by S. C. Emmett
“The Second Concubine has offered to take Lady Komor into her household.” The Crown Prince could not tell if he hoped the lady would accept that invitation or his own. “Though I suspect the lady in question might wish to retreat to the provinces if a graceful way can be found to avoid gossip.”
“Then I arrived in time.” Takshin drew himself up and clasped his hands behind his back. “Look no further for a solution, Ah-Yeo. I’m going to marry her.”
GRANDFATHER
In Zhaon-An’s Great Market, the wealth of the world gathered for display and sale. Spices, wines, pets and small livestock— larger was held outside the city in the Blood Pens— as well as fabric, medicines, fireflowers and sparksticks for celebration, ornaments, vegetables, flowers, rai both polished and unpolished, other produce, various weapons and implements, crushed fruit, cooking oils, and body oils in great clay jars; all these and more sat ready and waiting in small booths or larger shops, the wide paved trapezoid broken into a thousand crazy-twisting alleys jammed with fabric awnings and clamoring sell-chants. Smoke, perfume, dung, hot metal, the finishing of fabrics, sweat, stalls selling snacks for those exhausted by the business of selling or buying, tiny temporary tea-houses clinking cups and shouting orders to kettlemasters— commerce was a mad, smelly effort, Zhaon’s digestion busily turning effort and raw materials into luxury or sheer survival.
For all its glitter and throb, the Yaol turned its head from certain profitable items. For those, one must visit the Yuin, the Left Market— just as crowded, just as noisy, but with an edge to the bustle.
There were apothecaries and weapon dealers in the Great Market, but those in the Yuin specialized in different, darker applications of the medical, medicinal, or martial arts. It was also the place for cloth acquired cheaply by whatever means necessary, embargoed items, certain varieties of fallen flowers— both male and female— plying their wares, and impresarios. Not the theatrical type; those stayed in the Theater District with their fellows and clients. The word, with its associated character of a baton striking a curve that could be head, back, or buttocks depending upon the brushstroke, also meant one who was conversant with the walkers of the Shadowed Path, capable of arranging all manner of disaster while keeping a patron’s hands clean. Thieves of every kind also gathered in the Yuin, even those who subtracted life from the well-guarded or otherwise inconvenient.
However, the man in the rich dark robe and high, shadowy hood despite the morning heat was not here to engage one of those masters of the possible death. His quarry was different and his step was wary; the sword in his left hand was expensive though an attempt had been made to wrap its rich hilt with leather. More, the soft authority of his step spoke of weapons training, and so he moved unaccosted though the gangs of child pickpockets kept careful watch upon such a plump bird step-hopping into the Yuin’s crooked, changeful alleys.
The pickpockets, however, scattered as soon as the rich man passed beneath a hanging sign that simply read Ton Ren Tan Guh, each character carved in the simplest manner possible. Below, the smaller characters denoting an apothecary’s place of business were likewise stripped of all ornamentation.
A quiet, fragrant dimness enfolded the visitor, who did not politely push his hood back or remove his gloves.
A wizened, nut-brown figure perched upon a high stool behind a long, glossy wooden counter. Behind him, a wall of small shelves and drawers, some with faded paper slips bearing characters that might or might not have a bearing upon the contents, loomed high and threatening, ready to crash over the fellow.
“Good fortune greet you,” the fellow chirped. “A guest, so early in the morning! It is good of you to visit, young man. What may Grandfather do for you?”
The visitor took his time, peering from the hood’s shadow. Finally, he pushed the hood’s border back a fraction. Mirrorlight fell softly upon the shelves and drawers; not a speck of dust was to be seen.
Of course, the Old One of the Yuin would have no shortage of apprentices to fetch, carry, and scrub, but none of them were in evidence at the moment. Baskets and hutches crowded the shop, stuffed to the brim with the effluvia of an apothecary’s trade— khonsu root and various other plant material; puff puen; dried snake tails; horns, hooves, and livers of strange beasts from hedgerow or foreign plain, dried, smoked, or powdered; strong fragrant tea-leaves mixed with healthful essences; oils and unguents; zhu powder mixed with various substances for the care of the skin; and much more.
“Greetings, grandfather.” The visitor’s tone was respectful enough, but a slight stress on one or two of the sharper syllables shouted his quality. “I have come for what I left.”
“Ah. Yes.” The elder did not move, but his eyelids lowered slightly. Beneath them, filmy grey orbs moved with no relation to each other or to his attention. “My memory is not what it used to be, but your scent is familiar, yes?”
The visitor said nothing, his attention focusing upon a certain shadowy patch near the end of the counter.
“That is merely my grandson,” the elder said hastily. “Get up, you waste! Show some respect.”
Even though the visitor was watching, he still did not see the transition from shadow to man. One moment there was nothing but a tenebrous corner, the next a young man in close-fitting dark trousers and an indifferently hemmed Shan longshirt was there, examining his fingernails in the uncertain light. “My apologies, Grandfather.” His voice, not yet broken despite his size, was clear and sweet. “I was asleep.”
“Lying little waste,” the old man said, affectionately. “Go fetch breakfast from Madame Yulema, and be quick about it.”
The barefoot young man, his toes misshapen with callus and hard, horn-colored nails, bowed his way past the august visitor and plunged into the river of the Yuin outside.
“Ai, children. A joy and a burden at once.” The Old One did not shift upon his high three-legged stool. “I am forgetful, oh gracious patron. What was it you left here?”
“A dray bar.” An archaic term for a bent metal rod used to lever or pry, with its first syllable pronounced in the old way. “An old item, but very effective.”
“Indeed, indeed. Hm. Well. Difficult, very difficult…I have no memory…”
The nobleman’s gloved hand flicked, and a small bag landed heavily upon the well-waxed, painfully clean counter.
The Old One exhaled, a short sound of polite wonder. “Ah, now I remember. Unfortunately, I lent it to a neighbor. But perhaps the noble lord will return in three days? By then it will be ready.”
“Certainly.” A gloved finger twitched, an indicator of irritation or merely an itch. “If you cannot find it, another of similar size and shape will do.”
“Of course, of course!” The Grandfather nodded, a passable impression of a doddering sage. “Does the noble lord have any other…preferences?”
“Only that it must be well made. And…artistic.”
“Yes, have no fear.” Grandfather did not take offense at the intimation that his shop might sell something of low quality. Or if he did, it did not show. “Of course, it is difficult to tell one dray bar from another.”
“That is the point of such an item.” Deep in shadow, the nobleman’s nose twitched. “I wish a completely anonymous effect.”
“Then you shall have one.” Such an item was not to be had cheaply, of course. Grandfather’s fingers, stained by tincture, paste, resin, plant-juice, and other items, rested neatly upon the countertop. “Bring another such bag next time, my lord.”
The nobleman could not protest at additional expense, and in any case probably did not wish to. “If the item performs, you shall have a third bag as well.”
“Grandfather is not greedy.”
“Consider it a gift from a loving grandson.” The nobleman did not bow, but he did incline his head slightly, a mark of high honor for such a plebeian merchant though possibly wasted upon one whose eyes had been blasted by illness or Heaven’s ire. He wrapped his cloak more securely, and left the same w
ay he had entered.
For a long while afterward the old man sat upon his stool. Other customers, not quite so august but all heavily muffled, visited, and each time they requested a small item no apothecary would have in stock. Others, bareheaded but nervous, asked for actual medicines, and one of the Old One’s many apprentices would appear to grind, mix, weigh, and take payment.
Much later, as the weary, heatstruck morning trudged into a breathless, oppressive afternoon, the barefoot young man in the Shan longshirt returned, somewhat rumpled and bearing a package of waxed rai-paper. A toothsome smell rose from its cargo, and the apprentice slipped behind the counter to fold himself at the stool’s feet, opening the hawker’s lunch— small chunks of anonymous vegetables, even more anonymous meat, and leftover fried rai— with a small, happy sound.
“Well?” the Old One inquired, prepared to be indulgent after a morning of good business.
“Went to the Palace,” the apprentice said, as his dexterous fingers plunged and lifted to his lips. He did not, however, speak with his mouth full.
Grandfather held that to be a sign of poor taste and even worse intelligence.
“Well, yes. But which one of that brood is coming to our door, Yu?” Grandfather’s patience was not eternal, and one of his own feet, bare as his little birds’, tapped the young man’s slim shoulder.
“Couldn’t keep up. But it ent the Crown Prince, and ent the General, and ent that Shan longtail.”
“Useless,” Grandfather muttered. “Go fetch me something to nibble, idiot. All morning I work while you play.”
The apprentice, used to this and grateful the Old One was not very irritated, scrambled to obey. Of course he had caught a glimpse of the prince’s face, but telling the younger ones apart was difficult, especially from below. Palace meant trouble, and even though the Yuin was largely left to its own devices the heavy hand of the Emperor could descend to crush the flies at any moment.
It was only a momentary disruption to profit, but still, every insect knew enough to dodge a horse’s tail, as the proverb went.
So it was best to keep his mouth tightly closed, the apprentice decided. Of course Grandfather would know more than him who was visiting, and as long as an apprentice pleaded ignorance, he would have a happier— not to mention much much longer— life.
A BLAMELESS LIFE
It is very simple,” Takshin repeated, settling his hurai upon his first left finger as if he suspected it would slip free. “Father will not agree; he already dislikes her and will deny me simply to do so. So I will have it in your hand now, to make certain.”
“Cunning of you, Taktak.” Takyeo exhaled sharply. “If Father refuses, you have me; if I refuse—”
“Why would you refuse me?” Takshin cocked his dark head, his gaze settling somewhere over Takyeo’s head. “You wish her safely placed; can you think of a better cabinet to guard a doll within?”
Takyeo could not help but admire his little brother’s certainty, having precious little of it himself. At least Takshin was never indecisive. Still, there were one or two points to the plan his brother might not have considered yet. “And what if she refuses?”
“How can she?” Takshin waved aside any possible impediment from that quarter with an airy gesture. “Consider: She is alone in a foreign land; if war comes, it may be years before she returns— if she does indeed wish to flee northward. I do not think such a thing likely now that she has seen Zhaon, do you?” His smile was of a variety Takyeo had not seen upon his brother since childhood. It was Takshin’s particular expression when he held what he considered a winning, quite unanswerable argument.
Takyeo considered the notion, glancing at his cluttered desk and all the business waiting patiently for his return. Of course Lady Yala seemed to…moderate…some of Takshin’s sharper moods. She was noble, too, though foreign; there could be no insulting intimation that Taktak had married lowly. And certainly few courtiers would dare involve her in much intrigue if the scarred, reticent, but generally feared Third Prince was her husband.
Yet Takshin was not gentle, and Yala, for all her short, sharp blade and likewise wit, seemed nothing but. How would the First Queen take the news of this match? Such a mother-in-law might not be to Lady Yala’s liking at all, especially since she would no doubt take her daughterly duties as seriously as all others.
And what of Khir’s response to the news that another Zhaon prince had married another Khir lady, so soon after her princess was shot like a roundbird?
Takyeo never wanted to think of that morning ride again, the leaf-shadows, the hoofbeats, his wife’s laughter…then, the shattering, crunching, world-ending pain. Yet the world kept thrusting the event at him like a jabbing opponent on the drillyard. He was failing dismally at keeping Mahara from his head-meat’s halls.
Perhaps her shade did linger despite all care taken to avoid it. It was unwise to wish for such a haunting, and yet Takyeo could not help it. Foreign though she was and wed to a stranger besides, his wife had been a relief— at least one creature who had seemed to like him as he was, instead of wishing him of a different mettle.
The problem before him, however, was not a shade but a brother and a court lady. “Have you gained her consent?” The Crown Prince did not offer his rude brother tea, but then again it seemed Takshin did not want it. He was in a mood that only sohju would answer, if Takyeo was any judge. How long ago had this solution to Lady Yala’s predicament arrived at Takshin’s liver? Was it a passing idea, held fast only because Taktak suspected resistance and liked to swim against a current, or something more?
“Do you think her likely to refuse me?” Two ruddy crushflowers had bloomed upon the Third Prince’s cheeks, that was all. “Because I am ugly, or because I am Zhaon?”
“Neither, Taktak.” Smoothing his brother’s temper was a dismally familiar chore. And why would you care? You call yourself ugly with the regularity of a water-clock. “I simply wish to know. Have you declared yourself to the lady? Will she wish to write to her father for agreement? Such things are important.”
“That is the beauty of it,” Takshin said, turning and stalking for the desk like a cat intent upon a sunny basking-spot. “With the border so uncertain, how would a missive ever reach him in time? And she knows I will not…” For once, he halted, seeming to reconsider, but habit won out and Takshin plunged ahead. “She knows she is safe with me. Is that not enough?”
Safe with you? A curious statement, indeed. “It is not merely a matter of safety,” Takyeo said, heavily. His leg itched, and now he was having difficulty sitting still. “Lady Yala has endured enough.”
“And I am to be endured, I know.” For once, no bitterness was evident in Takshin’s tone, merely strict fact. “At least none will dare harm her if I am at her hem.”
“That is a consideration.” And a heavy one, indeed. Then again, Takshin’s method of answering any insult nowadays was likely to be of the manner that would widow anyone he married before long.
The Third Prince glared at him. “Why are you not writing the endorsement, Eldest Brother?”
“I would love to help you, Taktak. You are best-of-brothers.” The itching reached a crescendo, so Takyeo spent some few moments arranging his leg, picking up and resettling his cane. “But I am retreating to the provinces. I plan to renounce the throne.” Which would make said brushed marriage endorsement worse than useless.
“Oh, certainly, but will it renounce you?” The crushflowers in Takshin’s cheeks were fading fast. He considered the chair Lady Yala had so recently perched upon, visibly decided against sitting at the moment, and fixed Takyeo with a steady stare. “And you cannot possibly think Kurin will leave you unmolested even if you step aside.”
I am not stupid, Takshin. Saying as much would not help or convince. Besides, this was a course his enemies— and his father— had never expected, and Garan Takyeo found he liked the feeling of having performed such a trick.
Of course Kurin would not want to leave him unmolest
ed, but public opinion— that strange, unwieldy beast— would paint the Second Prince in bleak colors if he pursued a forbearing foe. “He would have no need, if I have publicly renounced—”
“I did not think you such a fool, Eldest Brother.” Chillingly formal, and Takshin would never know just how much he looked like his mother in that moment, gazing down his nose with a pursed mouth.
It was undoubtedly for the best. If the current discussion was designed to put Takshin in a fine fettle, mentioning the First Queen would drive him into mute or active intransigence, and it would take much time and coaxing to bring him forth from that cave. Takyeo took a firm grasp upon his temper, an operation performed so often it was reflexive. “Not a fool.”
“Then what is this? Grief?” Takshin now cast himself into the chair Yala had vacated, settled back, and laced his fingers over his midriff. He did not put his feet upon the desk, though, and thankfully he was properly in house-slippers rather than stomping about booted as if they were in an army tent. “There is no quarter given to princes, Ah-Yeo, even retired. You should know as much by now.”
“I do not expect quarter.” Takyeo stared at his desktop. “I wish only for peace, and that will not be found while I live.” Now that he said it aloud, his course was painfully clear.
He had not thought of it in such stark terms before. Giving the idea breath was to give it life, as the sages said. Like the beast he had taken for his device, when brought to bay he would fight— but upon his own terms, in his own time.
And with every claw he possessed, visible or otherwise.
“Ah.” His brother once more surprised him by becoming quiet, dark eyes fixed upon Takyeo’s face and the last trace of ruddiness leaving him. The gold hoop in his left ear gleamed against red-black hair. “You have plans, I suppose.”
Nothing so elegant as plans. But maybe he should. The rest of his life had been one test after another, from the merely annoying to the actively murderous. Why should the end be any different than the beginning or the middle? “I shall retire to the countryside and live a blameless life.”