The Poison Prince

by S. C. Emmett

  “Narikhi Baiyan, at your service.” Daoyan bowed in the style of a Zhaon merchant meeting a nobleman, something he had practiced much of late. It pleased him, though a little less than it had. It occurred to him this particular palace had to be the Crown Prince’s home— that prince had a snow-pard for his device, though he seemed sadly unfit for such an august creature’s guiding spirit— and if Daoyan had known who the lamed bastard was, he might have finished the fellow off himself. “I know the lady Komor in some slight fashion.” And if she was amused— or otherwise— by his choice of names, she did not show it.

  “Indeed.” The nobleman spared him a brief, courteous nod. That green ring meant princely status, and Daoyan racked his brains for this man’s identity. Garan Tamuron had too many sons indeed. “She has been seeking a means of sending a message into Khir. That does not explain the teaware, though.”

  “My kaburei.” Yala winced again, and from beyond the door rose a chorus of excited voices, a physician’s ringing sharp and crisp as he barked orders for his patient’s comfort. “It was all she could think of to do.”

  The kaburei in question, a girl with leather-wrapped braids huddled at Yala’s side, was more worried about her mistress than any royal interlocutor. She kept trying to examine Yala’s arm, but the lady gently, absently pushed her hands away.

  The scarred man glanced at Daoyan, a dark, peasant-crafty Zhaon gaze evaluating him from topknot to toe with one swift sweep before returning to Yala. “Were you injured?”

  “Not so much.” Yala blinked. The strange, dazed look in her beautiful eyes was new, and not entirely welcome. “I fell, I think.”

  “That is not like you.” The scarred man— ah, he had to be the Third Prince, and now Dao wondered if he was the reason Yala was not amenable to leaving immediately— stepped close to Komori Dasho’s only daughter, and even dared to lay his hands upon her arm, fingers probing as if he had some medical skill. He turned her loose, however, and glanced up when the ratty astrologer, his topknot wildly askew and his robes spattered with blood, appeared in the receiving-room’s doorway. “Banh? What news?”

  “It is not good.” The astrologer’s head was hastily wrapped with pale bandages to match the mourning armband Yala wore. The questioning prince had his own mourning-mark, a blotch of death upon his restful black. “Jiao does not think a gut-channel was pierced, though. Lady Komor, come, let us tend to you.”

  “I am well enough.” Yala pushed aside her kaburei’s hands again, but the black-clad prince made a short, dismissive sound.

  “Let her perform her duty, little lure.” He sounded very accustomed to ordering Komori Dasho’s daughter about, curse him. “Now, tell me again, what happened?”

  “I was…” Yala blinked, and her gaze swam to Daoyan’s. He willed strength into her, and was faintly surprised when she straightened, self-consciously, and let the kaburei fuss over her arm. “It is merely bruised, Anh. In any case, I was asking this merchant for news from Khir, and was about to solicit his aid in sending a missive to my father. We heard shouts, and the sound of battle, and of course—”

  “Of course you ran straight for it.” The prince shook his head, his kyeogra— what a strange figure, in Shan black and with that hoop— glinting. Who had gifted him the endless ring that would catch the ancestors’ voices and keep him from the Great Fields before his time? Surely not—“And you, merchant. The guards say you fought well.”

  “No man may do otherwise.” Daoyan’s hand itched for a hilt to lay upon, but such things were not allowed within Zhaon’s palace complex. It made little difference, the best weapons were those taken from your opponents— as his cousin and a would-be assassin had so recently learned— but still, he disliked it.

  “And you are learned as well.” The Third Prince’s lip-scar turned his every expression into a mockery. He was rumored to be a sharp, nasty sort indeed. “How interesting.”

  “My father made certain I was trained in many arts, my lord. I have had reason to thank him.” Dao could have made the words far more sardonic, but he sensed this was not an opponent to treat lightly. “Naturally, I followed to give the lady what aid I could. In Khir, we care for our women.”

  “And you think Zhaon does not.” The prince’s dark gaze turned disconcertingly direct. “Of course, your princess was not safe enough here.”

  “Third Prince—” Yala murmured.

  “It is Takshin, little lure.” He spared her a brief, irritated glance, but there was a softness to the words that boded ill. Even if Yala had not encouraged, this man looked likely to press upon a field Ashani Daoyan had, until lately, been certain he owned. Or at least had a good chance of acquiring. “And I would know if this fellow is likely to cry for Khir and stab someone, if left to his own devices.”

  Dao’s estimation of the Third Prince rose uncomfortably high. He had heard the rumors, of course— the boy sent to Shan and that land’s mad queen returning scarred and difficult, held to be a sign of ill-luck wherever he was sighted. “There is precious little left of Khir to stab a man for,” he said, carefully. “My devices are pretty baubles to sell and caravans to arrange, my lord. Such things were difficult enough before Three Rivers, and now impossible, so I traveled here where trade is easier.”

  “I could send a letter to my father through this honorable merchant,” Yala said. “And perhaps receive a reply.” Do not argue, her expression said— it was the very same as one a younger Yala had worn while planning mischief or misdirecting attention from Bai or even Daoyan himself so they could accomplish it.

  So he subsided, sweeping yet another bow, but in her direction. “If I may serve you in any way, my lady Komor, you have only to say as much.”

  “At least you know your duty.” The prince’s tone, not to mention the twist to that marred mouth, was sardonic enough for both of them. “This will spread through the palace like fire. Banh—”

  “Zan Fein?” The astrologer did not seem to notice his own shabby disrepair, and spoke much as an equal to this strange princeling. “He will wish to know.”

  “Indeed.” The black-clad prince nodded sharply, a decision made. “Go, and send a messenger for Makar, too. He will help us keep order.”

  “A bruise only, for all I can tell,” the kaburei murmured to Yala. “I shall fetch ointment, and some crushed fruit.”

  “And tea,” Yala added, nodding to give permission. “Our friend Narikhi here has rendered service to Zhaon, and to me.”

  Did she mean it was her princess’s husband she longed to stay for? Dao was on the verge of dragging the blasted woman away by her hair, but he swallowed impatience and anger both when she cast him a somewhat agonized look, as if apologizing for using his mother’s clan-name.

  What could he not forgive her? Yala had been raised and trained to duty, and she would fasten those sentiments upon their proper hook if he could merely get her away from this terrible place.

  “By all means.” The prince gave Dao another long, dissatisfied look, but dismissed him again to turn to the lady. “Stay in the Jonwa, little lure. I like not the thought of you dragged to the dungeons again.”

  Dungeons? And what does he call her? Dao’s eyebrows shot up, but he was not given leave to question her more thoroughly, for there was another explosion of bustle in the halls and a strange, repeating bell-toll split the air, pealing wildly.

  Now it was the Third Prince’s turn to pale. He closed his eyes for a moment, his scars suddenly livid against skin robbed of humors by their contraction. “So,” he murmured. “And so.”

  The astrologer staggered as if the blow to his head had only now penetrated his skull. He clutched at the doorframe, and a chorus of wailing rose somewhere in the palace depths.

  “What is this?” Daoyan spoke in Khir, and had not meant to sound so alarmed.

  Komor Yala shook her head, but comprehension visibly arrived a moment later. “It is their Great Bell,” she said, and looked to the Third Prince. “Is it…?”

  “My lord f
ather,” the Shan-dressed prince said tightly, “is dead. Stay here, Yala; it is safest thus. I will have your word upon it.”

  “Of course.” Her chin lifted slightly. “The Crown Prince will need care.”

  “Good. In the meantime, go write out a reward script for this merchant fellow, and I shall seal it this afternoon. I would attend to such a matter personally, Honorable Narizh.” He butchered the Khir name, and Dao wished his mother’s clan heads were here to hear such a thing. “But that bell means death, and I am called upon.” He turned upon his heel and strode away, catching the astrologer by the elbow and neatly directing the man into the hall, where a rising babble of exclamation washed at the walls.

  This left Yala and Dao regarding each other over some few bodylengths of hot, still Zhaon storm-air. “You must return to Khir,” she said, finally, the sharp consonants of their shared mother-tongue a comfort to hear. “It is far too dangerous here, and your royal father is no doubt worried.”

  “He did not worry before I was the only son remaining; he may make up for it now.” Daoyan had no intention of being sent away before he had reached his goal.

  “Dao. Please.” Her pleading was sweet to hear; how often had he longed for her to ask for something, anything he could provide? “If you stay here I will worry for you—”

  “I am to simply leave you in this place?” Of all the outcomes possible, that one was least to be borne. “I am unwilling, Yala.” For once, he was not called upon to do what his father or his tutors demanded, and the freedom was far too pleasant to give up.

  He had meant to prize her from the city and only then broach the subject of perhaps making their way in the wide world; Zhaon seemed created expressly to balk Khir desires in all ways, and for all of Khir’s sons.

  “What could I return to?” A mixture of sadness and fierce pride lit Yala’s sharp features, and his breath drained away. He had never seen her thus. Her resolve was kept hidden as a yue, and while the loyalty to her princess made her even more attractive, it was also infuriating. “I am determined to seek out who paid for my princess’s death.”

  “That is no task for you.” And what, after all, could she find? He had pruned every branch likely to give sign of passage, as the saying went. Perhaps she wished to be cajoled— or perhaps, someone had been making advances upon a maiden’s heart. They were notoriously weak, those organs, and she had been left here without brother or husband to keep her steps upon a narrow stripe. “Do not be difficult. Is there a man you seek to stay for?”

  “What?” She colored very fetchingly. Women were honorless creatures, even his own mother. But his Yala was both proud and dutiful, the only woman he had ever—“My honor remains unstained, Dao.”

  “Good.” He could not help the truth spilling from his lips. “Because if there is another, I will kill him.”

  “You would do better to return to Khir.” Her color deepened, but she did not move to soothe his ire as she normally would have, or to further protest her own innocence. “You must, Dao. This is folly. If they somehow find out who you are—”

  “What, they will marry me to a Zhaon princess and keep me in chains?” The idea had a certain appeal, though Zhaon women seemed overly obstinate and, quite frankly, mannish. At least if he was chained in a dungeon Yala would be duty-bound to aid the Great Rider’s son, and once a feat of escape was accomplished she would be left with no alternative but to accompany him.

  Then he would have everything he wanted after all. The idea held a certain attraction.

  “Or worse,” she said, steadily, and something about the quiet finality of the word in Khir made him halt, looking at the girl he had known all his life. “There is worse than we ever dreamed of in this land, Dao. Must I beg you?”

  It was his turn to color, and he hoped the rising heat in his own cheeks was not visible. “You have never had to beg me for aught.”

  “Do not make me begin.” Now she stepped close, and for the first time in their lives Komor Yala touched him, laying a hand upon his sleeve. “The Third Prince may be prevailed upon to give you safe passage through Zhaon’s border; I trust you will have no difficulty in crossing the Khir guard-lines, should there be any.”

  No. “Yala—”

  “Tell my father I intend to make my failure honorable by finding who in this palace paid for my princess’s death.” Her color had waned almost to paleness, and her eyes glittered sharp-clear and utterly honest. Her fingers bit with surprising strength. “You must survive, Dao, and return to Khir. Or all this is for nothing. I may even have time to brush a letter explaining matters to my father.”

  “You…” The word was ash in his throat. “I should carry you away with me now.”

  “And have them pursue us, thinking we are part of that?” She shook her head again, firmly, taking her touch away, leaving the spot upon his sleeve bereft. Her hairpin, its crystals disarranged, glittered sharply. Even disheveled she was incandescent, noble and stubborn as her beloved damoi, and Daoyan’s breath threatened to leave him completely. “Come, I shall write out a reward. You must have money to travel.”

  “I care little for money,” he retorted, stung at last and down to his very liver as well. “Will you not heed me, Komor Yala?”

  “If you would speak sense, I would be silent as a maiden should be.” Now she was sharp, a flush rising afresh. She had never spoken to him so before, and only once or twice to her brother when he had fretted her past endurance. “I cannot, Dao. Not until I know.”

  It beggared belief that she would balk him, but women had strange ideas. Daoyan swallowed his ire and bowed as a scolded merchant should, conscious of the open door. Some few in this heap might be able to speak Khir; caution was necessary. And she was correct about one thing, at least. Vanishing now would invite pursuit.

  “Do not bow—” she began, and at least there was that. He was still regarded her friend, if not her prince, and now he had time to convince her. Waiting a few days for the Zhaon to begin tearing at each other’s flesh over an empty throne was the more intelligent route, and so many in this hideous place were in the habit of hiring assassins it would be easy to clearly attribute Ashan Mahara’s death to one of them.

  In fact, he already had an inkling of how to do so; more than one army had been jostling upon that battlefield, and all of them had wished his half-sister’s death. The princess’s fate had been carved and unalterable the moment Three Rivers was declared a victory for Zhaon. Dao could even, were he in the mood, consider himself an avenging hand erasing disgrace upon his father’s clan.

  Just like stupid, dead Bao.

  So Daoyan smoothed his expression and set about repairing whatever damage he had done by his insistence. “I am a merchant here, and you a great lady, Komor Yala. We must play our parts.”

  “Yes.” Her hands returned to her sleeves, but a betraying tremble in indigo silk told him she was wringing them as her kaburei might a damp cloth to lay upon a fevered brow. “Come, then. I shall write you a handsome sum, and speak to the Third Prince for a safe-passage endorsement.”

  He followed in silence to a small letter-desk tucked in a corner of the receiving room and watched while she composed herself, shaking out her trembling fingers and listening to the hurry and worry of a great house enduring violent upset.

  He had to push down a tide of not-quite-pleasant laughter, too. Garan Tamuron, Emperor of Zhaon, was dead, with his son and heir stabbed in the gut by Zhaon assassins. If Daoyan had not performed either deed, he could, at least, be amused and relieved at their advent.

  It was only natural.

  Yala selected a brush, breathing deeply to calm her hands. Her head bent, her nape gleaming slightly under a coiled nest of braids, and Dao studied the vulnerable, beautiful patch of skin. Soon enough he would carry Komor Yala upon his saddle to whatever destination he chose, marrying her in the old fashion. It would be an exciting journey, and once she was free of this palace’s cursed influence she would obey him as strictly as ever she had her fa
ther and Baiyan.

  With that prospect before him, Ashani Daoyan took a deep breath, arranged his sleeves, and settled himself to watch and wait.

  THE GREAT BELL

  The Second Queen of Zhaon pulled a tiny stitch tight, dispelling the urge to bite her lip with concentration. What was fetching in a maiden just learning to sew was not in a matron, or a queen.

  The distant sound of the bell brought her head up. Lady Aoan Mau, her fingertips pattern-stained with suma in honor of her royal patroness, halted her steady plucking of a near-priceless antique sathron; several other ladies— sewing, practicing their brushwork upon whisper-thin sheets of rai-paper, pouring tea, speaking in low murmurs— were likewise startled, and a hush fell as they looked to their patroness.

  Haesara listened intently, finishing the stitch with a one-finger knot. There was no reason for the Great Bell to toll so, unless…

  “My queen?” Mau turned her head slightly. Nothing disturbed her round, placid face and even features for too long, and it was that serenity Haesara liked most about the woman. Not only that, but she was discreet, ruthless when necessary, and had exquisite taste. Her dresses were loose-sashed to draw attention to her grace, and her hair was often dressed low as well, with a carefully calculated air of almost-dishevelment. Upon another woman it might have been tiresome.

  Or perhaps it was excusable only because Haesara enjoyed her so much. Mau was almost past the age of making a good match; it was selfish to hope she would not, and that a queen would not be robbed of her company.

  Ordinarily Haesara might have murmured something is amiss and let the news reach her palace at its own speed. Today, however, she set aside her embroidery and rose, ignoring the soft susurration as her ladies hurried to follow suit. Can it be? So soon?

  Her ladies gathered, reined dread and secret excitement rustling through heavy skirts and sweat-dewed foreheads. Soon would come the time of dry heat, the rivers slowly shrinking as the sun cast bolt after bolt into Zhaon’s great bowl like a gambler who knew he could not lose.