by S. C. Emmett
She would have to convince him to return swiftly.
The chain was wrapped in short order, a linen packet tied with heavy waxed crimson thread in the Khir fashion, and her father’s seal was safe inside her sleeve-pocket, deftly flicked into her hand as Dao had been wont to pass her small notes or polished pebbles during theater-visits. Dao insisted she take a few ili of heavy golden Khir tea as well, and a triangular-folded missive with her father’s familiar seal was slipped into its wrapping with admirable dexterity. “I rather like playing merchant,” he said in Khir, softly, as he laid the tea upon the small table with a bow. “But I will be glad to leave it behind me, when you are ready to quit this place.”
It was a gift of another type, one Yala accepted even as she rose, restraining herself from giving the deep bow due a son of the Great Rider. Dao did not stint on his own obeisance, of course, and smiled as she swept for the door, Anh leaping to her feet and hurrying forward to take any packages.
Now, apparently Heaven-sent, Yala had a way to leave Zhaon, if she dared take it and could find some way to keep her honor unstained during the journey. She could leave a softly brushed letter for Zakkar Kai, and silently bear the pain of duty with her head held high.
Yet part of her knew— oh, quietly indeed, but with the iron voice of the deepest truths— it was dishonorable indeed to flee for safety before she had discovered just who was to blame for Mahara’s death.
THE WUREI BOY
Letters first.” Anlon shuffled into view, his greying head bent as he rummaged in the leather dispatch bag. “Always letters first…ah, there is a dispatch from Kou Banh’s detachment, my lord.”
“That first, then.” Kai grimaced as the young soldier serving him as armor-son today worked the gilded helm free of his topknot. The ceremonial drills in honor of his arrival required bright armor, soldiers longing to see the man who would send them into battle looking reasonably personable. “And some soldier’s tea, I am famished.”
“I have already sent for it, and your lunch. Head Cook is threatening to burn the kitchen hall down to clean it of hangers-on, but your quarters will be ready for the banquet tonight.”
The banquet to mark his return— and, not so incidentally, to announce any changes in the army’s upper echelons— sounded as comfortable as passing a piss-stone, even with sohju to ease its fall. “A treasure, Anlon. That is what you are.” Kai nodded at the young soldier, whose nimble fingers had stowed the helm upon its stand and were now working at the laces to his shoulders.
The steward, with the peculiar catlike half-smile he wore when well pleased, began sorting the dispatch bag onto the table. No Red Letter showed its royal face; Tamuron had sent no official orders yet. Kai was held in readiness, an arrow in the quiver if Khir found more resources to match their martial spirit. The Northern Army was now a skeleton, reduced to its bones of hardened career veterans— conscripts and others had melted away after Three Rivers, taking their last pay and a scrip for a certain minimum amount or more of arable land before returning to whatever corner of Zhaon they called home, or would like to call home. Still, a trickle of new recruits came, and the armor-son was one of them.
If the Khir crossed the bridges and took the border marches, the Northern Army would have to rise like an iuaheke, flesh ribboning over burned bones and hair standing straight up as it clawed for fresh blood. The northerners could not be that stupid or insulted, even though their princess was smoke from a costly, oil-drenched pyre.
Yet here he was, in readiness for just such a stupidity.
He did not glance at the desk, though his neck ached with the effort of refraining. Would she write after all? It was useless to wonder; he was two full days’ hard courier-ride from the capital with fresh horses at every stage, not so far but far enough. It was small consolation that with the Crown Princess in her tomb nobody would be much bothered to rob a lady-in-waiting’s small life.
That was not a comfort that would keep him calm, though. To draw its teeth, he turned his attention fully to the armor-son. “Where are you from, solider?”
“Wurei, my lord.” A greasing of sweat glistened on the young man’s brow. It was a hot morning, and armor-duty did not exclude one from drill.
“Ah.” Sudden unease filled his belly, for no reason he could immediately discern. “My adoptive-mother is from Wurei. It is lovely country; she speaks of it fondly.”
The young man muttered something no doubt polite in return. He appeared to be having difficulty with the laces, stiffened leather under bright burnished metal recalcitrant though warmed by both sunshine and a body’s lesser radiant heat.
The tent’s entrance filled with moving shadows. That was the only warning Kai received, but it was enough; he dropped, unable to roll because of the armor’s rigidity; the shoulders, loosened but not lifted free or fully unlaced, would impede his arms. One leg straightened with a snap, catching the boy on the thigh as a bright curved knifeblade parted air where Kai’s throat had been a moment before.
The young man blurted a curse and the tent’s fabric walls moved strangely. Anlon bellowed, snatching his shortsword from its scabbard with a bright ringing noise; metal clashed outside. The peculiar thrip of heavy barbed arrows at short range melded with tearing cloth, and suddenly Anlon stood over his master, teeth bared as his blade drove the youth from Wurei back.
Kai was helpless as a stripped jewelwing upon its back, waving thread-thin multiple legs as a child prepared a pin to mount it on heavy pressed-rag paper.
Side-thrust, lunge— Anlon was slower than he had been years ago, but in any battle experience counted as much as youth or skill and the Wurei boy had only the short curved knife. Good for opening an unsuspecting victim’s throat; not so useful when the quarry was alerted— or had even one loyal guard.
It was the tent Kai was worried most about as he rocked, arms and legs thrash-slipping the chain of conscious will. Anlon lunged again, almost spitting the Wurei boy, whose backward shuffle bespoke a great deal of natural talent and hard training.
A soldier was to be a son to his general, but this particular youngster was murderous. The penalty would be severe indeed if he did not die upon Anlon’s blade.
Kai rolled to his side with a fish-jumping, gasping effort, curling like an armorbug to provide some manner of leverage. The tent sagged, light failing in its cloth confines as its vents distorted and the burnished mirrors bouncing sunshine through the interior moved in their rope cradles.
One of those great discs or rectangles could shear through skull or ribs if dropped from sufficient height.
Kai made it to hands and knees. He was trapped in syrupstone like an ancient leaf, its impression cunningly jointed to resemble a living thing. His shoulder-armor had slipped sideways so he shrugged free, hearing laces snap, and surged upright just as Anlon’s foot turned upon a wadded carpet and his steward was forced to recover by stagger-stepping aside.
The Wurei boy lunged, and the tip of the curved blade tore across Anlon’s middle, scratching stiffened leather but without the force to truly bite.
A soft rushing added to the confusion, thin fingers of acrid smoke crawling along sagging fabric walls, and Kai understood the boy’s fellows had set the tent afire. “Keep him alive!” Kai yelled, hoping it would not prove a feat beyond Anlon’s means.
A dead assassin could not be questioned.
Anlon made no sign of hearing, driving the boy toward the tent’s entrance. Cries, clashes, and running feet sounded over the rushing of heavy, painted, sun-dried cloth freeing flame from its warp and weft.
Kai surged to his feet, and his own sword sang from its sheath. At least he had not laid the blade aside; the boy would have done better to attend to that task first. How many confederates did the assassin have, and what was their entire aim?
Anlon lunged again, and this time Heaven or luck was with him, for the sword-tip pierced the boy’s right shoulder at an angle, sliding into the valley between chestplate and stiffened leather shoulder. Th
e young soldier cried out, a high, piercing, childlike note of pain, and his left hand drove forward, suddenly full of the wicked gleam of a fingerknife, its horizontal hilt held across the palm’s pad and its blade poking between the large and third fingers.
Kai’s steward made no sound, simply slid the blade deeper, the shortsword’s broad tip twisting slightly, seeking the ball-joint of the shoulder to cripple the main blade-hand.
Smoke billowed. Kai found his footing— the flames would swallow the tent whole, soon. It was a decision— slay the assassin and possibly lose whatever he could be induced to say of the plot or let the blasted boy stab Anlon, the fingerknife possibly finding artery or punching leather, skin, fatty apron, and gut-channel. Once those channels were breached sepsis all but inevitably followed, and that was a death no soldier was stupid enough to wish for.
Tamuron would have chosen in a heartbeat. A general could not afford the luxury of friendship or favoritism, and sacrificing a tactical victory to gain a strategic one had brought him an empire.
The sword left Kai’s hand, a bright bar of silver, and buried itself with a solid thunk, piercing armor and flesh both. Kai hurled himself after it, his hand closing upon the familiar dragon-snarling hilt, and with his weight behind it the thirsty steel drank deep of blood and other humors. The Wurei boy staggered back, mouth opening slack and his dark eyes full of wondering surprise; Kai’s hip hit Anlon’s to thrust the steward aside.
The tip of Kai’s sword hit bone, chipping the spine’s thick base. His wrist turned, a reflexive movement practiced just that morning, and the cutting edge sheared bowel, gut-muscle, and what little child-fat remained upon his opponent. A gush of foulness undercut the pouring smoke, and Kai slapped the fingerknife from the boy’s hand, a contemptuous little strike.
Anlon made a soft, hurt noise, and Kai grabbed his elbow. “Move!” he yelled, and thrust the man for the tent-flap, where shouts and more clashing metal told him the battle was not yet done. It was short work to free his sword from what was not yet a dying body but would be in a matter of moments, and he had to shove Anlon again. Many a man wandered during a battle, his reins held by habit; the steward was heading, dazed like a horse near a burning barn, for the table where the dispatches lay scattered.
And all the while, Kai was curiously grateful. At least if assassins were after him, he could be relatively certain Komor Yala was safe.
Or so he hoped, and a man in battle needed any hope he could garner.
PRINCE YOU PREFER
The palanquin’s side opened and Yala peered into damp, purple Zhaon-An summer dusk. As always, her heart trembled slightly as she blinked— the stories of attacks upon palanquins made it clear that the opening was the most dangerous moment, and even a sharp-witted lady with a yue was at a disadvantage.
But it was only Takshin, who offered his hand with a grave, uncharacteristic half-smile. The greenstone seal-ring upon his left first finger glimmered, and the kyeogra in his ear did the same. Would he still regard her so kindly if he knew of Dao’s presence? Impossible to tell.
Second Princess Gamnae stood just behind him, her hands tucked in her bright yellow sleeves and her hairpin dangling a string of golden crystals. Her dress was still entirely too flounced and ribboned for Yala’s taste, but at least she had not rouged her cheeks or doubled her ear-drops. With only the lightest dusting of zhu powder her fair round face was much prettier, and she had taken to wearing only one hairpin instead of loading her braids with adornment.
Perhaps with the First Princess gone, she no longer felt as overlooked.
A lean shadow at Gamnae’s back was Sixth Prince Jin in a sober scholar’s robe and modest topknot-cage, giving orders for his sister’s palanquin in a strong, light tenor. Many of the throng were simply pressing to enter the great stacked-roof theater, the largest of its kind in Zhaon-An, its eaves dripping character banners announcing the week’s celebrity actors and a few of the more notable vignettes, their sinuous lengths flapping desultorily on a steam-freighted breeze. The peasant and merchant class loved their follies and did not even mind pressing through the low, mean doors meant for their ingress. Puddles reflected the dying sunset in rich, noble colors; the afternoon storm had been short but furious and now the sky was clean, stars poking their bright needles through indigo fabric.
Gamnae’s jatajatas clicked as she stepped close. Takshin growled a few short orders at the palanquin bearers. It was a nobleman’s honor to do so for a noblewoman, no matter that it fell to steward or kaburei when such a man was unavailable. In Khir, Bai would have been the one to perform that service for her, while Daoyan offered his arm and made light conversation. She would enter the massive, low-roofed Great Theater through the Rider’s Entrance, through which it was death for peasant or merchant to pass, with Bai glowering behind her both to guard his sister’s honor and to make certain House Komori’s private box was not double-sold— at least, not upon that particular night.
Here in Zhaon, she stepped close to Gamnae. “The sunset is a painted screen,” she murmured, and smiled at the girl. Indeed, it was difficult not to.
“That’s Zhe Har, isn’t it? Right before the Moon Maiden appears.” Gamnae’s own smile was a gift upon her round, Moon-beautiful face. She would grow to be a coquette unless given some firmness now, Yala thought, but perhaps the example of a Khir noblewoman would correct her course somewhat. “I am no good at reading.”
“Well, you know that reference.” What was Kai doing at this moment, Yala wondered? Nothing so pleasant as attending the theater, to be sure. And yet, she hoped he would find her letters a relief. “How would you answer it, at court?”
“Probably by hiding my mouth and pretending not to understand.” Gamnae raised her sleeve, but only to free a fan from its pockets. The gown was patterned with branching hart’s horns and the stitching was very fine, though Yala would not have performed the bulk of it upon the back and skirt. Cuffs and hem, certainly— but more was too florid, and did Gamnae’s ripening shape no justice. “They all know I am stupid.”
“Do they? Then they are wrong.” Yala’s fingers found her own fan, lacquered black and a little smaller than she preferred for the theater.
The one she would have liked to carry was with Zakkar Kai. At least her hairpin held the pebble, so Bai would be present to watch this night’s folly.
How he loved plays— the night out, the excitement, the dining in an inn, Yala behind a screen while Bai and often Dao chose small bits of meat for her and poured her a thimbleful or two of sohju. She, of course, poured their tea, careful not to lean too far forward and let the room see her face. Only a sleeve, a wrist, a graceful hand.
What would Daoyan think of Yala’s promise to Zhaon’s greatest enemy? Were I free to choose, she had said…and her father’s seal was a reminder she was not. And her father’s letter, giving her a blessing as if he suspected it would not be long before his health deteriorated.
“You look sad.” Gamnae’s fan began to work, lazily. “Is it…may I ask, does this remind you of your…of someone?”
“Somewhat, yes.” Yala might have had a stinging reply if the question was unkind, or meant to allude to her grief, but she had warmed to this child. There was very little unkindness in Garan Gamnae, she thought, a miraculous thing given her parentage. “Khir’s princesses do not leave the Great Keep, unless for a hunt or to be married.”
The Zhaon girl’s eyes widened considerably, but not in mockery. “Not to the theater?”
“No. Nor to the market, or even to the apothecary.” Even a noblewoman did not venture far from her father’s home— or her husband’s. “It is very different here.”
“Not at all?” Gamnae could hardly credit her ears. “But what do they do instead?”
“There is much for a princess inside the Great Keep,” Yala answered, equably enough. “And if there is a lady-in-waiting with the gift for it, a report upon the plays in the Great Theater is brought back to the princess— who may decide to petition her fat
her for the players to be brought to amuse the Great Rider.”
“Oh.” Gamnae’s fan began to work harder, and she glanced nervously over Yala’s shoulder. “Come, walk with me.”
And leave our escorts behind? Yala decided upon a diplomatic answer. “Should we not wait for them?”
“We won’t go very far.” Gamnae’s mouth turned down at the corners briefly, and she seemed uneasy. The hem of her skirt fluttered like Yala’s, fingered by a breeze that held no evening coolness. “I dislike standing upon the steps, it is dreadful to be watched like a butcher’s cart.”
“I should think court is similar,” Yala observed. At least the clinging water in the air had been temporarily washed free by a downpour.
“Very.” Gamnae halted. She was slightly taller, and when she looked down her nose in that fashion she looked very much like her mother— though indeed, Yala had only seen the First Queen briefly. The princess drew close enough onlookers could suspect them friendly, if not friends. A faint breath of the incense used to perfume her gown reached Yala over the simmering smell of a Zhaon-An street, never mind that the theater employed an army of sweepers and sprinklers to keep its apron clear. “Lady Yala…”
“Yes, Second Princess?” Yala’s fan arranged itself, hiding both of them as Gamnae leaned ever closer. It was a habitual movement, often employed when Mahara wished to share some confidence.
“I was going to invite you anyway,” the girl said, hurriedly. “But my brother…Lady Yala, he asked me to be kind to you. Not Takshin. My eldest brother.” She had gone pale under the zhu powder, and though she said eldest it was not the word appropriate for the Crown Prince.
It could only mean another of Garan Tamuron’s sons.
“Should I thank him?” Yala’s back ran with shiverflesh for a moment. Second Prince Kurin, sleepy-eyed and languid, did not please her. Oh, his behavior toward Mahara had been perfectly proper, except for his ill-bred remarks upon their first informal meeting.