The Poison Prince

by S. C. Emmett

  For a moment the dark-eyed girl stared at her, as if she could not believe someone had dared to make such a mild observation. Behind screens of stretched, painted material, the scurrying of servants and bustling of ladies-in-waiting quieted, but that only meant everyone else was about their breakfast. The heat and the ceremony meant a busy day, and they were content to leave Sabwone to Nijera’s attentions.

  Heaven knew nobody else wished the task.

  “What do you know of married life?” Sabwone made a small spitting sound of irritation. Perhaps it was considered charming in the palace, but Nijera would have been roundly slapped as a child should she have dared perform half the aggravating feats this girl achieved on a daily basis. “I know all about you, poor cousin. They couldn’t even get a merchant to take you.”

  It only hurts if it is untrue. Nijera carefully set the square teapot painted with yeoyan blossoms aside. “What an ill-bred thing to say,” she answered, pleasantly. “A queen will not win her husband’s affection in that manner, nor the affection of the court.” Let alone the common people, but that mass was fickle, and best awed into submission instead of courted.

  Sabwone’s mouth opened slightly, closed with a snap as her temper kindled afresh and her eyes narrowed catlike. “I am First Princess of Zhaon,” she hissed, “and I do not need some horsefucker’s affection.”

  Where had she learned that term? Nijera could not imagine First Concubine Luswone ever speaking in such a manner. “You may think so now, indeed.” She found her own breakfast appetizing for once, and was sure no poison-taster had spat into sauce, rai, or greens. Even her broth was likely to be unadulterated, though she could not swear to the princess’s. She lifted the lid on said broth, took a cautious sniff. Very good, the cook had strained it twice as she’d requested.

  Some few kaburei or servants were ever ungrateful, prepared to cheat their masters in protest against their Heaven-decreed position. The rest, however, were most amenable to a long-suffering lady who interceded with authority or took the brunt of a high-ranking brat’s displeasure. Not in every instance, of course— even servants disliked those who showed no mettle.

  But a kindness performed was most often an ally, or so she had always found.

  The princess studied Nijera closely, those feline eyes narrowed and her robe slipping from one shoulder, showing an unacceptable slice of linen under-robe. Since she slapped away the hands of the ladies who dressed her, they did not tighten laces or seat the buttons as they should, and the heavy crushflower-patterned peach silk morning dress had developed some very unflattering wrinkles. Her hair was not dressed quite to accepted standard either, since she had snarled at the quavering kaburei who could not avoid the task of braving her presence to comb and braid.

  “I don’t like this.” Sabwone indicated her breakfast tray with a jabbing finger, another ill-bred movement. “There is no walanir.”

  “Is that your favorite?” Nijera already knew as much, for the First Concubine’s housekeeper had given her a list of the daughter’s preferences, such as they were. “I shall see if we may acquire some in Shan.” It was an easy enough task. Maybe it would even ameliorate the brat’s howling.

  “I don’t want to go to Shan.”

  Who would? And yet that was where they were bound, and dragging one’s feet only meant one would be bundled along in a palanquin. That was a lesson this girl had yet to learn, and Nijera was heartily tired of awaiting the moment when it would sink in. “What do you wish for, then? To return to Zhaon-An?”

  “Yes.” Sabwone’s chin settled in a manner she perhaps thought was decided, but was, when viewed from outside, rather sulky.

  “Ah.” Nijera nodded as if she had said something profound. “Then you wish to be a flower in a brothel, or perhaps an acrobat?” Her tone was brisk but wondering, much like a village matchmaker’s when faced with a family that held an undeservedly high opinion of its own worth. “Should you return, do you think your father will open his gates and let you in?”

  “Of course he would. He’s my father.” But a slowly dawning horror had replaced Sabwone’s ill temper. Far too late, in Nijera’s opinion; but then again, she did not seem very bright, this girl.

  “Well, then.” Nijera took a long sip. Still hot, and spiced correctly, it was her favorite breakfast. If she was to be a maiden-auntie, she would take her small pleasures where they were to be found. “Then you have nothing to worry over, even if there is war.”

  Sabwone pulled at her sleeve, visibly irritated with her robe’s looseness. “War?”

  “Well, you are promised to the king of Shan.” Nijera did not add you ungrateful idiot, though she was sorely tempted. “If you return to your father, after all the gifts and ceremonies…but why worry over that? You are very certain your father will welcome you, instead of casting you into the slums and sending your younger sister to Shan.”

  “Gamnae? But why would he…” Sabwone trailed off, viewing Nijera with unease instead of superciliousness now.

  Her broth was the perfect temperature at last, so Nijera drank long and deep, the filigree sheath over her smallest left fingernail— a gift from First Concubine Luswone, in thanks for what the woman must have realized would be a truly, deeply unpleasant task— digging slightly into her right wrist. All things must be done neatly and thoroughly if one wished to escape more trouble than Heaven had already decreed before one’s birth, and once the Zhaon escort turned back Sabwone would be at the mercy of the Shan.

  The princess had already made that nest as foul as a ratbird’s, but Nijera did not think her likely to alter her behavior much. Nijera finished and exhaled softly. “Very nice,” she said. “Are you certain you are finished with breakfast, First Princess?”

  “There is no walanir.” But the girl’s bottom lip trembled. Sometimes she seemed merely fearful instead of truly petulant, but both roads ended at the same city, as the proverb ran. “And the rai is sticky.”

  “Yes, travel is difficult.” Somber agreement was called for, so Nijera set her empty bowl aside and contemplated her lacquered tray. There would be fruit later, and she had eaten her share of gluey rai in life. “One must keep one’s strength. You will need it if you intend to steal a horse and return to Zhaon-An. Of course they will not flog you if caught, you are still a princess—”

  “Why are you being useless?” Sabwone cried, her knee striking the table’s underside with a padded thump as she made a restless movement. “The least you might do is help!”

  Ah, so the girl wished to rebel, but would not do it without a servant or two. How utterly typical. “I can hardly saddle a horse for you and fight off a band of Shan lords.” Nijera decided upon her greens next, and her own rai was not sticky at all. They must have scraped the princess’s from the bottom of the pot. “I could perhaps change robes with you, but that will not do much good. The lords know your face.”

  Sabwone waved a soft hand, a short, chopping motion. She had no filigree sheath yet, and her nails were not dipped with resin as was fashionable in the palace or some very rich provinces. “You’re useless, then.”

  “Very well.” Lady Nijera applied herself to her rai, the tart-smoky sauce upon greens providing just enough savor. “If the First Princess says, it must be so.”

  Sabwone fumed, staring at Nijera as the older woman ate enough to blunt the edge of hunger but not to stuff. A poor cousin did well to cease chewing while she still felt a pang. When she laid aside her bowl and poured another cup of tea, the girl’s temper boiled over again.

  “Stop padding your nose. Get out. Go tell them I want to ride before we leave Zhaon.”

  Nijera set the teacup aside immediately. “I am not certain the lords will—”

  “Go!” Sabwone shrieked, and Nijera was hard put not to smile as she left her tray and rose, performing her bows correctly as she left the princess’s presence.

  Just outside the cloth divider, the proud-nosed Shan nobleman Lord Suron stood, his hand raised as if to tap the flimsy lintel-
post for admittance. Nijera glanced at him somewhat curiously, and he had the grace to flush.

  It was even more difficult to contain a smile. “Lord Suron. I am sorry, the princess is finishing her breakfast, and is not dressed to receive visitors.” It was a patent lie, and she managed an expression of pained modesty, the exact look of a lady-in-waiting caught within a dilemma.

  It must have worked, for the tall, sleep-eyed Shan fellow swept her a bow much deeper than her station required. “Lady Daebo Nijera.” His tone was confidential. “I shall wait for her readiness then, and make my apologies.”

  “Whatever can you have to apologize for, my lord?” Nijera did not affect surprise, only patient weariness. “You have treated us with every consideration.”

  “Ah. It is difficult to do less, for such ladies.” He wore not the usual black but a very deep blue that was nonetheless too plain for a Zhaon man, and his topknot was caged in sober but highly carved scentwood. For all that, the slightly curved sword riding his back was of high quality and possibly noble lineage as well, though its scabbard was worn and its hilt wrapped with leather to veil the glimmer of metal. Such things marked a man whose ancestry was carved upon stone stele instead of painted upon goatskin, and a poor cousin must be adept at determining the difference. “But there will be no horses available to the princess before we cross the border. I shall make it clear this is my failing, Lady Daebo.”

  So he had heard Sabwone’s ill-tempered command through the fabric, and was already moving to forestall it. How interesting.

  “My lord…” Now was the moment for a frightened glance over her shoulder, so Nijera deployed it. “I could not possibly—”

  “Come.” He offered his arm, the very picture of quasi-barbarian solicitude. The Shan ate rai and drank tea just as the Zhaon did; it was perhaps impolite to think them completely uncivilized. Nothing could match Zhaon, but perhaps some lands could attempt to rival the oldest and first of Heaven’s blessed reflections. “I shall wait outside; let me accompany you that far at least.”

  She could not refuse, so she assented, and each step was a small victory.

  Barbarian or not, Shan was far better than home.

  CREATURE NEEDS TAMING

  The site for the princess’s afternoon rest had been chosen with care, not least so a high hill opposite the river with a white piercetower spire at its summit could frown a warning at Shan’s luxurious, sometimes warlike northern neighbor and also look down upon the tents and picketed mounts. Zhaon’s offering had crossed the great bridge over the broad glittering back of the Golyeon exactly at noon, the most auspicious time for such a passage according to custom and the resident astrologer of the closest noble house possessing such a retainer. The Zhaon honor-guard was a smudge of dust in the northern distance, probably glad to be returning to the center of their country.

  The princess was fully in Shan hands now. Whether she was relieved or apprehensive remained to be seen.

  A lean man upon a fine black charger drew rein halfway up the hill, surveying the riverbank camp below. The brush had been trimmed to admit such a vantage point, and ranged on either side of him were similarly fine-mounted riders, all in the dark half-armor of Shan noblemen.

  Long-nosed, his hair cut into a high crest and pulled into a princely topknot caged with blackened silver, the rider stripped his gloves and rubbed between his fingers, grimacing slightly. He also shifted in the saddle, settling with the ease of one long accustomed to such a seat, and though his dark eyes were direct their fire was veiled.

  He had learned long ago not to let any stray thought cross his lips, his face, or the wells of his gaze.

  The tents were fabric growths along the riverbank’s sward, and the largest pavilion held the rider’s attention longest. Finally, he slapped his gloves against his thigh to free them of dust, or merely as a punctuation to his inner dialogue. “Well?” He did not turn his head, since— presumably— some of the present bloodriders could answer the question he was about to voice. “What’s she like?”

  A susurration went through the nobles. Most had accompanied their lord north from the capital at a punishing pace, and wore the dust to prove it. The others were half the delegation sent to bring his foreign bride home, and their relief at crossing the border was matched only by another unease, one he could sense.

  He had been surrounded by anxiety all his life. It was nothing new.

  “Spoiled.” Lord Suron, his nose not any smaller for the exercise of travel but his cheeks somewhat more roughened by sun-kisses, sounded rather sour. “Though pretty enough, as Zhaon goes.” The proverb held many layers of meaning, and no doubt Suron had thought long and hard before employing it.

  All who remembered the Mad Queen’s reign were accustomed to weighing their words carefully, and Suron had not only survived but also been the closest thing to a counselor that lady would permit. Even in her rages, she would often smile in his direction, a gem-hard gleam in her very fine dark eyes. There is a man who knows his worth, she oft remarked, a phrase of insult or compliment depending upon what happened afterward.

  Suon Kiron nodded. He would have been more pleased to see his battle-brother, but at least he had sent those few nobles Takshin seemed to like best, with orders to drag the man back if he pined for Shan or seemed in any danger. “What does our Shin say?”

  Round, oft-smiling Ku Wuoru laughed, a short bark like a red brushtail’s. “He says you are a fool to marry her, and to beware her bite.” Ku’s merry mien had misled more than one opponent into thinking him a fool— or worse, inattentive— but he had survived Mother as well, and that spoke of either luck or a great deal of canniness.

  “Ah, a creature who needs taming.” Kiron’s disappointment at his battle-brother’s absence was somewhat eclipsed by having the other half of his wolf-pack back and ready to ride. “Excellent.”

  “We may arrange a glimpse of her, if you like.” Lord Buwon, ever ready to placate, still did not sound as if he cherished the notion.

  The girl seemed to have found not a single kind word among the bloodriders, a remarkable achievement in so short a time. “I’ve waited this long, I may wait a little more.” A female form exited the largest tent, halting briefly to exchange words with one of the guards. The man’s bow was brief but correct and respectful, though the woman was a short, plump thing in bright blue with her hair dressed high and stuffed with glittering ornament. “Who’s that?”

  “Daebo Nijera.” Suron handled the strangeness of the Zhaon name with much facility. Kiron’s mother had oft called upon him to recite poetry or scatological songs in different languages, and been amused more often than not by his inventiveness. “Head lady-in-waiting, and a more patient woman among the southerners cannot be found.”

  “Really.” Kiron glanced sideways, noting that none of the others laughed or took the opportunity for a jest. Passing strange, indeed. The deep shade of this copse was a balm in this weather, and leaf-liquid shadows played over them all. “Is that a compliment for a woman, Suron? You are not usually so kind.”

  “Not so strange.” Obju Sunjosi, lean as Kiron but significantly less easy-tempered, took up the thread— perhaps to save his fellow bloodrider some discomfort. He was a quiet man, with little use for those not of his clan or in the pack, but Takshin liked him well enough. There is a man who will let no one insult him, Shin had remarked more than once. “She keeps those beneath her from feeling the lash.”

  “Ah.” Kiron nodded, his gaze sharpening. Every man present knew exactly how difficult a task that could be; the Mad Queen’s displeasure fell even more randomly than rain.

  He studied the distant figure of the lady-in-waiting as she paused near a group of bright-robed Zhaon ladies. They greeted her with soft enthusiasm, no few leaning into her presence as she bent over one engaged upon a bit of embroidery under the lacy shade of yeoyan trees. A ripple of soft laughter threaded uphill, barely discernible from the breeze. The cloth pavilion housing his royal bride stood closed and secretive
. “Did she send her ladies outside?” The bank’s edges were shaded, but still, it was not like Zhaon women to sit upon grass when there was an enclosure to be had.

  They were like cloudfur, happiest when fenced.

  “They prefer it to attending her, I suppose.” Suron watched the group as well, almost hungrily. “The Great Awakened knows I would.”

  “It is as well you do not wish to attend my wife.” Kiron’s laugh held an edge similar to his mother’s, and a movement passed through his closest lords, those who dined at his table and rode in his hunt. “Well, she stepped over the border at the sun’s height, and now she’s ours.” If the girl showed any sign of becoming like his mother, the wolves would have found it and taken appropriate steps while still upon Zhaon’s back.

  Besides, Takshin would have warned him.

  “In any case, it is impossible. I could not wear a hairpin,” Suron muttered, and the sally drew a growl of amusement from more than one of the pack.

  It would be good, Kiron thought, to have his eldest companion settled with a wife of his own, and why else send so many ladies if Zhaon did not wish Shan husbands for them? New faces at court to tempt his men, released at last from his mother’s strictness. “Did Takshin say aught else?”

  “Not unless we were at dice.” Wuoru, his reins fastened to the pommel, rubbed his hands together much as Kiron had, forcing blood and humors alike back into stiffened fingers. “Just that he will return when he can, and an apology for his lack of letters.”

  How it must have irritated Takshin to send any apology at all, and yet he had. “So. He intends to stay.” At least until the so-powerful Emperor had been irritated enough for his son’s pleasure. Well, Shin had warned Kiron of as much. Do not send for me unless it is dire, brother. I have matters which need attending. “And of his father’s health?”