, and she had only her yue and tradition to sustain her.
Thank you for the silk; there was enough for two dresses and a few other items. The longer sleeves of Khir are too warm for the South, but I sew as modestly as possible. Some of the younger court ladies here expose their chests much as Su Ju-ong in the tale of the brazen arrows.
The servants or junior clan members would have been surprised to see the smile lingering upon Dasho’s thin lips.
At the end, she scolded him gently as a daughter should. Your health is important, Father. Remember the liniment upon your ribs, and have Auntie Muon prepare your bed with hot bricks. Remember not to eat pickled sahai during the month of thunder, as it will chill your liver. I shall send you some medicines with my next letter; the apothecaries here have much to recommend them.
Her postscript, in different ink with a much smaller, finer brush, was hurried. I spilled my tea today, and it made a flower upon the tablecloth. A small one, but I was still upset at my own clumsiness. At least I did not burn my hand.
Komori Dasho’s belly was cold, as if he had been stabbed. So. The characters were angular, but that was the nature of the message. Patiently, as she practiced her brushwork, he had told her the secret language of Komori, the way members of the clan hinted at things which could not be written and possibly read by spies or royal censors.
There had been an attempt upon the princess, a serious one, and it had been foiled. Which brought him to the other letter, its brushwork not nearly as flowing or decorative.
Dasho finally moved, massaging his left shoulder carefully. The pain was worse today, and he took a restorative sip of rai brandy once he had finished the ineffectual rubbing.
On the surface, the second letter was from a merchant inquiring after rare birds in the markets of Zhaon for a noble Khir client. A certain bird could not be procured, but a few more weeks should see a change in the weather, and the merchant promised a fine specimen would be brought to Hai Komori, not a feather of its plumage harmed during its travels, every measure taken to deliver it safely and above all, intact.
Slowly, Komori Dasho rose, shuffling to the fireplace. The second letter went into the embers, and he watched as it flared, a brief transitory light. His thumb sought the familiar weight of his signet, warm metal, and found nothing but the cold, dry, rasping underside of his own finger.
Ah, yes. A sign of age, forgetfulness. His signet was in other hands, working its way toward his little light. The head of Komori had retired from public life and the Great Rider did not ask his counsel. Ashani Zlorih was surrounded by others among the Second Families, those grasping at power or privilege a Komori would disdain.
Komori Dasho had made what arrangements he could. The clan would survive in a junior branch; all things, under the heavens, had their time. The last fading flower of Komori would hopefully fall upon a somewhat royal pillow, and take root.
His shoulder ached, ached. He tossed the last of the rai brandy far back and set the fused-glass cup upon the mantel. There was a rustling in the study’s corners—perhaps the ancestors, gathering to scold him for betraying his Great Rider and a lifetime of honor for something so transitory, so worthless as a daughter.
Oh, but her laughter, heard far away in the nursery as he attended to clan business in this very study. Or her footsteps, first
heavy with a child’s heedlessness, then a girl’s more decorous step, and finally a woman’s gliding. His daughter on horseback, playing kaibok with his son and a bastard princeling, and her high hawk-cry of victory when a stick splintered and the ball rocketed past guard-posts into the nowhere-land. And what a rider she was, his little light. Melded to the rhythm, horse and girl one creature, her hairpin fallen free and a long sheaf of black unraveling upon a hot summer wind…
His left hand was a fist. It crumpled the first, more precious letter, and the rustling became a roar, a high-pitched whine.
A spear through his chest, high up on the left, and Hai Komori Dasho, veteran of many battles, finally fell.
How strange, was his last thought. I thought I would see more of summer.
Yala…
A DISAGREEABLE CHORE
The grand high-timbered receiving-hall of the Jonwa was second in size only to the Kaeje’s, the Crown Prince rehearsing the look of rule as well as its practical aspects. Pearlfruit Month had arrived, the Blossom Festival hard approaching, and the traditional balancing of accounts meant three clerks were at the left side of the hall, busily chronicling the lines of soberly dressed artisans or stewards come to make their tribute to their lord. Along the right side, other clients cooled their heels or murmured, and two stewards shuttled between that well-mannered crowd and the dais at the far end, where Crown Prince Takyeo and his new wife sat in state under a satin-carved stone statue of paired snow-pards many armlengths high.
Yala stood behind her princess, the fan in her hands plumed with marsh-wailer feathers, and shifted from foot to foot. They both ached, but if she swayed a little, the discomfort from one made the other seem almost rested. Her thighs were unhappy too; the morning’s kaibok had been a harsh game. Mahara was troubled about something, and hence a little harder to gracefully concede to.
So Yala had not tried, but she had exerted herself a bit too much. A long warm bath tonight was called for. At least her wrists were fully healed now, and the livid marks upon them fading quickly.
