The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  How could she inquire of Mahara’s health at a time like this? “Oh, Yala. It’s all such a mess. Husband went to the Emperor and returned angry, the Jonwa is full of comings and goings, there is much gossip, and they are saying such horrible things.”

  “Of course.” Yala peered past her. “It is Anh. Oh, and Mrong Banh. How pleasant to see you, Honorable.”

  “My lady.” Banh’s bow was just as deep as to Mahara, and that mark of respect suddenly raised him several ili in Mahara’s water-clock. “You must be very brave, now.”

  “Why?” Yala indicated her surroundings with a single, graceful motion. “I am in the safest part of the palace. We should move everyone threatened by assassins here.” A small smile lingered upon Yala’s lips, but she was so pale. She hid her hands within her sleeves, too. Her shoulders trembled slightly, matching the quiver in Mahara’s own.

  “They say the Emperor intends to have you whipped,” Anh whispered. “Oh, lady, my lady.”

  “I shall not suffer such a thing.” Yala’s chin lifted slightly. “But I do not have my yue. They took it, my princess. I am sorry.”

  “What under Heaven do you have to be sorry for?” Mahara slipped her hands into her sleeves, too, copying Yala’s posture. It was unbecoming to show the shaking in her limbs. “You saved my life, again. The Emperor will not do this. Husband will not allow it.”

  Mrong Banh sounded doleful, and scratched at his hair, pulling his topknot a little off-center. “I’m not sure the Crown Prince has a choice, Your Highness. But we will find some way through the woods, I am certain.”

  “The Crown Prince will not let anything so awful happen.” Mahara nodded firmly. “Listen, Anh brought some bedding, and food. I do not know what they will feed you.”

  “Gruel and water, as if in a novel.” Yala set her chin, and looked steadily past Mahara. “Honorable Mrong, please tell me, what may I expect?”

  Of course she would wish to know. Mahara should have taken steps to find out, but she had been consumed with the need to see her friend. Yala would have thought of it, had Mahara been the one imprisoned. Her nails dug into her palms, the sheath over the smallest on the left biting cruelly.

  The discomfort was a tonic. It steadied her, but only for a short while.

  “Much depends upon whether the Emperor can be conciliated.” Mrong Banh’s fuzzy eyebrows were well and truly knotted. “If not, they will fetch you during an afternoon, and—well.”

  Yala nodded. “You do not think conciliation likely.”

  “There are suspicions… the current attempt upon the Crown Princess, you understand. More to the point, the Crown Prince embarrassed him in front of the entire court. And the First Queen’s uncle is firmly convinced you were part of the plot, or so he says. The guard who dispatched the assassin and called for your arrest has disappeared for a leave-day; when he is found, he will be questioned.” Banh’s mouth pulled down bitterly at the corners.

  “You mean tortured,” Yala murmured.

  Mahara gaped. “But why? He saved me, too.”

  “It is not just that the First Queen wishes to inconvenience my princess, is it.” Yala, thoughtful, accepted the bundle from Anh, whose cheeks gleamed suspiciously in the dimness.

  “I cannot quite tell. But she will certainly do all she can to smirch the Crown Prince, and spread discord.” Banh rubbed at his chin and clicked his tongue. “You are very calm, Lady Komor.”

  “What use would weeping do? Or screaming?” She was so pale, and her eyes glittered so feverishly. Her belt was slipping, too, and that was so unlike her calm, demure lady-in-waiting. “I am told the walls of any worthwhile dungeon are thick, and much happens in such places unseen by the sun or any living eyes.”

  “Tonh Duruoh.” Mrong Banh shook his head. “The Book of Seven Changes.”

  “Applicable, don’t you think?” Yala raised an eyebrow, but her sleeves trembled faintly.

  Mahara sighed. “This is not the time for books, Yala, but for action.”

  “Certainly. I shall do all I can.” Yala smiled, and set the bundle down. Then, carefully folding her sleeves away, she reached through the grillwork, two very small hands that had saved her princess’s life.

  Mahara clasped them. Strength flowed between them, a steady, quiet flame. “You are wonderful,” she said, softly. “You must take care, and not catch an ill vapor here. I will straighten this tangle, and you will be home again before long.”

  “Home,” Yala replied, just as softly. “It is a beautiful word.” She leaned forward, and Mahara did as well. Their foreheads touched, and the princess breathed in jaelo, a hint of acrid sweat, and the familiar light-green, tealike tang of her friend. “You must take care while I am trapped here, my princess.”

  “I shall.” She would take much care, and a novel idea occurred to her. She could even ask Third Prince Takshin to take her into the Yaol, to the metalsmith Yala had commissioned. He was frightening and rude, but nobody would dare jostle her in his company.

  “Return directly to the Jonwa and stay with your husband, my princess.” Yala straightened. “Honorable Mrong Banh, may I trouble you to carry a message for me?”

  “Of course, my lady.” He bowed again, just as deeply as he had the first time.

  “Please ask Third Prince Takshin to take especial care of my princess, until I may return.”

  Mahara could not suppress a shudder. “He is fearsome indeed.” Still, this sealed her intent. She would be as brave as her friend, and go directly to him. I require your aid, she would say. It is for my Yala. She squeezed Yala’s hands, gently, her fingernail-sheath pricking just a little. “You are kind to think of me in your troubles.”

  “This is not trouble.” Yala smiled, wearily. “Merely inconvenience. One way or another, I shall return to your side.”

  “Good.” Mahara did not want to let go, but she had to. “I shall return to the Jonwa. Perhaps the guard will let Anh visit later, again, should you need anything.”

  “I shall see what I may arrange.” Mrong Banh straightened from his bow. “I shall also accompany you now, Crown Princess, if you will have me.”

  “Of course.” She decided at that moment that he was a friend, and she would do all she could for him.

  “My lady,” Anh whispered through the bars. “I will come back, I promise.”

  Yala nodded, and Mahara’s last glimpse was of her standing, straight-backed and slim in a prison cell, watching her princess with shadowed eyes.

  IT ONLY TAKES ONE

  The Crown Prince’s study was hushed and cool. Scroll-racks and bookcases, closed and secretive, watched three men, while a character-hanging upon the wooden wall—a rendering of the character for calm thought, traced by a much younger Takyeo—swayed slightly under an invisible draft.

  Takshin folded his arms, leaning back in his eldest brother’s chair again. He did not settle his boots upon the desk as he was wont to, though. There was a dangerous flush to Garan Takyeo’s cheeks, and he was pacing his study in long swinging strides. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven to a bookshelf loaded with annals, a military turn, back the same way.

  He was going to wear a rut in the floorboards. Besides, it wore upon Takshin’s nerves. “Did you truly throw your hurai at him, Ah-Yeo?” He clicked his tongue like Mrong Banh. “Shocking, simply shocking.”

  “It is not wise to bait me at this moment, Taktak.” About turn, pace some more. Takyeo halted, stared at the annals as if he were considering burning them wholesale. “He cannot seriously believe Lady Komor a traitor. He is simply determined, because he has been challenged.”

  “That was unwise of you.” For once, Takshin was playing the part of the conscientious elder, and it might have amused him in another situation.

  Now, it did not. At all.

  Takyeo snorted. His hands were fists. Even his topknot was mussed, and his heavy account-day robe held dust at its hem. “What else can I do? He expects me to be a stuffed puppet until I gain the throne, and then become a ma
n?”

  “He is irritable, of late. You know as much.” Takshin pressed his fingertips together. “He will calm himself; we must simply give him time.”

  “And meanwhile Lady Yala is in the dungeon.”

  Did Takyeo think he had forgotten? Takshin strangled a flare of irritation. “Banh says the guards will let her kaburei carry to her. I’ve already loaded the girl with comfortable things.” The only reason he had not visited himself was… well, he was not certain he could keep his temper at the sight of her in a cell.

  No doubt Kai and Banh would be surprised at his restraint. He had plenty, Takshin mused, he simply exercised it where most could not see.

  A shadow near the door was Zakkar Kai, his mouth turned down at the corners and his arms crossed. He finally broke his long, dangerous silence with a simple observation. “Lord Yulehi is telling all who will listen that Lady Komor was part of the plot, since she reacted so swiftly. There is gossip that she was to strike Takyeo, and only the guards stopped her.”

  “Interesting.” Takshin’s hands ached. His palms itched for a hilt, but this was not a problem to be solved with an edge, no matter how much he longed to. “Perhaps I should speak to my great-uncle.” He stretched, and turned the movement into standing, arching his back slightly to ease some small stiffness. Staying here to watch Takyeo pace would only fray his own nerves past bearing. “He seems very interested in these events.”

  “No doubt the First Queen is delighted to inconvenience the Crown Princess.” Kai regarded Takshin. “I know that look. You are bent upon trouble, Taktak.”

  “Me?” Takshin’s grin was broad, and he hoped it was unsettling. “A simple family visit.”

  “Takshin.” Takyeo made his about-face, set off across the study again. “It will only cause more problems.”

  “I must do something. Lady Komor is part of your household, Eldest Brother. Don’t you wish her returned to her quarters and those who speak against her given a sting to their fingers?” And I shall be the one to return her, this time. That much, Takshin was determined upon.

  “What I wish most at this particular moment is to discern who sent a false eunuch to my receiving-hall to kill my wife.” One, two, three, Takyeo continued, and it seemed only a matter of time before he stripped the heavy robe from his shoulders and called for half-armor.

  “He cried, For Zhaon,” Kai added, thoughtfully. “Interesting, no?”

  “Indeed.” Takyeo finished his trip across the room, halted, and swung about to face the general. “What do you think, Kai?”

  Takshin halted too. His head cocked, and he settled upon his heels. Ah. “I had not heard this particular tale. Did he, now?” Perhaps his uncle could wait.

  “Yes.” Kai’s eyelids dropped another fraction. It was the same face he wore when viewing a chessboard, or the terrain of a prospective battlefield.

  “Loudly, too.” Takyeo lifted his hands to his hair. His topknot, securely caged but somewhat worse for wear, twitched, and he pulled his fingers away, making fists again. “If harm befalls my wife, her country may decide even Three Rivers was not enough of a defeat to hold them quiescent. I cannot say I blame them, either.”

  “There is no peace if Zhaon kills an innocent princess.” It made a certain amount of mad sense, and caught upon the battlefield like peasants in a strategic village were the princess—which Takshin did not mind so much, except for his Eldest Brother’s comfort—and Komor Yala. Which Takshin did mind, and mightily so. “Are they truly so determined to go to war again?”

  “Some of them might be.” Takyeo had evidently thought the matter through. He was achieving some calm, as well, which was all to the good. “It only takes one, does it not?”

  “There may be those in Zhaon who would profit from not just an armed peace, but deeper tribute from Khir’s coffers. And there is the perennial matter of southron trade.” Kai’s stillness was that of a coiled spring. There was likely another piece or two to the puzzle, but if this was the general’s reading of the fortune-teller’s sticks, it deserved consideration. “And there are those who wish a Crown Prince embarrassed, and possibly removed from the line of succession.”

  “My mother.” Takshin’s lip lifted. “And Kurin.”

  “Not necessarily Kurin.” Takyeo sighed, shaking the tension from his hands. At least he had stopped pacing, though that mercy might be of short duration. “If she were not whispering in his ear, perhaps he would see reason.”

  Oh, Takyeo. How little you know. Takshin did not give an inelegant snort of pained laughter, but it was close. “Unlikely, Eldest Brother. In any case, do not trouble yourself. This will be dealt with.”

  “And how exactly do you propose to do so, Takshin?” Kai’s eyebrow rose a fraction. “By striding in, sword swinging?”

  If it would have made a difference, he would already have done so. Takshin damped yet another surge of irritation. “I have subtlety to spare for this situation. What would you do, Head General?”

  “I do not know yet.” A knock at the door peeled Kai away from his station; it was Steward Keh, bowing deeply.

  “The Crown Princess asks if you will come to dinner, Your Highness.” His long nose twitched.

  “Ah, women.” Takshin attempted a smile. There was no use in airing his other suspicions. “Dinner must not be late. She is a winning one, your wife.”

  “I have found her so.” Takyeo sounded very much like Tamuron, but nobody would tell him so at the moment. “We shall be along directly, Keh. Has dinner been taken to Lady Komor?”

  The Steward nodded. His chain of office lay upon a round chest, but his legs were spindly from childhood malnutrition. “Her kaburei left a few moments ago; my lord the Third Prince was most explicit in his directions.”

  “Good.” Takyeo glanced at Takshin. “She is running back and forth, this kaburei girl. Her feet will wear off.”

  Takshin shrugged. Let the girl limp, it was the price one paid for being born. “Lady Komor performed a rare service to the household. I would not see her suffer for it.” And the kaburei girl now knew that she was being watched by no less than Takyeo’s chained wolf. If she was tempted to skimp her duties or carry tales, the weight of his gaze would dissuade her upon both counts.

  “Nor would I.” Kai’s expression darkened, which was thought-provoking. The man was too quiet for Takshin’s liking; when Zakkar Kai had made his decisions he grew taciturn, and then he was truly dangerous.

  “In that we are in agreement.” The Crown Prince waved Keh Tanh away, and the man repeated his deep bow. “Come, dine with me. We shall soothe my wife’s fears. Between the three of us, we will save Lady Komor from further distress.”

  Oh, that we will. But Takshin suspected neither of the others, used to the intrigue and subtlety of the palace, would do so directly.

  That much was up to the wolf himself.

  TO SHARPEN ITS FLAVOR

  A faded hanging-board painted with an approximation of a turtle had given this tavern its name, and creaked solemnly under flirting, uneasy breeze as a man with good boots, a better but extremely somber robe, and his head wrapped in muffling cloth paced underneath it. Two pot-boys scurried to greet the newcomer, but he made a short sharp gesture with one gloved hand and they retreated. Apparently the man had an appointment to keep, for he climbed the stairs at the back, followed the hallway around three sides of a square, and pushed aside the partition to a particular small room.

  Inside, a tall man with pockmarked cheeks sat at a low table, a teapot and two cups set out with a bowl of pickled hanja. He did not rise when the muffle-swathed fellow entered, being entirely taken with staring morosely at the latticed wall, through which a murmur of conversation from the deep well of the tavern’s common-room on the first floor bubbled.

  The muffled man unwound some small portion of his head-covering and stripped his gloves free. A band of light flesh encircled his left first finger, showing where a nobleman’s seal usually rested. Still, the pockmarked fellow did not rise from h
is seat.

  The new arrival slid the partition shut with a decisive click. “That was quick thinking,” he finally said, in a light Palace accent but without a lady’s slight lisp.

  “You never said anything about a girl with a knife.” The pockmarked man scratched luxuriously at his neck, and when his tunic’s neck was pushed aside a yellow scarf was visible. It marked him as a Golden, one of those fanatical palace guards given better pay and some education in return for their supposed loyalty.

  Reward a man, and he might well consent to be loyal. In any case, the better pay lifted many a family from poverty into slim survival, and as long as a young man had some wit and the ability to swing a sword, he could apply for candidacy. All it took was a royal patron’s seal.

  That patron could, occasionally, reap a benefit or two of his own as well.

  “Well, that was unfortunate. You did well to remove the other fellow, but why didn’t you complete your half of the job?” The nobleman folded his arms, affecting to lean against the partition.

  “What, and then have to fight my way out? I want silver, my lord, not a sword to the guts.” The pockmarked man poured a single cup of tea and glared across the darkened room. Afternoon thunder rumbled in the distance, but the storms were arriving later and weaker every day.

  The dry times were almost upon Zhaon-An. Preparations for the Blossom Festival had reached a fever pitch, and the great capital was restive with rumor and counter-gossip.

  “And silver you shall have. When your work is done.”

  The pockmarked man shook his head. “Ai, my lord. The price has gone up, and I’ll take half of it now. It’s four ingots.”

  “A considerable sum.” The nobleman paced to the table and lowered himself upon a thin, rancid cushion that had seen much better days. A faint moue of distaste said he would probably burn this robe after it had touched such a thing. “Convince me it will be worthwhile.”