The Prince of Shadow

by Curt Benjamin

  While Llesho was admiring his companions, Master Den had unearthed a chest covered in leather and bound with brass. From the silk-lined interior he drew a shirt and breeches like his Thebin guards wore, but of a finer fabric. Llesho stripped off the trainee’s uniform he had been given in the governor’s compound at Farshore; he felt as though he were shedding a false skin with it, reclaiming Thebin with the fine woolen shirt and breeches. Next Master Den pulled out a pair of soft boots encrusted at heel and toe with gold filigree that gleamed with a polished sheen in the sunlight, and a sleeveless Thebin coat embroidered in gold-and-crimson thread crossed with blue silk. Llesho pulled on the boots and slipped his arms through the slashed openings at each side of the coat, settling the shoulders with a familiar shrug.

  “Now you look like a fine young prince of the High Mountains,” Den assured him with a pleased look. The last item, a heavy leather belt, he wrapped around Llesho’s waist with a satisfied nod. They were far from Thebin, however, and Llesho could think of no way that Master Den would have acquired the court dress of a prince of just Llesho’s size on Pearl Island.

  “Where did you get these?”

  Master Den shook his head. “All in good time.” He led them back through the line of tents, Lling at the left side of the prince and Hmishi at his right, with Kaydu and Bixei following behind.

  Soldiers who had paid them no notice when they had passed on their way back to the launderer’s wagon now stopped their mending or their gossip as they passed. Llesho tilted his chin up, refusing to show the nerves that were twisting his gut. A suit of clothes might convince the soldiers of the line, but alone it was not likely to impress the emperor’s representative. He’d have to act like a prince as well.

  Llesho didn’t remember much from the part of his life he’d lived in his father’s court. He did know, however, that before state appearances, the Master of Protocol had always taken him aside and explained what was expected of him. And his brothers, whichever of them was home at the time, would watch him to make certain he did not shame himself or the court. Yet here he was heading into the most important appearance of his young life—based on this meeting, he might gain the help of the emperor for his cause, or find himself clapped in chains and sold again in the marketplace—and there was no protocol officer in sight.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Llesho took a deep breath and let it go in a long, expressive sigh. Was his terror so obvious that his teacher could read it in his face without a word spoken? He didn’t know what Master Den could do, but Llesho took the question as an invitation to unburden himself of some of his fears. “I don’t know what to do.” He did not add, “I don’t know why you are doing this, or what Habiba—or her ladyship—hopes to gain by espousing the cause of a long deposed prince.”

  Master Den clapped him on the shoulder with a snort of laughter. “You forget, Llesho, I’ve seen you when you feel threatened. You are more haughty at those times than the emperor himself. Even dressed in rags you carry yourself like a prince. So be the prince you are. Beyond that, speak as little as you can; let them wonder. You can manage that, can’t you?”

  “I. Yes.” Head up. Meet the challenge with a level gaze that judged everything and apologized for nothing. And trust no one.

  It was Den’s turn to sigh now. He dropped a heavy hand on Llesho’s shoulder. “Your father would be proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Llesho bowed his head, hiding the shine of tears in his eyes. His father was gone, and he didn’t know how Master Den could have known him, or how the teacher could choose the one compliment that could bow him low with his grief while at the same time instilling a greater determination to do justice to his father and the line of Thebin kings. For Thebin, Llesho knew, he could do much.

  They had reached the command tent; Habiba’s guards came to attention when they announced Llesho and his party. Habiba waited for them inside the tent. The maps had been stowed, the dishes of food taken away. A simple wooden box now sat alone on the table.

  “Prince Llesho. I have something that belongs to you. Her ladyship bid me return it to you, should the opportunity present itself.” Habiba stroked the wood of the box on the camp table. The witch had never called Llesho by his title before, and he did so now with no hint of a smile.

  Once you bought me fresh from the arena, a shop-worn prince for small change in that marketplace, Llesho thought, but did not say aloud. He did, however, returned the solemn bow.

  Habiba opened the box. From it he drew a silver coronet, which he offered to the prince between outstretched palms.

  “Where did you get that?” Llesho asked, surprised at how much it hurt to look at the slender circle of precious metal. Not quite a crown, nevertheless it signaled to any who saw it that the wearer was of royal blood. He’d worn one like it on his small head during the most solemn court occasions before the Harn had come. It was too big to have been his own as that child; it must have belonged to one of his brothers.

  “Her ladyship obtained it from a Harn trader,” Habiba answered. “I did not ask her why, or question her decision to return it to one who had the right to wear it.”

  She had always known, from that first day in the weapons room at Pearl Island. She had suspected even earlier, though Llesho didn’t know how long he had lain in bondage while the governor of Farshore and his lady knew him for a wronged prince. He could not decide whether he was grateful that they hadn’t murdered him as a gift to the conquerors, or angry because they had left him to suffer under Markko’s hand for so long.

  “If I may?” Habiba lifted the coronet over his head, and Llesho bowed his acceptance. Habiba lowered his hands and set the coronet on Llesho’s head. The weight of it settled over Llesho like a benediction, and he felt his fate shift beneath his feet. The sensation struck with such force that it made him dizzy, and he might have fallen had Lling not reached out a hand to steady him.

  “Are you all right, my prince?” she asked.

  He nodded, and realized that Master Den had the right of it. He was a prince, and Llesho had only to be himself to prove it. He found himself whispering a prayer to the goddess, that she might find him worthy in her eyes.

  “To horse, Your Highness?” Habiba urged them all. “Ambassador Huang awaits.”

  “It’s time,” Llesho agreed. He had much to fear from the coming meeting, but none of it would be what he expected. Whatever happened, however, he would greet it with the dignity of a prince.

  PART FOUR

  SHAN

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  HABIBA’S sergeant at arms would have put Llesho on a war steed taller at the shoulder than Llesho’s head, but he refused, choosing instead the short and sturdy horse, so like the beasts native to Thebin, that had carried him from Farshore. His guard had likewise rejected the more impressive mounts for their old companions of the trail. Like warriors stepping through a crack in time, they stood at the right hand of the magician, Habiba.

  Master Den complained about mounting any horse at all, but was finally persuaded onto the back of a fat and complacent mare who took his weight with a single snort of indignation before sidling up to Habiba’s left. The honor guard, twenty of Habiba’s soldiers in the livery of her ladyship and Farshore Province, fell in behind the leaders.

  “An auspicious number to honor a visiting prince,” Habiba explained to Llesho, “but not so many that Ambassador Huang HoLun might consider our purpose a threat.”

  That was certainly true. Habiba’s scouts had reported that the emperor’s guard, a force in excess of five thousand men, waited in readiness not more than a li distant, camped in a wheat field left fallow for the season. The witch had accepted the information with a little shrug. “We are seeking the Celestial Emperor’s help, not contesting his rule in his own province. If he decides against her ladyship’s petition, we have lost before we have begun.”

  The thought did little to comfort Llesho.

  The party of petitioners crossed the f
ield on which their own army camped. Too soon, the forest that marked the boundary between Thousand Lakes and Shan Province was before them. Two by two, the party entered the wood, following a narrow but well-marked path that wound between tall trees whose thick branches blotted out the sun. Llesho shivered as his horse stepped into the shadows. The forest was too still, and he wondered what had startled the birds and crickets into silence. Perhaps the emperor’s ambassador had decided to resolve the puzzle of a deposed prince with an anonymous arrow from behind a tree or from hiding in the brush that crowded close against the path.

  Kaydu rode ahead with Bixei to scout the way, and Habiba followed, riding at Llesho’s side, offering themselves unprotected at the head of the party as a sign of trust and good will. Llesho recognized the message his own place in the order of march sent the ambassador waiting up ahead. Habiba recognized Llesho’s rank as superior to his own and equal to the lady’s in whose name he traveled. Her ladyship’s witch did not speak, but watched the forest to right and to left with dark and vigilant eyes. Llesho found himself darting quick glances to either side as well, wondering whether Markko had survived the recent battle unscathed, and where he had gone to regroup his forces. Master Den rode after them, alone, with Lling and Hmishi behind. The twenty men of Habiba’s guard followed last.

  Llesho held himself a little straighter. The short spear her ladyship had returned to him remained hidden in his pack, but he displayed his Thebin sword in its saddle scabbard near his knee. Habiba had said nothing about the knife he carried beneath his shirt. To Llesho, the Thebin knife even more than the coronet signaled his rank. So he reached under his collar for the cord around his neck and removed it, clasping the scabbard to the belt that wrapped his Thebin coat. Now he felt like a prince of the House of Thebin, beloved of the goddess and successor to his father’s throne. Without giving it any thought, his head came up, and the hesitation cleared from his eyes.

  “Your Highness,” Habiba addressed him with a smile. “I am happy to see that you have joined us at last.”

  Llesho responded with a level, almost threatening stare. “I know what they think of us in Shan. To them, we are barbarians, seduced by the riches of the West and brought to our downfall because we grew weaker than our savage neighbors.”

  Habiba looked surprised at Llesho’s description of how imperial eyes must see Thebin. He was about to be more surprised.

  “They’re wrong,” Llesho finished. “We are barbarians, perhaps, but captivity has made us stronger.”

  “Thebin was once known for its cunning.” Habiba seemed to approve.

  “I know nothing of that,” Llesho answered with a sardonic twist to the words.

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  They had reached the edge of the forest, and Habiba gave his attention to the open field before them. Llesho did the same. Waves of low grasses filled in the faint reminders of plowed rows. Now, however, the fallow ground sprouted silk pavilions like bright yellow mushrooms in the sunshine. Three men on horseback waited for them at the side of the forest trail. The central figure, dressed in the heavy coat of an imperial marshal at arms, moved forward to greet them. His two attendants, in the uniforms of the imperial horse battalion, waited with their hands on the hilts of their swords.

  “Huang HoLun, Ambassador of the Celestial Emperor the Great God of Shan, sends his greetings to Habiba, servant of her ladyship of Farshore Province,” the marshal pronounced, “and bids him come forward to offer tribute and receive the blessings of the emperor’s house upon him.” He said nothing of Llesho, but his eyes did not leave the Thebin prince until Habiba drew his sword in the ritual of allegiance.

  First Habiba kissed the blade. Then, reversing his hold on the weapon, he extended the hilt to the emperor’s marshal. “Her ladyship extends her worshipful prayer that the emperor’s ambassador will accept her humble servant as his own, and lend an ear to her piteous plea. The emperor’s governor of Farshore Province lies murdered, his state and all his holdings seized by enemies who press even now to lay waste to her father’s realm.”

  “Ambassador Huang will speak to you on these and other matters,” the marshal agreed. He did not add any kind wishes of the ambassador’s that might have assured them of a favorable hearing, but turned his horse and, with a last backward glance at Llesho, headed for the largest of the bright yellow tents waiting for them on a small rise in the field.

  “He knows who I am, but he didn’t say anything about me being here,” Llesho frowned after the departing marshal, wondering what he was to make of the greeting that ignored him officially while giving him all the attention of the man’s stare.

  “He knows who you say you are, surely,” Habiba corrected him. He kicked his horse into motion, setting his small party to follow the marshal before adding, “Your dress and your bearing have made that clear. And he showed great interest in you, but no surprise.”

  “You’re not the only one with spies,” Llesho suggested.

  “No, I’m not.” Habiba narrowed his eyes, as if he could see through the yellow silk and into the heart of the delegate. He hadn’t expected so guarded a reception, and Llesho didn’t like the idea that something had taken the witch by surprise. After a moment of tense thought, Habiba shifted into a waiting mode with a little shrug. “We will know soon enough what the ambassador makes of us.”

  There was something brewing beneath Habiba’s impassive exterior. Llesho couldn’t figure out exactly what it was, but he figured that, if the witch was suspicious, he was well advised to stay on the defensive. He let his hand drift to the hilt of his knife.

  “Five thousand to our twenty.” Habiba did not turn to look at him, but offered the reminder as if to the wind. Llesho took the hint—a dead prince was no use to his people—and let his hand drop once again to the reins. It was as well that he did so, for they had arrived in front of the yellow silk tent, and soldiers poured out on every side to surround them. Llesho slid from his saddle, leaving his sword where it lay. When one of the imperial guard would have taken his knife, however, he reached it faster, not unsheathing it, but holding it tight to his side with the flat of his open hand.

  “It is a symbol of rank,” Habiba explained, and the soldiers backed off, letting one of authority among them come forward.

  “No one may approach the emperor’s ambassador while armed,” the sergeant of the guard instructed.

  Habiba waved a careless hand. “He is but a boy, the knife a mere trinket, but important as a symbol. You understand?” he lied.

  The sergeant turned to examine the Thebin prince, who looked younger than he was because of his short stature. Llesho smiled back at the sergeant with his most vacuous grin. I’m harmless, he thought at the man.

  Quick as a striking snake, the sergeant made a grab for Llesho’s throat. Just as quickly, Llesho had the knife out. If the sergeant had not anticipated the move, he would have been dead, but he clasped Llesho’s wrist in both of his hands and managed to stop the knife with just the tip bloodied. The wounded soldier exerted pressure on the nerves that ran close to the surface of Llesho’s knobby wristbone, but the knife did not fall. “Give.” the soldier said. “Give!”

  They stayed like that, frozen for an endless second, until Llesho’s eyes cleared, and he realized that he was standing in the center of a shocked and silent circle, his hand still wrapped around his knife, while a bleeding soldier clung to his wrist as if his life depended on it. Slowly, Llesho realized that it probably did.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, horrified at what he had done. But he did not drop the knife, even now that he was aware of the painful pressure the sergeant was exerting on the nerves in his wrist.

  “Please let me go!” he cried. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The sergeant snorted indignantly. “Let go of the knife first, then we’ll see.”

  Llesho stared with growing horror from the knife in his frozen hand to the sergeant. “I can’t,” he said.

  The soldier f
rowned, and glanced away to call for aid from the men who surrounded them. Habiba stepped forward, however, with both hands out to show that he carried no weapon.

  Moving slowly so that he startled neither Llesho nor the tense guards who awaited only the command of their sergeant to cut down the Thebin prince, he slipped one hand over that of the soldier holding Llesho’s wrist. “Let go, very slowly.” He pinned the man with a hypnotic stare, and the soldier’s hand relaxed. Llesho pulled away, but he could not escape Habiba’s hold, which had replaced that of the damaged soldier.

  “Now, give me the knife, Llesho. You can trust me . . .” Gradually, Llesho felt the soft, low words lulling him into a warm sense of security. Relieved, he turned his bloodied palm up, offering the knife. With no outward show of urgency Habiba took it.

  “I hope that whatever you learned was worth the cost,” he said to the sergeant, holding the knife out to him. The sergeant looked from the witch to Llesho and back again, his face set in hard lines. He didn’t have to say anything. It was obvious to everyone who had seen it that the man had learned exactly what he wanted to know from the exercise, and that he treated that knowledge with deadly seriousness.

  “I truly am sorry.” Llesho sighed, certain that they had just lost something more important than his Thebin knife, but not sure what it could be. They wanted the ambassador to believe that Llesho was a true prince of Thebin. If the sergeant knew enough about the raising of young princes on the high plateau to test him with the knife, he had only learned what they wanted the emperor to know anyway.

  Whatever it was, Habiba had his “making the best of a plan gone awry” face on when he held out a cloth to the bleeding sergeant. “Bind that up; you are dripping on your uniform,” he said when the sergeant had thrust Llesho’s knife into his own belt. “And watch that blade—it’s sharp.”