The Poison Prince

by S. C. Emmett

  Yala herself had met that moment more than adequately, but now she wondered at his purpose.

  “Shu, no.” Now Gamnae actually looked horrified, paling briefly. “That would be terrible. Lady—”

  That was all they were allowed, for Jin appeared on Gamnae’s other side. “It would be easier with horses,” he announced. “Next time we will ride.”

  “I should say not.” Gamnae snapped her fan closed and her right hand made a short motion, as if she longed to pinch her brother’s ribs. “Not to the theater. You’re a terrible escort.”

  “Oh, I could go home.” The youngest prince had gained a few more fingerwidths of height since Yala had last seen him; he was of the age where such a change happened nearly overnight. He was brave, though— and he had struck down the traitorous guard in the Great Market on that terrible afternoon not so long ago. “And you could be stuck with Taktak for the rest of the night.”

  “Stuck with me indeed.” Takshin, his steps cat-soft, was at Yala’s side again, appearing like a theater-trick. “It will be just as warm inside, but with less dust. Let us proceed.”

  Yala, however, let Gamnae precede her. By all rights Takshin should have been escorting his sister, leaving younger Jin with a lady-in-waiting as the rules of etiquette demanded, but the Third Prince offered his arm and waited for Yala to lay her fingertips in the crook of his elbow before moving. “What are the doves whispering about?”

  “The Khir theater, and its marvels.” Yala gave him a smile. Why would the Second Prince wish his sister to cultivate a foreign lady in some fashion? With Mahara…gone, Yala was a dish that did not match any set. “I look forward to seeing if Zhaon can surpass them.”

  “Mh.” Takshin glanced at the doors as they were ushered through the high narrow nobility’s keyhole, paint-faced dolls on either side bowing low and repeating the traditional utterance, schi-schi , come in, come in. Their bright gowns, and the patterned tunics of the acrobats-in-training who welcomed the crowd to their elder siblings’ performance, were a relief from the drab dust outside. “This is my first time in the Great Theater.”

  “Is it?” Yala had to move her hand as a passageway swallowed them, lit only by tremble-fading mirrorlight and floating hala lamps, those wonderful, ingenious things that snuffed themselves when overturned so as not to cause conflagration. “I would have thought…”

  “The Mad Queen of Shan disliked the theaters. Players would come to perform, and if she was in a good mood she would load them with ingots and send them away. If not, well.” He stared straight ahead, and suddenly closed his right hand over hers upon his left elbow. “I left Zhaon too young to visit this place. I think I did not miss much.”

  “Perhaps not.” Yala’s throat was dry. The little she had heard of Shan’s former queen was unpleasant at best. Not only that, but his scars spoke of barbarity as well.

  She threw me down a well, he had said, and Yala had offered the kyeogra during that conversation. Not from pity; at the moment, she could not name the impulse that had moved her.

  She still had difficulty finding the proper word for it.

  The Third Prince rested his free hand lightly upon his other forearm, index finger tapping to some private music. “And you, my lady Spyling? Are you here for diversion, or to keep Gamnae company?”

  “I love the theater,” Yala admitted. “I was sent to gather the plays for the Crown Princess.” It felt strange to say Mahara’s formal title, a position instead of a person, but it was for the best. The danger of her shade lingering was largely past with mourning’s closure, but respect was due those who rode the Great Fields. “Sometimes her father brought the players to the Great Keep, but if not, I would gather them for her.” There was no term for it in Zhaon, so she used the phrase for bringing one’s superior a bouquet.

  Takshin absorbed this with a faint air of puzzlement. “You would gather them for her?” He repeated the term, but with the lilt that told her she had not been incorrect, merely opaque of meaning.

  “I would describe the stage, the costumes, the light, the puppets of bunjo and the actors of tuijo.” Yala could not help but smile, though her chest ached. It was a sweet pain, but pain nonetheless. “I would declaim the parts for her, too.” Largely from memory; it was good practice.

  “We should send you nightly, then, to gather the play like crushflowers in a market girl’s basket.” His scarred lip twitched once, but after that a smile relaxed his mouth. “And keep Gamnae at home.”

  “Princesses in Zhaon seem to have a great deal of freedom,” she hazarded. Every Zhaon woman did, as a matter of fact. Now there were green-carpeted steps leading to the upper levels; Takshin preceded her. Before him, Gamnae’s gown brushed the step below as she balanced upon her jatajatas, climbing steadily. Sixth Prince Jin appeared to be teasing his sister for her slowness, and one of Gamnae’s replies was a short, scathing term much more suited to a laborer than a court maiden.

  Takshin moved sideways, his back to the carved banister hammered to the wall, and Yala realized he was watching above and below them upon the staircase. Did he expect an attempt upon his sister’s life, or his brother’s? His own?

  It was exhausting to think one could not even attend the theater in peace.

  “Much freedom indeed,” he said at the head of the stairs, his hand now cupping her elbow as if she had stumbled. “I worry for Gamnae, left alone with that woman.”

  He said it with such venom it took her a moment to realize he meant his own mother, and Gamnae’s as well. It was Yala’s turn to glance about, to make certain there was nobody near enough to catch such an ill-advised statement.

  Takshin caught the motion, and his smile broadened appreciably. His scarred lip was a trifle crooked, but for all that, the expression held true amusement. “You worry for me, then?”

  “You seem as bold as your little sister.”

  His expression turned sardonic, but his eyes gleamed. “Do you prefer bold princes, my lady Yala, or retiring ones?”

  “Princes are above my preferences.” She reclaimed her own arm and set off after Jin and Gamnae, who had taken her youngest brother’s with a surreptitious poke to his ribs— a maneuver Yala well remembered performing upon Bai once or twice.

  Her damoi was an irritant sometimes, but he never pressed too far. And Yala could count upon him for intercession, or for succor as the need arose. Under her dress, the thin silver chain holding her father’s signet was a warm reassurance.

  But why had he sent it? His letter was troubling. You are the last flower of Khir, he had written, and I wish for you to land softly. He did not mention Dao, had not included instructions— it was not like him at all.

  It was more a farewell than a letter, she decided, and that worried her.

  Takshin kept pace beside her, his footfalls soft though he was booted as a soldier. Shan must be a harsh land, to train him to such vigilance. “Indulge me.”

  It was her duty, so Yala did. “A bold prince may be a tyrant, a retiring one ineffective.” Too late she realized what the allusion could be construed as, in light of the Crown Prince’s travel plans. “Though a prince who retires at the proper moment is full of wisdom.” The two final syllables could be a play upon the words for crown prince, which made it a very neat duet, with its sting in the tail instead of between its wings.

  “Yala.” Garan Takshin caught at her elbow again, the leashed strength of his fingers sinking into her sleeve. Gamnae and Jin disappeared through a curtained recess, which left her in a theater-hall, witnessed only by the flowers and junior acrobats at intervals ready to guide a patron to a proper seat or send an order for crushed fruit or appetizers to a nearby restaurant.

  “Takshin.” She searched his face, familiar now, and cold threads touched the sweat at the hollow of her back. Her hairpin’s dangling bead tapped her hair as she halted. “Have you discovered something?”

  “Discovered? Oh, that.” He shook his head, a short, fierce motion. The kyeogra gleamed at his ear, a secreti
ve fire. “No. Or yes, but not in the way you mean. I would know the manner of prince you prefer.”

  “Prefer?” She did not mean to sound so blank. If it was a riddle or an allusion, she lacked the scholarship to answer.

  “Surely you must have some slight wish, for a royal—”

  “There you are.” Jin hurried through the curtain and beckoned them. “Come, the first farce is beginning, and Gamnae wishes her companion.”

  Yala tugged free and swept away, which meant Takshin had to follow. For some reason, her cheeks were burning. She settled next to Gamnae upon a low padded bench, casting a practiced eye over the theater as the peasant-crowd in the bowl began to hoot and throw rinds and nutshells.

  “So, is this like Khir?” Gamnae asked, high color standing in her own plump, pretty face. Excited to be free of the palace for a night, excited to be in the grown-up world, and doubly excited to be showing a foreigner such a jewel as the Great Theater of Zhaon-An, with its famous columns, its stage with its mechanisms for raising and lowering, its modern lighting and expensive, wonderful effects.

  Yala could only shake her head and raise her fan. Its motion provided little coolness; Jin braved the corridor again to send for crushed fruit and other niceties, and Takshin settled in the most shadowed corner of the box.

  Every time she glanced in his direction, his gaze was fixed upon her rather than the stage. And she was troubled by the persistent, quiet thought that perhaps he was not brotherly at all.

  FINE STRATEGY

  Ch’han kujiu was not a complex game, but its very simplicity was deceptive. The crunch of a heavy leather-wrapped ball being deflected by the West Guard’s ribs— the fellow could not get his hands down in time— was lost in a roar from the crowd, and the intensity of unofficial betting mounted another few notches.

  This was not the Great Bowl reserved for chariot races but a smaller hollowed playing field just outside Zhaon-An’s walls, and the jostling on temporary stone and timber half-circle seating slowly accreting into permanence was severe enough that the better pickpockets were probably having a fine day. Smoke rose from a nearby Ch’han temple, its stacked roof hiding in a haze.

  They were offering sacrifices for the Emperor’s health. A useless endeavor, as far as Garan Sensheo was concerned, but forms must be observed.

  The Fifth Prince watched as the ball bounded away, the West Guard’s naked chest gleaming with oil and a dust-mark upon his ribs. Both teams scurried after the prize, though the West and East Guards stayed in their places, tense and alert like hunting dogs. A few stray canines lingered at the edges of the crowd too, darting for dropped objects that might possibly be food despite the risk of being cuffed or kicked.

  A dog’s hunger was predictable and natural. A man’s was…otherwise.

  At Sensheo’s shoulder, watching the game with every evidence of satisfaction and attention, Second Prince Kurin stood in a sunset-colored robe, his thumb moving lazily over the hurai on his left first finger. It matched the ring on Sensheo’s left hand, too, but the Fifth Prince also wore a heavy, luxurious archer’s thumb-ring of carved horn, often tapping it with his fingertips while deep in thought. Today both rings were collecting sweat under their smooth inner faces, though the afternoon storm was merely a dark smudge upon the horizon.

  “You must cease,” Kurin said finally, in Sensheo’s ear. Though the temporary awning and a few frown-faced, sweating servants gave them a modicum of elbow room, this was not the Bowl with its luxurious— by comparison— amenities. “We need that fellow.”

  “I do not need him,” Sensheo answered, smoothing his face as a scowl attempted to rise. Of course he could not deny his second-eldest brother the pleasure of accompanying him, but he did not have to be lectured while he watched what was, in his opinion, a very fine game despite its plebeian character. “They are rattling empty scabbards, Elder Brother. And consider: one death for them, one death for us. Think of it as a peace-gift, not a tribute.”

  “All gifts are tribute,” Kurin muttered darkly, his dark gaze sweeping the crowd instead of the field. His expression stayed pleasant and open, though none of his brothers would miss the tension in his shoulders and the slight, cruel curl to the left corner of his mouth. “You are a fool, Sensheo.”

  Well, while Sensheo knew his elder brothers thought him of less wit than their own exalted selves, it was still a trifle ill-bred of them to say as much. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep from scowling. “I am simply more courageous than those who sneer behind a fan while bowing to his hurai.”

  “It irks you that Father gave him a prince’s seal.” Kurin, for once, was irritated enough to state the obvious. “I did not think you so small-minded, brother.”

  “Say what you came to say, Kurin.” And be gone, he might have added, but it would only make his elder linger, if only to torment. “I enjoy this game, I do not wish to have you singing in my ear during the final act.”

  Kurin paused. He moved a half-step closer, as if conferring excitedly with his brother about the spectacle. “Did you get it?”

  “Get what?” Sensheo’s hands dove into his sleeves as he leaned forward, a tuneless whistle escaping him as the West team passed the ball with quick flickers of foot, knee, or head. Intricate and wonderful, parts moving together to achieve an end— it only appeared artless. It took a connoisseur to understand the various permutations of play, the fine strategy, the—

  “Hand it over,” Kurin all but shouted in his ear, less than a whisper in the swelling crowd-noise. “I weary of this, Tentin.” The childhood nickname, born from young Gamnae’s lack of proper pronunciation, was a poke upon a bruise.

  Sensheo’s fingers caressed the small bottle with its sliver of soakwood stopper, safe in his sleeve pocket. He enjoyed the sensation of withholding almost as much as he enjoyed the low sound a sudo made as it cut air, or the thock of an arrow into a straw-stuffed target. A bow was much finer than a sword; it required more finesse. “I don’t have it,” he lied. “Your apothecary pretended not to recognize the words.”

  “Sensheo.” A promise of retaliation in Kurin’s tone. His elder brother jostled him; if he were younger, Sensheo would brace himself for a poke to the ribs or worse. Sabwone liked scratching, but Kurin did not care to break the skin.

  Only what was underneath.

  Sensheo wondered what Sabi was doing, carried off to Shan. Anyone who married her was in for a surprise; she should have been the First Queen’s daughter instead of silly, simple Gamnae.

  “I told him, I am here for what was promised. He laughed at me.” Sensheo set his chin and was finally able to scowl briefly. He was perhaps overplaying this part, but Kurin was too dim to notice.

  “You dragged me out here to tell me this?”

  “You wanted to go somewhere we would not be overheard.” Sensheo tensed as the East team took the ball, a lanky kaburei with a leather-wrapped club at his nape moving with thoughtless speed to subtract the prize from his opponents and run the length of the yellowing grass field. The crowd began to bay, sensing consummation; Sensheo leaned forward. The barrier between the play area and the spectators was flimsy, and often broke into splinters when the crowd, maddened by heat, victory, or defeat, surged forward to tear at invisible tormentors like a maddened animal. “Now be quiet, this is…oh, move, you tortoise egg!” The cry slipped free before he could halt it, as the West team clustered the lone East player, caught unprotected without his mates.

  Kurin shoved him, and for a few moments Sensheo and his elder brother were hip to hip, straining against each other like massive N’hon wrestlers sacred to their thunder-god. Kurin even sank his knuckles into Sensheo’s stomach, and the small scuffle was lost in a roar as the crowd watched the East kaburei shake free of his pursuers, running and kicking at the same time, rolling the ball under his bare foot and turning, putting a hip into a West player’s midsection while the latter attempted to drag him down, throwing off the fellow for a crucial moment while his leg flickered to send the
ball bouncing between and under other flying feet into range of one of his teammates, a lanky man in a breechclout and a high topknot caged with leather, his brawny arms shouting blacksmith as loudly as the soot staining his spatulate fingers.

  A collective cry of gratification rose from every throat surrounding the princes, and Kurin had found what he wanted— the small bottle in Sensheo’s sleeve. He subtracted it, shoved Sensheo aside, and in a few moments was gone into the press of spectators beyond the few servants attempting to keep the Fifth Prince from the grasp of pickpockets or importunate bet-masters.

  Sensheo coughed, wiped at his mouth, and returned his attention to the game. Oh, Kurin thought himself very brave indeed, beating upon his brothers; Kurin thought himself very clever, sending little Sensheo to collect such an article.

  The game was not yet over. It wasn’t even begun.

  Sensheo’s belly hurt, so did his knee, and his arm was probably bruised, but he wore a very slight smile.

  It was the expression of a fisherman whose nets were very full and home harbor near. He wiped at his mouth again with the backs of his fingers. “Run!” he yelled, the unprincely howl lost in the crowd’s roar as the East team moved for the goal and the West Guard spread his arms, daring his opponents with a disdainful motion. “Run, you idiots!”

  WITNESS

  Six days after the end of formal mourning for a foreign princess the Palace lay under a bruising flood of white-hot sunlight, but in the Second Concubine’s part of the Iejo there was relative coolness and a deep, expectant hush. Lamps burned, thin golden gleams adding to a pall of mirrorlight, and the thin blanket upon her chest was a heavy weight. There were soft voices, soft footsteps— even now, there was no privacy.

  All she had ever asked was a small space to hide within, but the world pursued mice as well as tigers.

  “My lady.” A cool hand upon her brow; she was lifted, a goblet of crushed fruit put to her lips. She refused it with a murmur. “My lady, you must try. For your strength.”