The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  The stewards brought petitioners one by one—nobles seeking Takyeo’s favor in some matter or another, merchants in need of a dispensation or license, farmers of the better sort seeking easement or a relief from the corvée, applicants for the Golden Guards seeking a patron’s seal, sober brown-robed scholars seeking patronage as well. A few courtiers in their high, strange hats waited, too, either bearing messages or intent upon some profit or position. There was even a eunuch, sitting straight-backed upon a bench, his beardless, pale face a mask.

  Yala studied the eunuch curiously as he rose, summoned by a harried steward’s perfunctory bow. Mahara glanced back at her, and she hurried to produce a small flask of cold hanryeo tea. The princess took a decorous sip. “This is awful,” she said, softly, dabbing at her mouth with the small cotton cloth Yala slipped from her sleeve.

  “Courage, wife.” Takyeo’s smile was set, and he shifted slightly upon his bench-cushion. His own attendant, a sleepy-eyed Golden, unhelmeted and with a high but scanty topknot, blinked. “Only a few more candle-marks, and we shall be free to go riding.”

  “Will you come with, Yala?” Mahara’s pleased smile was a reward all its own.

  “Alas, I must write letters.” It was not quite an untruth. But Yala’s back was tight, her feet hurt, and her legs still felt the gallop-jolts. Tea and taking off her outer robe in the privacy of her shaded quarters was a much more attractive prospect than galloping in the heat.

  “To your father?” Mahara gestured, and Yala capped the flask. “You write him every week, do you?”

  “Of course. He asked me to.” Even contemplating a bath did very little to relieve her present discomfort.

  “Very filial.” Takyeo’s smile stretched, became natural. He gave her a very approving glance indeed. “He must miss you.”

  “I am not certain of that, Prince Takyeo. He may find the quiet of Hai Komori to his liking.” Still, Yala returned his smile, refolding the cotton square. “Shall I fan you, my princess?”

  “Yes, but not too much, I dislike the prickles.”

  It happened so quickly. The eunuch swayed to a halt at the foot of the dais, and Prince Takyeo’s attention turned to this new petitioner. A slight frown bloomed upon the Crown Prince’s face, the look of a man reaching to remember a name or a place and rising just a few fingerwidths short of the goal. Yala almost bent to retrieve the plumed fan, but her right hand plunged to her side, and warm metal filled her fingers.

  Her body knew before the rest of her, and it was only later she realized the eunuch, though he swayed, had not made the distinctive tiptap noises of a Two-Face’s high-blocked gait upon flagstones. His gaze rested upon Mahara instead of the Crown Prince, and his hands flickered, his own fan snapped shut, a wicked gleam springing from its long guard-edge.

  “For Zhaon!” he yelled, in a voice oddly deep for one of his kind, and lunged up the steps.

  Yala pitched forward, and silk tore. The yue swept up, its arc intercepting the fan-blade; she exhaled smoothly and turned her wrist, the strike jolting all the way down her arm. Her footing was not solid, her heel slipping upon the edge of Mahara’s pooled robe, and her princess’s high piercing shriek was a distraction so she closed it away.

  The eunuch lunged again, seeking to stab past her, but Yala’s hip dropped and the yue made a small circle called threading-the-needle, stinging his wrist. She was in Hawk Pose now, ready to fall upon this threat with claws and sharp beak, her princess safely behind her, rising shouts and screams as the crowd recognized danger in its midst.

  Shimmerdrops of sweat stood upon the false eunuch’s forehead. He jabbed again, and his other hand was full of a sharp gleam as well, a cruel curved blade. Yala’s knees loosened, and she kicked Mahara’s robe free of her heel with a quick dancer’s flick.

  Prince Takyeo cried out too, a wordless warning, but Yala had already seen the second blade. The yue dragged her hand aside and her right hip moved as she bent into a hau character, the curved blade whispering past her waist, its edge dragging through silken sash. It did not touch flesh only because she had bent to extremity, daily stretching returning its investment tenfold.

  Oiled metal hissed free from a sheath behind her, but she could not worry for the Crown Prince. Her only worry was Mahara, who gasped and scrabbled backward, probably searching for a weapon too.

  I really must visit the metalsmith soon, Yala thought, inconsequentially, and the yue slashed diagonally, tapping aside the eunuch’s fan-blade. Cunning, to hide a weapon upon the edge of such a daily item. The yue halted, flashing back to the right to sting the eunuch’s hand holding the curved knife, and the not-eunuch pitched forward, probably intending to rush her. She had the high ground, but if he was heavy enough he might be able to overwhelm—

  Crunch.

  The false eunuch halted, looking down at his chest, where a dripping spearpoint protruded. His dark robe swayed, and Yala saw he was indeed not wearing a eunuch’s proper shoes but instead, sandals of twisted hempen twine.

  How strange. Where had she seen similar ones? Upon the feet of those who had held her in a filthy basement while they fed a fire and spoke of the Big Man. The realization, useless at the moment, fled swiftly.

  The Jonwa’s great receiving-hall was full of golden-armored guards now, commoners fleeing or screaming and white-faced nobles in a tight knot, huddled like eggbirds seeking collective comfort.

  A blood-bubble burst upon the eunuch’s lips. Yala watched as he slumped, spilling to the side, and met the gaze of the pockmarked guard in glittering gold holding the spear. Dark, and flat, as if killing a man were simply a disagreeable chore, best done quickly. Behind him, other guards converged, shouting, and the chaos reached a fresh pitch.

  Yala did not lower her blade. Instead, she watched the hall, and behind her, Mahara said her name over and over, a song of relief.

  Komor Yala did not even mind when the guards surrounded her, the pockmarked one shouting something in Zhaon she again did not recognize until later, and she was borne away.

  She has a blade! She has a blade within the Palace!

  FOLLOW YOUR EXAMPLE

  Out of my way!” Takyeo shoved at the carved double doors, much harder than necessary. They flew wide, shivering against the walls on either side, and he strode into his father’s vermilion-columned hall, his topknot slightly askew and his eyes blazing. “Father!”

  The Emperor, in state upon his throne for his own Pearlfruit Month reckoning, glanced up, his eyebrows meeting. “Ah, the Crown Prince.”

  The lately arrived Binei Jinwon, Lord Yulehi, stared in unfeigned astonishment as Takyeo cut through knots of courtiers. Zan Fein, in his cloud of umu-blossom scent, frowned slightly, and Zakkar Kai, having just arrived from cavalry drill for afternoon Council through the smaller southron door, halted in amazement.

  “Why?” Takyeo came to a halt at the foot of the throne-dais, his green-and-gold court robe swaying. He should have been in his own hall balancing accounts and dispensing patronage. Today was the day for such efforts. “By Heaven, why?”

  “What—” Lord Yulehi began, but the Emperor lifted a hand.

  “My son,” he began, with deceptive calmness. “I am relieved to see you well.”

  “Do not hide behind etiquette, Father.” Takyeo drew himself up and glared at the man who had made him. “Why have you not released Lady Komor?”

  Kai’s feet turned to leaden tree roots. What is he…

  “The Khir girl?” The Emperor affected astonishment. “She had an unsanctioned blade, my son. In the Palace, in the Jonwa itself.”

  “She saved my wife’s life.” Takyeo’s hands were fists.

  Kai had often thought that someday, the Crown Prince’s patience would come to an end. He had even, once or twice, thought such an event would be welcome. Now, though, it did not seem amusing, wise, or even particularly effective. This was a mistake, and he could not catch Takyeo’s gaze to tell him as much.

  “And she had a hidden weapon upon her person in t
he presence of a prince.” Lord Yulehi’s oiled, aristocratic tones rose, dulcet and stinging. “Perhaps more than once. Such things cannot be overlooked.” Binei Jinwon smoothed his chin with one hand. The First Queen’s uncle, recently arrived to take Hanweo Hailung Jedao’s spot as prime councilor for the last half of the year, did not bother to hide his pleasure.

  Of course. Takyeo was making a scene, and Kai could tell Tamuron was irritable today. It was a recipe for disaster. Had Yala somehow shown that stinging, deadly blade? She did not seem the type to drop it from a sheath while bowing; it could only mean there had been another attempt.

  And he had been absent, and useless, during it.

  “I did not ask your opinion, Lord Yulehi.” Takyeo gazed steadily at the Emperor. “I was speaking to my father. Kindly keep your peace.”

  Oh, Takyeo. That’s a bad move. Kai’s mouth was salt-dry. Surely it was not Yala under suspicion of… and yet, she had that blade, and the will to use it. If a blade left the sheath in Mahara’s presence, her lady-in-waiting would not think twice before moving to meet it.

  “A prince does not punish a messenger for bad tidings, Takyeo.” The Emperor lifted one royal hand, the silver upon his right hurai winking. He had been mostly silent during the arguments in morning council, and danger lurked in the set of his shoulders. “The Khir girl will be whipped for two hands instead of to death, for she is noble. Who can tell she was not part of the plot?”

  Of course. At least one and possibly two of the recent assassins had been from the North, and the attempt upon Mahara would fuel Tamuron’s suspicion.

  “She was defending the Crown Princess,” Takyeo insisted. “I was there, Father, and you were not; I saw what happened. It was an arm’s length from me.”

  A suppressed gasp slithered through the Court.

  Tamuron’s cheeks turned the color of good-luck bricks. “Do you think me unaware of what happens in my own palace, my son?”

  “I think it beneath you to order a noblewoman whipped for defending your daughter-in-law,” Takyeo parried. Had he lost all his discretion at once? It was akin to seeing a patient beast that had given many years of service suddenly break a fence and lunge for freedom.

  “The law is the law.” Now Tamuron was well and truly irritated, and Kai knew that stubborn set to the older man’s jaw. The Emperor could magnanimously blame his guards or allow Takyeo a shred of mercy for a single lady-in-waiting, certainly, but his current temper, ever more uncertain as illness frayed its bonds, might not grant such grace.

  He racked his brains for something to say, anything. Yala, whipped?

  I would open my own throat first.

  Kai could very well say he had given her the blade, but then Tamuron would ask how she had learned to use it in such a short while, and—

  “Do you wish the assassin had succeeded in killing my wife, then? Do you, Father? Was this your doing?” Takyeo all but shook with rage. His cheeks were the same color as his father’s, and they looked much alike in this moment.

  The silence that fell upon the crimson-columned hall was even more marked than gasps of astonishment. The only person who was even remotely enjoying himself here was Binei Jinwon, and Kai could almost hear the First Queen laughing with glee over this affair. Any division between the Emperor and his eldest son was as food and tea to her.

  “You are not Emperor yet,” Garan Tamuron said, in a slow, even tone. “Remove yourself from our presence until you may act as befits your station.”

  Takyeo studied the older man for a long few moments, then clasped his hands. No—he reached for his left hand with his right, and worked his hurai from his left first finger. He lifted the heavy greenstone ring, glittering upon his palm.

  “Crown Prince…” Zan Fein murmured, and tensed.

  Kai’s jaw felt suspiciously loose. Of all the things he suspected Tamuron’s eldest son capable of, this was one of the last.

  “If you are to be such an Emperor, Father, I shall be proud not to follow your example,” the Crown Prince said, quietly, and turned his hand over. The hurai fell, bouncing upon stone with a small chiming sound, and he turned upon his heel, striding away. Courtiers parted like waves before a prow, eunuch, minister, and noble all bowing with the same air of shock-laced dismay.

  “Takyeo.” The Emperor raised his fist, pounded his royal knee. “Takyeo!”

  The Crown Prince did not turn, halt, or even pause.

  Zakkar Kai exhaled sharply. He strode for the throne, pushing aside two Golden Guards who stood slackjaw-witless. He bent to pick up the hurai, straightened, and glanced at the Emperor.

  “Kai.” Tamuron was scarlet now, bolt-upright, and shaking with rage as he had been only once or twice in Zakkar Kai’s memory. “My faithful general.”

  Did the accent upon his faithfulness mean Tamuron was beyond sense, suspecting even the most loyal? It was a terrible thought.

  “I shall return this to its owner,” Kai said, numbly. Then, because he might as well, he finished Takyeo’s work. “He is in the right, Emperor Garan Tamuron. Your eldest son is absolutely correct.”

  He turned, too, and hurried after the Crown Prince.

  TIME FOR ACTION

  She had not asked for permission to leave the Jonwa, and some part of her quailed at the thought of her husband’s displeasure. And yet here she stood, without even a veil to protect her honor but determined nonetheless. Mahara set her chin. “I am the Crown Princess of Zhaon,” she repeated, “and I will see my lady-in-waiting, now.”

  The full-cheeked Golden Guard in his glittering armor all but sneered. Behind him, a brick archway loomed, exhaling foul mouth-stench. Anh, cringing behind Mahara, clutched at a cotton-wrapped bundle and tried to make herself as small as possible.

  “So sorry.” The guard’s tone suggested he was not sorry at all. “Upon the Emperor’s orders, my lady. None may visit the Khir traitor.”

  Traitor? Mahara’s entire body was cold, a flame so intense it was ice.

  “Besides, no lady wants to be in the dungeons. Bad place for it.” He grinned, wide and mocking. Even this peasant of a Zhaon did not quail before a princess of Khir, and the event turned Mahara into a statue for a moment, trembling with unseemly, highly unfeminine rage.

  “Toh Dunh, is it?” A man’s voice came from the hall behind Mahara; she whirled, her back alive with prickleflesh and her throat suddenly dry. “Yes, I thought I recognized you. How is your wife?”

  “Better, Honorable Mrong Banh.” The guard hurried to bow, as he had not for the Crown Princess. “Much better, since the physician’s visit. She is thankful to you, and—”

  “Good, good.” The court astrologer, his brown robe hurriedly brushed clean and his topknot very tight as if he had just now rewrapped it, bustled to a stop next to Mahara and bowed deeply in her direction. “I am quite sorry I am late, Your Highness. Thank you for waiting for me. You are quite gracious.”

  Waiting for him? She caught the gleam in his shadowed eyes and hurried to nod. If he was offering aid, she would use it gratefully. Yala said he was a scholar, and furthermore, that he was kind. “I know you are very busy, Honorable Mrong.” His name was funny, but she didn’t do too badly pronouncing it. Or so she hoped. “I was simply passing the time with the… honorable… guard, here.”

  “Ah, yes.” The astrologer’s expression did not suggest he knew exactly how that had been faring, but she suspected all the same. “Toh Dunh’s a good man. Well, we’ll be on our way then.”

  “Well…” The guard shifted from foot to foot, rather like Yala during a long sleepy afternoon upon the dais but without her lady’s grace. “The thing is, Honorable, well… orders, you know…”

  “Pfft. Surely you don’t believe the Crown Princess will be carrying tales to her husband, hmmm? Unless it is the tale of a guard who understands the sage’s first duty of compassion.” Mrong Banh swept forward and half-bowed, extending his arm. Mahara hurried to push forward as well, and in short order they were past the guard, who scratched
under his helmet and looked much less terrifying.

  And much less disdainful, too. Anh scurried in their wake, and Mahara let out a soft, tense breath.

  “Regrettable lack of imagination, that blockhead.” Mrong Banh shook his slicked-tight head and indicated a particular passage. “This way, I believe. Were you waiting long? I came as soon as Kai told me what was afoot.”

  Zakkar Kai? Of course, her husband held the general in high regard. He gave Mahara a shiver each time they met, though. The butcher of Three Rivers was not a friend to any Khir, even if his adoptive-mother was the best of the Emperor’s wives. “They arrested Yala.” Her lips were numb, and that circling, icy fury had retreated somewhat. “For having a… well, you must know.”

  “I know. Ease yourself, Crown Princess. We shall unknot this tangle.”

  There was a clanging, and barred doors rose on either side. Some of the cells had to be occupied, but Mahara did not look. She set her gaze straight ahead and followed Mrong Banh’s long strides.

  “I hope you are right,” she muttered darkly.

  These cells were larger, and Mrong Banh finally halted at one whose door was simply an iron grille. Torches smoked, and there was weak mirrorlight from an aperture overhead. And there, huddled in the far corner of the square room, on sour straw that had definitely not been changed for a good while, was a familiar form.

  “Yala!” Mahara rushed to the grille. “Oh, Yala. I am so sorry.”

  Yala raised her head. Her hairpin was askew, and a few blue-black strands had come loose from her braids. For a moment, her eyes glittered, and she looked as if she did not recognize the woman at the cell entrance. Then, sense filtered back into her pale gaze and she unfolded, stiffly.

  Mahara swallowed dryly. “Are you well? They did not… they did not harm you, did they?”

  “No.” Yala rose, approached the bars cautiously. “They were not overkind, but they were not cruel, either. They even accorded me the courtesy of asking if I carried other blades instead of pawing me. Are you well, my princess?”