“I would gladly decline the honor and ride to Shan on horseback,” Llesho offered. His gut swung queasily in its own direction, completely at odds with the beat of the running feet that jolted the litter.
“But Master Huang could not ride so far, nor could Master Den,” Habiba reminded him. “And we would have to leave our horses on the road in trade for fresh ones that we did not know as well, just as we have done with the bearers.”
All true, Llesho supposed. But they had only a few li behind them. If Habiba were correct, most of the journey remained ahead, and already Llesho wished himself dead. He leaned over the bucket and was thoroughly sick.
When he had finished, Habiba handed him a silk handkerchief with a smile. “It is the simplest I have about me,” he offered in a mild joke about the riches of empire. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Nooooo,” Llesho moaned, and was violently ill once again. When he was through, he fell back on his cushions with a woeful sigh. “What is the point of all this haste if I wish I were dead already?”
Habiba shook his head. “The point? Why, putting you in front of the emperor as a live supplicant rather than as a dead pretender, I suppose. Or did you look forward to Markko plotting your demise at his leisure?”
“Do you think he’d kill me now if I asked nicely?” Llesho perked up. The possibility almost gave him hope.
Habiba gave him an exasperated sigh. With a finger tucked under Llesho’s chin, the witch lifted the prince’s head out of his bucket.
“How long have you felt sick?” Habiba asked him.
“Since we started out.” Llesho wanted to ask how the witch managed to cope with the motion, but to think the words was to remind himself of how he felt, and that only made it worse.
Habiba frowned at him. “I could probably make you up a potion if we had an hour or two, and a fire.” He considered Llesho for a long moment. “But we cannot spare the time.
“Look at me, Llesho.”
Llesho looked, and flinched at the change that came over the witch. Habiba’s eyes were wide and fixed; the irises almost vanished while the pupils grew to fill all the space with darkness. He closed his own eyes, but that only made the sickness worse.
Habiba gave him a sharp tap on the chin with one finger.
“You are not a prince yet, my fine young gladiator,” Habiba snapped with more humor in his voice than the words merited. “Now do as you are told.”
“What are you going to do?” Llesho asked in a whisper.
“Nothing to hurt you. Not after all the trouble I’ve had getting you this far! Now look at me!”
Llesho looked.
“It is night, very dark, and you are in your own bed in the palace at Kungol. There are no raiders; your guard stands watch at your door to keep you safe. Your bed is warm, the breeze through the open window brings the scent of snow off the mountains, and below, in the city, the bleat of camels and the bark of dogs fill the night with their music.”
Llesho knew that none of it was real, but in spite of himself he felt his shoulders relaxing, his head growing heavier, his eyes closing . . .
“You are safe, you are comfortable, and you are so sleepy. You cannot stay awake any longer . . .”
When Llesho awoke, the litter had come to a halt, and beyond the tent curtains he heard the harsh calls of servants sorting themselves and locating their charges, From the hollow echo and the clack of wooden-soled sandals against paving tiles, he guessed they stood in a walled courtyard somewhere, but he didn’t know how far they had come or why they had stopped.
“Where are we?” he asked groggily, but Habiba was not there.
“Come, come!” One of the servants pushed his head between the curtains and gestured for Llesho to follow.
Llesho shook his head. “Where are we?” he asked again.
The servant disappeared, muttering something about crazy Thebins, but he was soon replaced by Master Den.
“What are you still doing in there, boy? You can’t see the emperor looking like that!”
Llesho paled in dismay, but climbed out of his litter as Den demanded. “Has the emperor come to meet us on the road?”
“We’re not on the road, Llesho. This is the inner courtyard of the Celestial Palace at Shan.”
“It can’t be!”
It certainly didn’t look regal. They had come to rest in a large walled courtyard with a cobbled square and plastered walls that rose well above Den’s head. It was dark, with not even a moon to brighten the square. The few torches carried by servants did little to light the space beyond the circle of the three official litters, but from what Llesho could see, the courtyard was empty except for themselves. There were no plants on the edges of the wall and Llesho could see no trees bending their branches over it as might be the fashion in Farshore Province. Of course, with no trees or vines to climb, a spy or saboteur would have a difficult time getting over the wall. Kungol Palace, he remembered, hadn’t had a wall at all. Who, after all, would invade the privacy of the goddess’ own beloved family? Llesho found himself looking at the courtyard wall in a friendlier light.
A stranger—no, not a stranger, but General Shou; Habiba had introduced him after the recent battle with Master Markko—interrupted his thoughts with a slap on the back. “Indeed, you’ve been on the road for two days,” General Shou confirmed. “Did Habiba put you to sleep? He’s a sly one. You have to watch him every minute!”
He figured the general meant it as a joke, because the man laughed and slapped him on the back again, but Llesho decided to take it as a real warning. After all, he had lost two days to the witch’s spell. What if they’d been attacked? He could have died without a chance to defend himself.
“As for meeting the emperor in your present state, I wouldn’t worry,” General Shou added, “even emperors have to sleep.
“If you have time during your visit, I’d like a chance to talk with you about Thebin.”
That was more seriously said, and Llesho’s curiosity perked up. “Do you know Thebin?” he asked.
“I visited it once, long ago, with a caravan to the West,” the general confirmed. “That was before my duties kept me closer to home.”
Spying, no doubt, Llesho figured, and whatever he’d seen hadn’t persuaded the Shan Empire to step in when the Harn raiders attacked. He found it a little more difficult to be polite after that, but fortunately, General Shou turned his attention to the others in the party.
“I am very glad to see you again, Master Den.” He slapped the master on the arm—something Llesho had never expected to see. “Very glad indeed.” He left them with instructions to have a comfortable night, and entered the palace by a small door from which a steady stream of guards and visitors in various degrees of official dress seemed to enter and depart.
“Come on, boy,” Master Den called to Llesho, and together they followed the servants through a more imposing public entrance. Habiba, Llesho noted, had disappeared, as had Ambassador Huang. Markko strode before them like a conquering hero; Llesho wished he had his bow and arrow handy, or barring that, a snowball. But it was not yet winter, and a servant led Markko away before Llesho could devise a more pertinent attack.
Chapter Thirty-one
MASTER Den nudging him with a strong hand between his shoulder blades, Llesho followed a servant into a vaulted entry hall bigger than the audience chamber at Kungol. In front of them a broad stairway of inlaid marquetry rose halfway to the carved and painted ceiling, where it opened into a gallery that ran the length of the entry hall. The staircase resumed at either end of the gallery, disappearing into passageways at opposite ends of the hall.
The servant stopped on the first landing and wordlessly directed them past a sliding panel into a long corridor, dark except for a few scattered lamps set into the smooth plastered walls. When it looked like they could go no farther without bumping into a blank wall at the end of the passage, the servant turned right and disappeared.
Llesho followed and found
himself in a narrower, darker passage that curved in a long arc, so that he could not see more than a few feet ahead of him. He stopped, unwilling to follow any farther until he knew where they were going, and Master Den bumped into him.
“What if it’s a trap?” Llesho whispered urgently.
“It’s the back way to the private bedrooms,” Master Den assured him, and added tartly, “Some of us didn’t sleep the entire journey away and are anxious to get to our beds.”
Llesho began moving again, but he wasn’t much comforted. “Where are Habiba and Master Markko?” He figured that the ambassador had his own home to go to, but he didn’t want to bump into Markko in a dark corridor.
“They’ve been taken to official guest quarters in another wing of the palace,” Master Den informed him. “They don’t know where the guards have taken us, and they don’t have access to the private quarters from their own rooms.”
Master Den clearly had some connection to the royal household that would merit a personal invitation, but Llesho wondered why he hadn’t been sent off with the others. The washerman who, if one were to believe the ambassador, had once been an imperial general, seemed to read his mind. “Official quarters are for those who have an official claim upon the empire. Until the emperor decides what claim he is willing to acknowledge toward you, it is better that you remain a guest in an unofficial capacity.”
“You will be watched, of course.” Master Den laughed under his breath. “And keeping you close like this is bound to make Markko nervous.”
Llesho wasn’t certain he wanted the overseer nervous—Master Markko was bad enough when he thought he had the upper hand—but he said nothing. The narrow passageway ended in a door which the servant opened with a big iron key that groaned in the lock. He threw the door wide and ushered them into a lavishly decorated hall lit at every point by lanterns with soft gold shutters. Creamy light gleaming off of gilt carvings dazzled Llesho’s eyes, and he blinked away tears until his vision had adjusted to the glow.
Master Den followed him out of the passage and the servant closed the heavy red-lacquered door after them with another impatient gesture to hurry. He led them just a little way down the elegant hall to a recessed alcove flanked by stiff-backed Imperial Guards. Elaborate panels carved with fantastic animals lined the alcove. The servant pressed on the head of a carved dragon, and a gilt panel slid aside, revealing a bedroom larger than Lord Chin-shi’s room on Pearl Island, and decorated with more riches as well.
Again, the servant gestured without words that Llesho should enter. Leaving him to his own devices with a brief bow, the servant slid the panel shut after him. Llesho heard two sets of footsteps move down the hall, then another door slid on its runner. Master Den was nearby at least.
Alone, Llesho had a choice of only two occupations: he could think, or he could explore. His bladder made that decision for him: explore. Quickly. He passed over the lacquered cabinets and the tall standing chest, and ignored the bed big enough to hold his entire squad without crowding them. The room was lavishly draped with silken wall hangings covering greased-paper windows, paneled walls almost as sumptuous as the hangings that covered them. Some of those panels had to be doors: he’d come through one which had blended back into the decorative gilt and carving so that he could no more find his way out again than he could find the other doors that must be present in the room. When he had begun to despair of ever finding what he needed, however, he discovered the secret of the moving panels, and behind them, the door leading to the correct chamber.
More comfortable after a brief visit to the personal room, he explored more systematically. Besides the panel by which he’d entered and the door he had just used, Llesho found only one other functioning exit, and that was locked and bolted from the other side. He noted that the mysterious door had no locking mechanism on his side, and the absence of his personal guards suddenly took on a more ominous meaning. Assassins could come through that door any time they wanted to kill him in his sleep. Good thing he wasn’t tired.
On a second round of exploring his bedchamber, Llesho opened the chest and the cabinets, noted items of Thebin apparel and others in the style of the Shan Empire, all in his size. Laid out among the elegant decoration of the palace chamber, the contents of his pack rested on the shelves of the standing chest. Displayed lovingly, like the votive objects of a shrine, he found the ancient spear that her ladyship had given him and the jade cup. Touching them sent a chill down his spine. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make him comfortable, had even recognized the value of the objects in his pack as relics rather than the tools of a soldier. The care they had taken hardly seemed necessary if they planned to have him killed immediately. He decided to take that as a good sign.
Even in daylight he wouldn’t be able to see through the greased paper windows, but he stopped for a moment in his explorations of his bedchamber, struck by the silence. He could hear nothing of the life of the empire’s largest and most powerful city, and the contrast with his father’s palace struck him like a dagger in the heart.
Even in the darkest hours of night Kungol had hummed with life—groaning camels and bleating lambs, drunken caravan drovers brawling in the street—like the pulse of a living creature whose health a king might measure by the beat of it as he slept. How could an emperor know his empire when he could not even hear the cries of his city? Why did Habiba and Master Den think that such an Emperor would stoop to help the deposed prince of a conquered land a thousand li to the west, when he gave so little notice to the life just paces from his celestial throne? He would receive no help here; Llesho threw himself on the bed, determined to make his own way at dawn.
But the bed was comfortable, and he had been on the march for a long time. Despite his determination, he fell asleep and awoke only when the smell of breakfast pulled him out of his dreams. A bustling servant poured out his tea and opened the lacquered chest with a thoughtful frown. When Llesho returned from relieving himself, he found that the servant had laid out a set of ornate robes suitable to an imperial official. Llesho glared at the clothing, which looked too complicated for him to manage on his own and too uncomfortable for him to want to manage. The servant had already gone, so he ignored the clothing and focused on his breakfast.
While he was still nibbling a cake full of cinnamon, nuts, and honey, a man he identified from his medallion of office as a protocol officer knocked on his door and entered without an invitation. After a minimal bow, to show Llesho how little respect he was owed, the protocol officer stiffly recited his message: “The emperor is otherwise engaged. You may petition for an audience, but he is very busy. If he finds the time to see you, you will have two or three minutes to state your case in a public audience, and none at all alone. Be prepared with an inscribed memorial laying out your case and the outcome for which you petition: the Celestial Emperor does not suffer fools to live.”
Llesho was tempted to comment that the continued existence of the protocol officer proved otherwise, but he kept his mouth shut. Don’t attract attention, he warned himself. When the official had gone, Llesho wiped his hands on the silk napkin and prepared to dress. He ignored the Shannish robes laid out for him, and dug in the chest for something less noticeable to wear. The Thebin day wear tempted him, but it would draw far too much attention here on the eastern edge of the trade routes. Instead, he pulled on a pair of plain breeches and a silk shirt with a minimum of decoration, and found a pair of shoes more suited to walking than either his Thebin boots or the fragile slippers the servant had chosen.
When he was dressed, he left his room. The guards at his door did not surprise him, but neither did they follow when he turned down the hall, nor did they stop him when he tried to slide open the panel to the next room down the corridor. He was disappointed but not surprised when it didn’t open. About thirty paces farther on he came to a staircase more modest than the one he’d taken the night before. Descending cautiously, he found himself in a small, octagonal chamber with a doorwa
y in each wall. Two imperial soldiers stood guard at rigid attention, but they made no move to stop Llesho when he opened the first door.
“Just exploring,” he explained.
The soldiers said nothing, so he peeked inside and found a small room with a few scattered chairs bearing no decoration, and a table with a large urn of hot water, a teapot, and a scattering of cups on it. Two of the chairs were occupied by soldiers, apparently waiting for their turn at guard duty or coming off the shift before and warming themselves with some tea before moving on. They stared at him, and Llesho smiled uncomfortably.
“As you were,” he said, and closed the door again.
The next door opened into another small room, this one more carefully furnished, but still with none of the richness one expected of an imperial palace. Llesho guessed that the officers of the guard might take their rest or give their orders here.
The third door led into a long dark passageway that plunged deep into the palace. At the far end, Llesho could just make out by the light of a single lamp an iron staircase spiraling up to the level from which he had just come, and leading down into what must be an underground passage or chamber. The passage left him with the vague impression of dried and crusted blood, though he had seen nothing to support the terror that he felt just thinking about it. He stored the location for later, but closed the door on the passage with as much speed as he could muster with any kind of dignity.
When he opened the fourth door, he actually smiled. Here was another passageway, but one with natural light filtering in from slots cut high overhead. The passage followed the line of the palace wall, and Llesho guessed that there might be a hidden exit at the end of it. The soldiers did not stop him, so he entered the passage and closed the door behind him, leaving it ajar just enough so it would not latch and lock him in if he did not find another way out.
He needn’t have worried. The passage led him through what must have been the palace’s east wall, because the morning sun fell like bars of gold across his path. After he had gone more than two hundred paces, the passage opened out into a rough chamber that ended in a tunnel cutting into the ground beneath the palace wall. From this tunnel Llesho felt no air of death or decay, and he followed it. He was surprised to discover lighted torches all along the way—for all its apparent secrecy, it must be a well used route, a shortcut of some kind. The tunnel branched. Llesho considered for a moment, before taking the path with fewer torches burning down its length.
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