The Grass King’s Concubine

by Kari Sperring

  He meant her no good. She was no safer with him than alone with the hungry bones. The heavy grasp still had her, keeping her in place. She spat at him, and he glared. Somehow, her arms lifted, her hands clenched to pummel him, and then she dropped against his breast, sobbing. The grip on her shoulders let go.

  “This is no place for you to be.” That was Shirai’s voice, not Sujien’s. It came from behind her. It must have been him, holding her in that solid grasp. “It isn’t safe here for human creatures at the best of times.”

  She swallowed and lifted her head, rubbing a hand across her face. It came up stained and sore. She said, “I didn’t know…I was looking…You said there was an answer.”

  “An answer.” Shirai’s voice was deep and reflective. “For that, we would need the right question.”

  “I want to go home.” She turned to look at him over her shoulder. He stood behind her, arms folded. Two wicked black crescent blades were tucked into his belt, slick with blood. She said, “You could let me go.”

  “Yes.” But Shirai’s eyes eluded hers, looking over her head. He was speaking now to Sujien, she realized. “There’s little purpose to this captivity, and certainly no gain.”

  “We don’t know that,” Sujien said. “The courtiers knew her. They came to her blood.”

  “They would seek out any living thing,” Shirai answered. “They starve. They can’t afford to be choosy.”

  “She has the trace of it in her. We felt her. Tsai senses her. You saw that, just now.”

  Just now. Aude could not follow them. She wrapped her arms around herself, conscious of her nudity. Her hair was no help, hanging as it did no farther than her shoulders.

  No farther…In the water basin, in her dreaming progress to the golden doors, her hair had hung down her spine, cloaking her with its opulence, bright, silken, water-shaded. Tsai senses her…

  The dagger was still under her calves. She felt for it, then pushed herself to her feet, clutching it. The two Cadre turned to look at her. Voice thin and hard, she said, “What exactly are you trying to do to me?”

  26

  Yelena Alone

  THE GRASS KING REACHED FOR THE BELL that stood on the floor beside his divan and rang it, one peremptory ring. It sounded flat and dull in comparison with the strange bright note that had preceded it. On the beam overhead, Yelena steadied herself, digging in her claws. Tsai hugged her chest, gulping down laughter. There was a knock on the door, and the Grass King said, “Come in.”

  A bannerman wearing the tabard of the Darkness Banner entered and bowed low. The Grass King said, “That noise. What was it?”

  The man spoke to the carpet. “I don’t know, Sire. I will discover.”

  “Good.” The Grass King said. “Have Shirai sent to me. And Liyan. I taste him in this.”

  “Yes, Sire.” With another bow, the bannerman withdrew.

  Tsai sat up, her hair falling all around her. Yelena flattened herself against the beam. Tsai had sharp senses. Tsai could not be relied on: she changed without hint or warning. Cushions and covers slipped to the floor as Tsai stretched, arching her back and pointing her toes. Her hair—greenish-blue—snaked down her back, leaving dark damp marks behind it. She wriggled her shoulders in a shower of water droplets and Yelena hissed.

  “New things,” Tsai said. Her voice was light and high. “New sounds from brown and blue. New ways to say the old, new ways to make the day.” She lifted her arms out before her and spread out her fingers. “I can feel it running through me. Fire and water. Wood and iron. Sujien won’t like it.”

  The Grass King considered her, smiling. He said, “There are a lot of things Sujien doesn’t like.”

  “Many.” Tsai fished for one of the fallen coverlets and wrapped it around herself. She rose, trailing it behind her. “New furnishings. Envoys. New hills. Movements in the river. Having to listen to Shirai.” She halted, looked back over her shoulder. “Qiaqia. Me.”

  “He likes you well enough, Mo-Tsai.”

  Yelena bared her teeth. There was too much liking of Tsai in this palace. The twins did not like her. She dripped and she raged, she promised, and sometimes she threw things. She was too…Yelena did not have the word for it. Too involving. Too absorbing. It was hard to find space beside her.

  Tsai took a brush from the top of an inlaid cabinet and began to work it through her hair. She said, “I’m moving. I can feel it. I have a new game. A new reach.”

  The Grass King watched her. He said, “I feel nothing.”

  “No.” Tsai was already bored with her brushing. She dropped the brush on the floor and went to a window. “In and not of. The small things that move the big.”

  That made no sense to Yelena. Not that Tsai often made sense. Only trouble and nuisance. There was something new in the palace, and Tsai was amused. That was not relevant. It did not protect Marcellan. If Tsai came closer, if she walked beneath the right beam, Yelena would drop on her head and bite her. She deserved to be bitten.

  The Grass King would not like that. He was fond of Tsai in some way that the twins had never comprehended. He would be angry and send Yelena from the room, and then she would learn nothing. She subsided, nose twitching. Tsai opened the window lattice and leaned out. She said, “Cool air. Sujien is angry.”

  “We’ll see,” the Grass King said.

  That too was nothing out of the ordinary. Sujien’s anger was as common as dust and rose petals. He snapped and brooded at anything that challenged him. It made him barely less tolerable than Tsai, and more frightening.

  Tsai turned again and came back to the bed. She bent to kiss the Grass King on the brow. “Water calls. It flows, I go.” She drifted away toward the door, trailing her impromptu robe behind her. Her bare feet left damp marks where she trod. She laid a hand on the wood of the door, and it swung open before her. “A new feeling. I will see.” She spoke into the passageway, as if to herself. As she meandered out, she began to sing. Yelena flattened her ears. She did not like Tsai’s voice, so light and high. It hurt her, sent her thoughts awry.

  A valet entered in Tsai’s wake, bearing hot water and clean towels for the Grass King’s first ablution. Yelena settled back on her beam, comforted by the regular sounds of the morning ritual. First came the ritual shaving, then the oiling and rebraiding of the king’s hair before it was pinned up onto the crown of his head. Then the second valet entered, bearing the Robe of Bathing, and the king rose, holding out his arms to be helped into it. The procession to the adjacent Royal Bathing Room followed. A mist of jasmine and mint and ambergris rose from the bath water. Often and often, she and Julana had watched and interfered with the process, launching raids on dangling bed fringes and bare toes, tipping over powder pots, stealing combs, chasing each other through the tangle of outraged legs while the Grass King laughed and fed them tidbits from the fruit plate that was set by his hand. On the beam, Yelena swayed, eyes closed, comforted by the steam. They could go back to that, she and Julana; they could curl up on the Grass King’s hem and be safe.

  If they abandoned Marcellan. Her eyes snapped open. Marcellan was theirs, theirs to watch and follow and guard. She shook herself, shedding memory. She was here to listen, to learn, not to let herself be lulled into what once had been. While the Grass King bathed, a servant had come into the bedchamber to collect the covers and straighten the cushions. Another brought garments from the wardrobe and hung them on a long carved rack, next to a great cheval mirror. An outer robe in green and brown and gold, embroidered with the patterns for Audience and Administration. To go under it, seven layers of fine underrobes in silk and lawn, each a little shorter than the next, and, under those, the privy garments of plain cotton. Slippers, beaded and bound in goldwork, soled in thin leather, and mud-brown stockings to be worn under them. A headpiece of soft felt, with its pale green veil held on by a gold-sheaf pin. From an inlaid cabinet, the servant laid out a series of rings, a leaf-shaped brooch, a golden cuff set with jade and carnelian. No jet, no bitter edged obsid
ian or shards of quartz. Not, then, the jewels of sentencing. The Grass King’s entourage were alert to no dangers, it seemed.

  The Grass King came back into the room, wrapped in a wide linen towel and followed by his body servants. In the flurry of his dressing, Yelena crept out along her beam to the edge of a window alcove. She leaped, caught herself on a curtain rail, and slipped behind the curtain to slither down the inside of it. She loitered at its base, hidden in the folds, and waited. The valets gave way, bowing before the Grass King and opening doors as he progressed into the Cedar-Wood Breakfast Room, with its long wide balcony and awnings of pale fabric. His meal was laid out for him on a brass-topped table, platters of fruits and bread, slices of cheeses, a glowing jar of honey and another, plain earthenware, of soft new butter, preserved dates and sour pickles, rice porridge and oat porridge, dried beef and fresh-cooked mutton. One tall glass pitcher held clean water, another barley beer; smaller ones offered the juices of oranges and pineapples and grapes. Table servants sank into low obeisances as the Grass King settled himself on a pile of cushions and made his selections. Yelena scurried from curtain to bed, bed to door, along the corridor, and, at last, into the protective foliage of the thick flowering vine that covered the wall of the terrace and grew up its pillars to provide shade. She was hungry. She might, if she chose, sneak out from her hiding place, burrow into the Grass King’s seat and wait for his largesse. The wind brought her the scents of hot meat and curd cheese, and she swayed forward.

  In the Courtyard of Fallows, out there in the depths of the Rice Palace, Julana awaited her, sharing Marcellan’s small meal of flatbread and fruit. Yelena shook herself and pulled back.

  A servant came to the terrace door and bowed; the head of the table servants came to him and listened to his message, then clapped his hands in dismissal. Softly, smoothly, he whispered in the Grass King’s ear. The Grass King wiped his mouth with a napkin and nodded. “Have him come in. Bring cushions for him, and a plate.”

  “Sire.” The servant left on silent feet. After a moment or two, he returned, followed by Shirai. Somewhere in the rooms below, a musician began to play, a sweet sad tune on a wooden pipe.

  Shirai bowed.

  “Mo-Shirai. Be seated. Eat.” The Grass King gestured to the smaller cushion heap that the servants had set out. “The figs are good this morning. Also the sharp cheese.” Shirai bowed again and sat. A servant brought him a plate with the items the Grass King had named. “So,” the Grass King said, “how stand the banners?”

  “As they should.” Shirai said. “The night passed without incident until…” He hesitated. “At the dawn hour…”

  “We’ll speak of that shortly. Continue.”

  “As you wish. Sujien is restless. He would take his banner away for a time, to play at war in the mountains.”

  “That is his nature.”

  “Yes, but…” Again, Shirai hesitated. “The Fire Banner are also distracted. Liyan has again one of his obsessions.”

  The Grass King smiled. “Liyan has always some project on hand. That is as he is. But he should not neglect his duties to his banner.”

  “No.” Shirai said, and then, “Qiaqia…”

  The Grass King raised his eyes. “Tell the Darkchild that it is not her place to cover up the failings of the Firehand.”

  “I have done so, Sire. But I’m not wholly convinced that that’s what she is doing.”

  “Ah.” Both paused to drink more beer. The Grass King said, “And have you asked her what she is doing?”

  “I have. She said,” and Shirai smiled in his turn, “she said that she’s counting her sheep.”

  “Ask her to tell me when she’s finished. It’s a number I’d like to know.”

  “I will, Sire.”

  “And the Water Banner?”

  “They are as they always are.” Reservation caught the fringes of Shirai’s voice. “They know their duties. They perform them.”

  “And nothing more?” The Grass King dipped a finger into his goblet, watched the ripples play out from it across the surface of the ale. “Perhaps I should make changes in my intimate household.”

  “Tsai does not neglect her banner duties,” Shirai said.

  Again, the Grass King smiled, but this smile was small and pale. “As you say. Yet Tsai is sometimes forgetful. And she’s easily diverted.”

  “She…” and Shirai stopped, looked down at the tiled floor.

  “The junior maid to my twentieth lady is beloved of the sergeant of the Water Banner,” the Grass King said. “My twentieth lady complains to me that this junior maid is too often sleepy and vague about her duties. And I wonder if the sergeant occupies too much of his time with her.”

  “Sire,” said Shirai, slowly, “Tsai listens better to you than to me.”

  “It’s clear,” said the Grass King, “that whatever occupies Liyan also affects Tsai. And this new contraption involves her. The stones speak to me of this. Of water and movement and something more.” He frowned. In her hiding place, Yelena craned forward. He went on, “Something I do not know.” Yelena shivered. The Grass King knew everything. That was the rule.

  “Sire.” Shirai said, “the stones tell me no more than you.”

  “No.” The Grass King helped himself to a piece of cheese. “Perhaps it is only that the human is still with us.” Yelena shivered. Marcellan must be kept safe. The Grass King must not hurt him. “In which case,” the Grass King continued, “we should observe for a while, I think. I sense no harm.”

  “Sire.” Shirai gave a shallow bow. The piper finished his lament and began on a more sprightly tune. Yelena relaxed. The smell of the cooked meats piled on the table called to her. Neither the Grass King nor Shirai were paying the least attention to them. If she stayed in the shadows, if she sprinted for the shelter of the tablecloth…

  Shirai looked up. “Sire, Liyan has made a clock.”

  Yelena froze again.

  Clocks were not common in this place of amber twilight. Time counted itself in the rhythms of crops and fruits, the activities of court and countryside, measured out in incense sticks and bushel loads and habit. In the long series of kitchens that hugged the flank of the Rice Palace to its east, sand devices regulated the delivery of meals, the baking of pies and meats. The masters of the schools and libraries serving the court divided up their lessons by lengths of incense or marks on great candles. Clocks, with their heavy cases and loud pendulums, were regarded more as noisy curiosities than useful devices. If it occurred to the Grass King to wonder why Liyan was now interested in them…

  “A clock?” The Grass King’s voice was calm. “Does my Firehand seek to improve those we already have?”

  “That’s possible.”

  “And yet,” the Grass King continued, and his gaze grew soft and thoughtful, “you are confused by this clock. Why?”

  “It isn’t…” Shirai began, and stopped. He frowned. “It isn’t like the other clocks.”

  “That’s what one might expect, given Liyan.”

  “Yes. But,” Shirai shook his head. “My mind isn’t suited for such things.”

  The Grass King studied him. “What does Qiaqia say?”

  “She doesn’t.”

  Footfalls, quick and light, sounded from the room behind the terrace. Yelena pulled back into her hiding place. From behind the curtain, Liyan appeared, trailed by a flustered official. He bowed from the opening, and the Grass King beckoned him forward. He came to stand at Shirai’s shoulder. He was negligently dressed, in loose trousers and tunic, both smudged with metal dust and grease. His hair was bound back in a single tail, his face unveiled. “Mo-Liyan,” said the Grass King, and Liyan bowed again. The Grass King said, “There was a noise. Explain it to me.” Under the leaves, Yelena trembled anew.

  Liyan smiled. He said, “You heard it?”

  “We all heard it.” The Grass King eyed him. “Tsai felt it, also.”

  “She did?” Liyan put his head to one side, considering. “That’s inte
resting. All I did was divert one of the conduits, but she gave me permission. I must ask her about what she experienced. I wonder,” his voice trailed away, his eyes fixed on something in the middle distance.

  “Mo-Liyan,” the Grass King said, “the noise?”

  “It was a test. I wanted to be sure of range, of various calibrations…”

  “Perhaps,” said the Grass King, “it might have been better to give some kind of warning?”

  “I’d only just finished the adjustments.” Liyan’s face was guileless.

  The Grass King lifted a sleeve to his mouth. Yelena could see the muscles twitch as he hid his smile. “Mo-Liyan, didn’t you think it might startle the court?”

  “Oh.” Even Yelena, anxious in her shadows, could see the comedy at work. Her whiskers twitched. Were Julana here, were they in their accustomed nest under the Grass King’s robes, the twins would be quivering with delight. Liyan fidgeted with his sleeve, shuffled his feet, frowned, and said, “No.”

  This time, the Grass King did laugh. All along her spine, Yelena’s fur softened and flattened back down. Shirai took another mouthful from his cup. The Grass King said, “This clock. What is it intended to do?”

  “It measures,” Liyan said. “Hours. Minutes. The start and end of watches.” He gestured at a lamp that stood at one end of the terrace. “Those things—measurement by lamp wicks, by candles and incense and sand—they’re clumsy. They can change, depending on wind, on the quality of their making. My clock shouldn’t do that. It won’t need people to fill it or turn it or watch it. The water flows through it and makes it move.”

  “I see the challenge,” the Grass King said, “but the purpose, Mo-Liyan?”