by S. C. Emmett
“That is the truth of it,” Zan Fein said from the doorway, gliding into the room upon a draft of umu scent too strong to be anything but freshly applied and closing the partition behind him with soundless grace. “My lord Third Prince, my lord Fourth Prince, Honorable Mrong— and I know of you, Lady Komor, though we have not been introduced. Please pardon my interruption, and my boldness in speaking to a lady.”
Komor Yala looked, Mrong Banh thought, faintly bemused. “You must be Honorable Zan Fein,” she parried. “It is a pleasure to meet one spoken of so highly by Honorable Mrong.” She even handled the astrologer’s name with less difficulty than some of his countrymen.
Zan Fein bowed. He wore embroidered slippers instead of his jatajatas, of course, but even in the distinctive clicking sandals he could move very quietly when he wished. Had he been waiting in the hall, choosing a proper moment for entrance?
Banh wouldn’t put it past him.
It was Fourth Prince Makar, however, who said what Banh— and no doubt Takshin— was thinking. “And to what do we owe this honor, Zan Fein? You have come from the deep places of the palace, no doubt.”
“Nothing has been left undone. But yes, I have stolen away from my work because we are faced with an extraordinary situation, and I have come seeking wisdom from those most likely to possess it.” His beneficent smile, just a faint curve of lips, did not change in the slightest.
Komor Yala stirred, but held her peace. Instead, she watched Third Prince Takshin, perhaps to garner some indication of why he wished her at this particular meeting.
Banh thought it very likely Takshin was not as calm as he appeared, and that the foreign woman was something in the nature of a talisman. Or the crushed herb felines derived a mild intoxication from, both small granary-hunters and larger wild creatures of that clan.
Of course, she had been present during the attack as well, and might have noticed some small clue.
“He starts with a compliment,” Takshin said to empty air. “Well, it must indeed be dire.”
“Merely remarking upon merit is no compliment, Third Prince.” The head eunuch even looked pleased, like a tutor with a good student, before his gravity reasserted itself and he glided for the table.
“Honorable Zan,” Lady Yala said, clearly but softly, “will you sit? There is tea. It will do you good.”
“I am honored to be asked, Lady Komor.” Zan Fein lowered himself upon a heavily embroidered, circular cushion. “You have a reputation for grace and for politeness; it is pleasant to find a rumor so close to truth.”
“Or terrifying,” she murmured, and glanced at Takshin again. Now she was wondering if she would be called upon to pour tea for the eunuch, but Banh solved the problem by turning the still-steaming teapot’s handle for the newcomer and choosing a fine white slipware cup. It was very strong huchin, that tonic for shattered nerves, and Zan Fein did not demur.
The silence turned painful. Lady Yala’s nose-rims were pink and her eyes reddened; despite that, she was utterly composed. Still, a faint line was discernible between her eyebrows. One could see an echo of the somber girl she must have been in Khir’s cold Northern arms. Or perhaps she had once been merry and laughing as Jin, and time pressed the blitheness out of all.
Did none of them know how to start? Ships without rudders, caught upon a great current. “I take it there are disturbing signs,” Mrong Banh finally said, heavily.
“There have been disturbing signs for years.” Zan Fein’s nose hovered over the teacup. How he could smell even huchin through his umu perfume was beyond Banh. “I wish to make certain they do not turn to disturbing realities. Tell me, Honorable Mrong, how badly is the new Emperor wounded?”
Of course, Takyeo had not been called for thrice or acclaimed yet, or sat upon the low padded bench of the Throne of Five Winds, or presented with a huge seal carved with the characters of his chosen reign-name or with the second hurai for his right hand to match the princely one on his left. The great ceremonial coat had not been placed upon his broad shoulders, and he had not spent the night in the small innermost chamber of the Kaeje, rising at dawn to light the ceremonial taper. That flame would go from hand to hand, coal to coal, chunks of burning added to peasant fireplaces or to a candle in noble houses that all other lamps, briefly extinguished for the occasion, would be lit by.
Garan Takyeo was still the new Emperor, and he lay drugged with a hole in his guts and a half-healed leg.
“Honorable Kihon does not think a bowel-channel was pierced,” Takshin repeated, but his expression was grave. “Even if it is not, Kurin will not wait.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the receiving-room. Finally, Zan Fein sighed, shifting slightly upon his cushion. “At least we did not have to say so,” he said, his gaze resting upon Mrong Banh, two commoners in a room of nobles.
“There is some comfort in that.” But the words were ashes upon Banh’s tongue. He remembered boy-Kurin, a rather sweet but exacting child, before his mother’s constant, steady poison, drip by drip, wore into material that was not yet obdurate. Now the Second Prince was a sealed flask, and who could tell what mixture filled him? “But this is not his work. At least, I do not think so.”
“It does not have to be,” Zan Fein pointed out. “I would indeed say it does not matter.”
“If Kai were here…” Makar laid the thought delicately upon troubled air. Thunder grumble-groused in the far corners of Zhaon, lightning stabbing at low-hanging cloud-bellies but letting loose no torrent.
Not yet.
“The Head General would ensure a smooth transition, yes.” Zan Fein inhaled the steam from his cup again.
“Especially if he brought a few detachments along.” Takshin’s expression turned sardonic. “And I thought you would take convincing.”
“The threat from Khir is temporarily less than that of palace strife.” Makar, now that the idea had been broached, was turning to the question of how. “But Kai will not know of this until he is told.”
“And by the time dispatches leave the city the matter will already be decided, one way or another.” Zan Fein shook his head.
“A letter will not reach him?” Lady Komor murmured hesitantly, her gaze downcast. Of course in Khir women did not speak much, and much less in such august company. She studied her lap as if much of interest was to be found there.
“It is Lord Yulehi’s half of the year.” Takshin’s tone was unwonted gentle, addressing her. He even said his uncle’s name without a snarl. The yearly splitting of influence between chief ministers was not a new tradition in Zhaon, and Tamuron had wisely forced his queens’ clans to abide by it. “My cursed uncle will have the city sealed, on the pretext of avoiding unrest.”
“I would not be surprised if Zhaon-An was already sealed. It is a difficult question.” Zan Fein regarded Mrong Banh, who for once did not mind such scrutiny. “Even the mews and coops will be watched, lest someone tie a silk scrap to a bird’s leg.”
“Leave that to me,” Takshin said. “I shall undertake to send a message to Kai. What are you prepared to do, Makar?”
“What can I do, other than stand guard?” Makar cupped his own tea in his fine scholar’s hands, his hurai clinking softly against clay passed through hardening fire. “Sensheo will not listen to reason, and is likely to be an annoyance simply because he possesses the capability to do so.”
“That is true.” It answered one of Banh’s deeper questions— why, precisely, Makar was here instead of with Kurin having some version of this same conversation. If there was a balance among Garan Tamuron’s sons, the Fourth Prince was the fulcrum, and he lost nothing by letting his younger brother commit a folly in the Second Prince’s favor.
As long as that folly was not too great. And he also wondered why Zan Fein, of all people, would so openly declare favor for Takyeo. Relations between the Crown Prince and head eunuch were cordial, certainly, but hardly warm.
Of course, relations between Zan Fein and anyone were never overly warm. The
head eunuch belonged to the Emperor, and now Tamuron was dead.
Troubles came fast and thick now, not least of them the fact that Heaven had only hinted of this great upset. The Second Concubine’s passing had been expected for years, but Tamuron’s…was not, though the stars spoke of a newcomer in the near future. Heaven must have made a quick decision or taken especial care to veil itself, and such a precaution in the vaults overhead spelled much tumult for the kingdoms below.
“Is it likely Khir will attack?” Makar’s gaze now settled upon Lady Yala, who had not raised hers from her lap. Her dress, bright green silk, was different from the indigo Banh had seen her in that afternoon; its cheerful color was likely only a matter of it being the first to hand. She had still taken time to re-tie her mourning armband, and attention to such a detail spoke well of her.
The silence lengthened until Lady Yala raised her head, as if she could hardly credit being asked. Her cheeks had drained of color, and the crescents under her eyes were bruise-dark. “I hardly think it so,” she said, slowly, aware that she of all of them knew Khir best, if not the temper and thoughts of that land’s great ruler. “Three Rivers robbed Khir of many sons, I cannot think my country eager to lose yet more. Yet my princess’s…misfortune is a powerful inducement to action, no matter how ill-considered.” She touched her teacup with a fingertip to gauge its temperature. “My father would often say the Great Rider is not a hasty man, but a thorough one. If Khir has not marched by now, perhaps they do not mean to.”
Did she know of Kai’s shinkesai? Banh studied the woman, wishing she was not so discreet. A rather odd idea on the nature of Kai’s feelings toward a certain lady-in-waiting occurred to him, and hard upon its heels, another arrived about the exact provenance of a body with its fingers marred left upon the First Queen’s steps early in spring. He longed for some quiet time and perhaps a dish of cabbage to chew while he sorted both notions and accorded them their proper weight, but this was an emergency.
“Misfortune indeed,” Makar said, darkly. “It comes upon us now like a pale horde.”
Banh suppressed a shudder. Tamuron had thought it likely Tabrak would indeed come riding, and meant for his eldest son to meet the threat if he could not. If the newcomer in the skies was that collection of filthy, dough-skinned rampaging murderers, they would descend like metuahghi, those numberless insects with their bright carapaces and habit of traveling in crowds to suck entire provinces dry of crops.
“Let us worry for Takyeo first and the Tabrak insects later.” Takshin still regarded Lady Komor, who had returned her gaze to her sleeve-wrapped hands against her thighs. It was almost painful to see a woman so straight-backed but hollow-cheeked. “My lady, you have endured much today. Perhaps you may inform Lady Kue and Steward Keh that we have guests, and retire for well-earned rest.”
“Forgive me, Third Prince, but I shall not stay.” Zan Fein set his cup down. “A short visit to inform my lords the Second and Fifth Princes of the progress made in preparing their august father’s ascension is in order.”
“Oh, indeed.” Makar turned his own cup a quarter, perhaps to avert further misfortune. “Perhaps I shall go with you when you inform Kurin and Sensheo, not to mention Lord Yulehi, of the preparations.”
“And I as well,” Mrong Banh added hurriedly. It was not that he did not trust Makar, he told himself, or that he grudged Zan Fein the chance to play Kurin’s chess-board as well as Takyeo’s.
It was only, precisely, that he did not, and he did. Banh’s lord was dead, and now his children, beloved as each one was to an astrologer who might never have descendants of his own, were of varying quality. He could admit as much, even if it pained his heart.
Was this what fathers felt?
Still, Makar and Zan Fein had both come here first, if only to feel where the ground was most solid. Such a statement, subtle as it was, would still be noticed— and both of them would know as much.
If Takyeo survived, and Kai could be reached…
“Very well.” Takshin’s bitter little smile was entirely habitual, or it could have been that he was thinking exactly what Banh was. “I shall pass your regards on to Ah-Yeo.”
“Do.” Makar paused. “Should he wake, Taktak…”
“I shall tell him you stopped to enquire, Maki.” Takshin’s smile was lazy and ferocious now. “Go, now, scatter like chaff, all of you.”
“I shall return to watch over Ah-Yeo,” Makar promised before he left, and such was his somber mien Mrong Banh believed him.
WORDS FOR SATISFACTION
There were many words for satisfaction, but Binei Jinwon, Lord Yulehi, was at the moment seeking to choose exactly the correct term for waiting many long years, smiling and scraping, until a hated enemy expired. It was an exquisite feeling, and one he wished to savor.
Even his royal nephew’s highhanded behavior of late faded in importance next to that feeling. And it was impossible not to admit that Kurin seemed to have all matters well in hand.
His clan-niece, her round, soft face blotched, was busily weeping into her embroidered sleeve, but whether from relief or sheer glee was difficult to tell. Notice of the attempt upon the Crown Prince— now the putative Emperor, if he survived, which was of course to be devoutly wished for in public— had reached them in the person of a breathless Golden who supplemented his regular pay with running small errands for Second Prince Kurin.
In the normal way of things, Kurin would be Crown Prince until Garan Takyeo produced an heir, but that knot had been neatly cloven of late, and there was time enough to attend more thoroughly to the prospect if the spear-born whelp survived. At the moment, there were more pressing concerns.
“If only we could be certain,” he murmured, gazing into his teacup. “The Fifth Prince does not seem very…thorough.”
“He has his uses.” Kurin had already changed into pale mourning. Hasty of him, but also very filial. The boy’s topknot was pulled not-too-tight, and even its cage was bleached, carven bone, with a bone pin. “Mother, perhaps you should withdraw.”
Binei Jinwon heartily agreed— there was much to be discussed— but Gamwone lifted her tearstained face and stared at her son. Her pupils were swollen, her eyes black as moonless night. She said nothing; her full lower lip quivered.
“There, there.” Jinwon patted her free hand, laid along the table like a discarded rag. The filigreed shield upon her smallest fingernail glinted as mirrorlight wavered; he wished with a sudden vengeance that she would take herself to some inner room and weep in honorable peace instead of this…display.
At least the daughter was performing as a woman should.
It was time to think of a suitable match for that girl. The work of guiding a clan, even if a young relative wished to take the brunt of it, was eternal, and there was no thanks or relief to be found for the ceaseless striving until one’s name was carved upon a stone urn to be closed in a decent tomb. At least Gamnae did not seem as ambitious as her mother.
Though, of course, it was too soon to tell.
His niece snatched her plump paw away. “How utterly predictable,” she hissed. “Send Gamwone out so the men may dispose of her.” Her upper lip curled, and her nose wrinkled. “Have you forgotten, uncle, who made your present position possible?”
“Mother—” Kurin began.
“And you.” That terrible black gaze swiveled in her son’s direction. “You have forgotten the labor I had in birthing you, and the care I gave when you were a sickly, puling little thing.” Her chin trembled for a moment, and she focused on Binei Jinwon again. “You would have nothing if not for me, either of you. I lay under that warlord for the good of our clan, I produced the sons he needed, I fought for both my clan and my sons when none else would. I have endured rival after rival, insult after insult, and now he is gone and you wish to insult me as well?” The blotches on her cheeks were not grief, it appeared, but rage.
Of course Binei Jinwon’s own family was merely a junior branch of the Yulehi; the main branch wa
s gone with Gamwone’s father. Who was probably viewing his daughter’s current behavior with much distaste, if anything Jinwon remembered about the man was correct.
“You have made great sacrifices—” he began, meaning to soothe, but Gamwone laughed, a loud, bitter sound cutting straight through his sentence like a cavalry charge through lightly armed peasants.
“Shut up until I ask you a question,” she barked. Even Garan Tamuron would not have used such words, or that tone. “And you, Kurin. This is how you repay your poor mother? I labored a day and a half to birth such an ungrateful child.”
Such was a woman’s lot; did she expect a prize? “Your lord father—” Binei Jinwon began.
Gamwone scuttled forward, moving upon her knees, a maneuver performed so often it was thoughtless-quick. Her hip hit the table they gathered round in a stifling-close Kaeje room, and the flat of her hand struck Lord Yulehi’s cheek.
She had slapped him.
Silence fell. She settled back upon her haunches, and Binei Jinwon’s chin, pushed aside, almost touched his shoulder. He stared at a wall double-muffled with tapestries, and the thought of returning the blow circled his thoughts once. Only a lifetime of keeping his humors reined halted him.
That, and Garan Kurin’s flat dark gaze when his uncle turned back to the table. “Oh, Mother.” Kurin sighed and shook his head slightly, dissuading his elder from further action. “That was ill-advised.”
“You little—” Binei Jinwon began.
“I told you to cease your speaking, you poisonous toad,” she hissed. Her hair, lacquered as it was, had come undone over her temple, and a tendril touched her ear. “Perhaps it is you who have taught my son to be ungrateful.”
“I am the head of the clan—” he began, but Kurin lifted a hand.
“Uncle.” The honorific held quiet but undeniable command. “Mother is right.”
Both now-widowed queen and clan head stared at him. Gamwone’s mouth had slackened slightly, and Jinwon’s felt just as loose.
“You are head of the clan only because you enjoy Mother’s support, you know,” the arrogant princeling continued, and his uncle considered the utility of striking them both for one terrible moment. “And I must be filial, of course. Come, Mother.” He opened his arms, beckoned, and Gamwone, with a faint coughing sob, moved again upon her knees to lean against her son’s strength. The young man met Binei Jinwon’s gaze over her dark, disarranged hair, and while he stroked and smoothed, his expression gave his uncle to understand that this was a necessary detour.