by S. C. Emmett
So Jinwon arranged his features, only half mollified. His nephew wished to have the ruling of the clan, but from behind a curtain— oh, it rankled, but not nearly as much as his throbbing cheek.
Gamwone sobbed into her son’s mourning-robe, and Jinwon’s nose twitched slightly. He kept his face carefully clean of disdain, though, or at least, so he hoped. There was much to do in order to ascend the summit; the ill-advised— but hardly unwelcome— attack upon Garan Takyeo was fortuitous, but its effects would be lost if they did not move carefully and quickly.
Oddly, as his uncle watched, Garan Kurin smiled. It was a wide, sleepy grin of patent goodwill and good nature, and he found himself smiling back with a minister’s unerring instinct for placating a greater authority.
“The Palace and the city are closed,” Kurin continued, as he stroked his mother’s hair. “To guard against unrest, of course. I want the police to comb the Yuin.”
Such a move was unprofitable at best, adding as it would to the unrest instead of tamping it. “For what?”
“Anything. It is no doubt a hotbed of sedition, and those bought to serve treasonous ends often rest there. There must be nothing left, uncle, that produces any…unflattering details. Of any sort, from any Yulehi. Do you understand?”
He knows. Or, what does he know? Enough? Too much? Binei Jinwon’s own intrigues, and the small arrangements for his own profit or position, were to be swiftly curtailed. Loose ends should, indeed, be tucked away, tidied, or outright snipped. Binei Jinwon regarded the weeping mother and her smiling son, a chill finger touching the base of his spine. Until a few short weeks ago, he had ever considered Kurin bright enough but far too lazy to head the clan or arrange for his own ascent.
But there was the small, heavy chest in one of the storerooms of his estate in the Noble District, with its cargo of ingots and papers. And now, Kurin was plainly telling his ministerial uncle that no intrigue was to be countenanced unless he ordered it.
If Binei Jinwon, a seasoned survivor of both Garan Tamuron’s ascent and the many dangers of court life, had misread the boy so badly, what else had he overlooked?
What had all of them failed to see?
COULD HAVE BEEN CRUEL
There was a great deal of pain, but of course, there had been his entire life. Takyeo’s eyelids drifted open. The nightflower essence blunted the sawing in his guts and the fiery metal bar in his leg, but nothing could eat the deep, biting, abiding shame of never quite being princely enough.
“How is he?” someone said softly. The voice was Takshin’s, but unwonted gentle indeed.
A cool hand touched Takyeo’s fevered brow. A pale smear of unbleached silk resolved into a woman’s indistinct shape, a breath of jaelo cut the medicinal odors and sharp reek of a body sweating under the cart-wheels of inescapable pain. “The same,” a soft voice said, with the consonants each holding a sharp finality. Had his Khir wife returned to visit his bedside?
No, it was Komor Yala. He blinked again, and another face lifted over the lady’s shoulder. The physician, his scanty beard untrimmed, blinked bloodshot eyes and scrubbed his sensitive fingers against a scrap of cotton. “I cannot tell,” Kihon Jiao said, heavily. “The fever is not well, but it could simply be the body’s attempt to rid itself of ill humors. I like not how the wound looks.”
Takyeo’s lips were cracked; he stared at Komor Yala, who studied his face and reached for a table at the bedside. “Only sips,” she said softly, and Takshin, a black blot with a golden gleam at one ear, lifted his eldest brother’s slack shoulders while Yala held the cup. A small amount of blessed coolness trickled down Takyeo’s throat, and the nightflower wished to drag him down into welcome darkness again.
He denied it. “Tak…shin,” he croaked as his brother laid him down. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough.” At least one of his brothers could be relied upon not to coat the bitterness with sweetened rai. “One moment, Ah-Yeo. Physician, what medicine remains?”
“I could try cinnabar,” Kihon Jiao said, somewhat reluctantly. “But it is powerful as nightflower, and dangerous.”
“Well?” Takshin’s raised eyebrow stated he feared little danger, but at least he was not attempting to frighten the physician. No doubt he thought the man made of stern stuff, or simply liked him.
“I shall send for some.” Kihon Jiao looked past Takshin at the bed and its occupant. “If his fever intensifies, or he begins to convulse, call me quickly.”
“Indeed.” Takshin nodded his accord, and the physician retreated.
“You are in mourning again,” Takyeo whispered. “Who has died?”
Komor Yala’s lips pursed, and though she said nothing, her glance told him clearly.
If he had the strength to stand, Takyeo might have staggered. As it was, he simply waited as she set the small earthenware cup of fresh water upon the small table and returned to smoothing the sheet over his chest, pushing bits of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, and generally applying her neat, chilly fingers to his comfort. She had cared for Mahara like this, if his wife had ever been ill; her manner bespoke much familiarity with such operations.
So. Father was…dead. Zhaon has so much regard, he has no need for mine, Takyeo had said, and while he was not incorrect, it still closed upon his throat like a mailed fist.
The world spun away, returned changed in the space of an eyeblink. Takshin, most likely too busy as of yet to attend to dressing himself in mourning, was murmuring near the door with Kihon Jiao, and Yala closed her pale, exhaustion-ringed eyes for a moment. Takyeo studied her face again, then cleared his throat.
She stiffened, and those pale grey irises flowered as her lids lifted. “Forgive me,” she murmured in her fluid, slightly accented Zhaon. “More water?”
“No.” The word was a dry husk of itself. “Kai. Zakkar Kai.” If the general could be reached and brought to the city, it would alter the wildly swinging balance of events. Those who would raise their hand against a Crown Prince would find an Emperor supported by the God of War’s beloved son a different proposition indeed.
“Still with the Northern Army.” Faint color bloomed in her cheeks, and worry creased between her dark, arched eyebrows.
“Ah.” The nightflower wrapped him in deceptive languor, but he denied its weight. Father was dead. The linchpin of Zhaon broken in half, and now that weight descended upon Takyeo’s shoulders. Though he suspected he would break too, he had not quite yet— and therefore must do as he was trained. “The…assassins?”
“Dead.” The slight color, fetching indeed, had fled her cheeks.
“Cease worrying, Eldest Brother.” Takshin shut the door behind the physician. “All is well in hand, as long as you do not take more fever and destroy even your fine constitution. I have almost solved the problem of how to reach Kai.”
Komor Yala stirred. “It is very simple,” she murmured.
“Do not—” Takshin began, but her chin dropped and as her head bowed and shoulders curved inward, he paused.
Wonder of wonders, someone had finally halted the prickliest of Garan Tamuron’s sons. Takyeo cleared his throat again; the water seemed to have lodged somewhere inconvenient. “It seems,” he husked, “that there is a solution you will not countenance, Takshin. Pray continue, Lady Yala.”
“One rider,” she said, to her pale-clad lap. Noblewomen changed their dresses often, but this was excessive; she should not have to bear such things. “Swift and light, someone who may be trusted and will not be missed during the…” She darted a quick glance at Takyeo, continued. “The funeral. Someone Zakkar Kai will not disregard.”
Put that way, it was indeed obvious. “Who could disregard you, my lady?” Takyeo’s throat was now slick with something hot and foul, but he took care to speak gently. “I bless the day you were sent from Khir.”
“No.” Takshin had found his voice again. “I will not allow it.”
“Is it my trustworthiness you doubt, or my ability?” Yala shook her head. Her ha
ir was dressed very simply, in the manner of a woman whose servants were too old or too busy to attend to such a duty. Of course she had retrieved her mourning-robe herself, as soon as an opportunity was presented.
A foreign lady in a violently upset court would do well to wear whatever was prudent.
“It is the danger,” Takshin said, and made a short, sharp violent movement, as if he wished to pick up one of the implements scattered across the physician’s table and hurl it. “If anyone should go—”
“You are needed here, to guard the Crown Prince— the Emperor,” Yala said, firmly. Not only could she gain the last word upon Taktak, but she could also interrupt him without fear, it appeared. “If you vanish there will be gossip.”
“You and that claw-toy may protect him.” Takshin’s chin set stubbornly. Of course he could not be certain of her feelings; if he were, he would not have asked for the marriage endorsement.
Or perhaps he would, simply to be doubly sure. A man who trained himself to want nothing was dangerous when the dam finally broke.
“And who will protect Honorable Kihon, should the Emperor turn ill?” Yala’s gaze rose, and she searched Takyeo’s face. Perhaps she hoped he would disagree, and it was unprincely of him to be grateful enough not to. But her quiet bravery in even suggesting this course called for his own. “Or Honorable Mrong, or Fourth Prince Makar, or—”
“Makar may go hang,” Takshin muttered. “Takyeo, I need only a few moments to think of a better solution.”
“You have not yet,” she said, quiet but inflexible. “Time is our enemy, Third Prince.” The honorific sounded almost tender. Takyeo wished they would be silent for a moment so he could rack his nightflower-fogged mind for a better solution as well, but he suspected none would be forthcoming.
“Lady Yala.” He tried to stir upon the cushions, but his tender belly, riven by an assassin’s blade, reminded him such a motion was unwise. “I would ask why you are willing to undertake such a difficult task for a prince of a foreign land.”
Takshin made a short, rude noise and turned, ostensibly to examine a hanging illustration scroll of a prong-horned deer native to the Salt Wastes, brushed in midleap. The Jonwa was not silent— feet hurried in the corridors, and the Palace beyond seethed, a vast unsound as familiar as Takyeo’s own breath. If Komor Yala was disposed to lie to either of them, this was an ideal moment.
But he did not think she would.
Finally, Komor Yala answered. “You could have been cruel.” Her fingers knotted together. “To my princess. I expected as much.”
“If I had not married her, she might yet be alive.” He searched her expression for any flicker of ill-feeling that would show she knew, or secretly hated him for it.
“Perhaps.” Now she regarded him steadily. “But she would wish for me to help her husband, Garan Takyeo. Her shade watches from her tomb, and I would not have her shamed.”
Was it that simple? It mattered little, Takyeo was all but helpless, and Yala very well could have let the assassin have his way. It was not right for a foreign woman to save his life or risk herself in the proposed fashion. His father would use any tool to hand, ruthlessly, and Takyeo had ever judged him harsh and unfeeling for doing so.
Was Father’s shade watching him, now, hovering a little distance over their heads? What would he think of this? A fine jest, the survival of a Zhaon emperor dependent upon a Khir noblewoman.
“Then go with my blessing,” he said, heavily. Takshin turned from his perusal, and his little brother’s gaze was hot and dark with accusation. “I can write no letter, I am too weak.”
“Takshin will write it.” She half-turned upon her seat, gazing at the Third Prince, and Takyeo had the exotic experience of seeing his brother’s features smooth themselves, the change as sudden as an arrow set loose. “Will you not? And I must have a horse, a map, dried meat and fruit—”
“Very well,” Takshin said. “If you wish this, little lure, then I will see it done.” His jaw had set, and his scars paled.
“And I shall owe you even more of a debt.” She smoothed pale cloth across her knees; she could not ride in mourning, but Takyeo thought she would not mind the lack.
Takshin’s response was a mutter that might have been a terrible word, half-throttled in deference to her station before he set his shoulders and bent to the work at hand. “Go to your chambers and gather what you need. Make some shift for your kaburei; I have half a mind to flay her for inattention.”
“Anh may be trusted, my lord.” Yala rose with swift grace, but she did not withdraw. Instead, she approached Takyeo’s little brother, and held out her hands.
Takshin stared at her remotely for a few heartbeats; finally, he clasped her fingers, and a muscle flickered in his cheek. Then he turned her loose, not ungently. “Go.”
Her presence remained though she quit the room, a light breath of jaelo and a reminder of grace. Takyeo and Takshin regarded each other. The nightflower essence was a warm wrapping along every aching limb and a heaviness in his chest, but the new Emperor of Zhaon held his brother’s gaze.
“If she is harmed,” Takshin said softly, “I shall hold you responsible.”
“One more burden to bear.” He settled against his cushions. Whether Father was watching or not, this was Garan Takyeo’s decision alone, and he had made it. “If I survive this, Takshin, you will hate me too.”
“Of course not.” But Takshin’s gaze did not alter. “I must call for paper and brush, Ah-Yeo, and Kihon Jiao will return. I shall send for Banh, too. There is no reason not to start tonight.”
A GOOD WIFE
Misty mornings gave way to bright, piercing, clear, hot days, and the afternoon storms common in Zhaon did not come this far south. Instead, they arrived well after dark, and sometimes thunder shivered the air even inside the stone palace halls. Perhaps the Shan could sleep through such a display, but it proved impossible for Sabwone unless exhaustion closed her eyes on every third night or so; the days were a perpetual blur of bright exhaustion, heat, and strangeness.
Still, there was reason to be cautiously hopeful. Nijera had turned into a quite biddable thing once her mistress found the proper means of addressing her. Still, the rumor-whispers had turned into hurrying, significant looks, and the racket of booted feet was audible even in the royal consort’s chambers where Sabwone spent most of her time attempting to embroider, walking in the parsimonious garden— a single garden, where she had been used to several— and stretching her ears to gather what rumor she could in their cups. She could even demand— oh, she couched it as a wistful request, to be sure, since now they thought her a wilting stem— novels, and no bar was put upon her reading now that she was married. There was even walanir with every meal, and Nijera no doubt prided herself upon obtaining it as Sabwone played the part of a silk-mouthed princess abjectly grateful for any small crumb.
If she had known this was the course required, she would have employed it much earlier.
Best of all, the king was called away with some regularity, and three entire nights without enduring Suon Kiron’s fevered thrusting and sweaty grunting upon her person almost made Sabwone feel her old self again.
Almost.
That afternoon, though, she was deep in a thrilling tale of two noblewomen and a prince who had been stolen as a baby by an exorcist when sudden intense activity flooded the short hall outside her sitting room. She glanced up, restraining the urge to tuck the novel under a convenient pillow, and discerned that a visit from her royal jailor was indeed at hand. She bent her head to the flatbook again, characters swarming like ants before her suddenly blurring eyes.
Why would he not leave her alone? He had what he wanted when it was dark, why did he bother coming to vex her now?
Her ladies scattered like longneck eggfowl, Nijera directing them in a hurried undertone to fetch tea and small pastries for the lord of this place. Sabwone ignored it as much as she was able, and Kiron of Shan stalked into the room with the softness of a jungl
e-pard. He even wore boots into her presence, this pretender, as if he was Zakkar Kai come fresh from some victory or another to report to her father.
Well, Sabwone did not think very highly of anyone who brought mud indoors, but who cared what she disliked at the moment?
“My lady ekanha,” he greeted her, and Sabwone took care to lay aside the book properly before arranging her hands in her lap and pretending to attend, demure and docile, to his ridiculous accent. His Zhaon was quite amusing; an actor in the Great Theater of Zhaon-An would no doubt play him as a roly-poly parvenu in an ill-fitting jacket with a great drooping mustache and a dialect so thick every common tradesman and peasant would hold their sides with laughter.
She realized she was smiling slightly, and composed herself. Of course, with her chin so far down, nobody could see.
“Speechless again?” Kiron loomed over her, and her hands tightened in her lap. Nothing said she had to do more than listen, and he was welcome to think her overcome with admiration or fear. “I shall make certain to tell your brother I have tamed you.”
If you like. She longed to return to her book, but he must have some purpose. Sabwone sat and seethed, the hatred bright and sharp inside her vitals. If she did carry an heir, would he leave her alone? It would be nice to have a baby, perhaps, a child to raise, someone who would love only her.
And if it was a daughter, she wouldn’t send her haughtily away as her own mother had. No, she would raise a daughter quite differently indeed.