The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  Now, though, she wondered.

  It took a long time, in a tiny Zhaon inn with her princess breathing deeply and regularly beside her, before Komor Yala dropped into an uneasy sleep.

  A WEIGHTY OBLIGATION

  The melt was well underway, dripping from every eave and corner; early yeoyans in the most sheltered locations had begun to show traces of spring finery. Inside the chill stone bulk of Khir’s Great Keep, though, no flowering disturbed tense daily hush, and the cold gardens stood empty. The king’s temper was uncertain and the royal women’s quarters were shut, the doors sealed with red wax and the royal sigil.

  Daoyan’s visitor had no doubt attended that ceremony, and worn the same expression he now sported.

  “Your Highness,” Domari Ulo murmured, folding his hands within his sleeves. He wore no sword, and Daoyan did not motion him to sit in either the comfortable leather chair or the severe, high-backed wooden one. Whatever pretty package of lies or unctuousness the man wished could be delivered standing. “It does me good to enter your presence.”

  At least when he had been merely a bastard, his so-called betters had not done Narikh’a Daoyan, now Ashani Daoyan, the disservice of thinking him stupid. He raised his gaze slowly, taking in the toes of fine, embroidered palace slippers—carried in a perfumed bag when not in service, no doubt—and the severe sumptuous robe of a noble minister with interlocking shuh characters stitched upon the cuffs, and finally arrived at Domari Ulo’s round face and catlike grey eyes. He took his time with the appraisal; it was perhaps petty, but the Domar clan had never attempted closer relations while Dao’s half-brothers were alive.

  The legitimate brothers.

  “Lord Domari. What an auspicious visit.” Had he still been the bastard son, Dao might have delivered the line while lounging upon a couch in a darkened room, but now he wore half-armor and received his visitors in a palace study, part of quarters hurriedly shaken free of dust and filled with antique or hastily acquired furniture. The shelves in this study were somewhat embarrassingly bare since his personal books and scrolls were absent, being carefully packed in a banishment-manor on the very edge of the Great Keep’s city.

  He did not offer the minister tea, either. Domar was of the Second Families, but Ulo was from a junior branch, raised to prominence by the great ill-luck of the clan-head’s household. The man did not show offense, but then, a minister with an easily readable face was a minister who fell from favor quickly. “I can only hope it will be, Your Highness.” Perhaps the title of First Prince stuck in Ulo’s throat.

  Daoyan could only hope the obstruction was large, and stayed put. A childhood spent with remote, nose-pinching tutors and iron-backed disapproving aunts was far from the worst training in keeping his own expression neutral and pleasant. “Then please tell me your purpose, minister. I have rather a lot of well-robed people seeking my time these days.” His fingers ached with the urge to clench into fists; Komori Baiyan would have snorted and pushed at him with a shoulder like a horse, whistling a snatch of a current popular tune with an applicable chorus. Probably one from the theaters they attended together, sometimes with Yala seated safely between them.

  Bai had never treated him as lesser. Unless, of course, Dao paid too much attention to his beloved little sister. Who was now wending, step by slow step, into Zhaon, betrayed even by her prig of a father.

  And Daoyan, for all his newfound importance, had been unable to help. Thinking upon that would make his fists knot themselves despite his self-control, so Daoyan made certain his fingers lay against the veined stone desktop, its chill keeping him likewise ice-clear.

  Domari Ulo made a slight tsking noise. His smile remained the same, and if his own hands tensed, his sleeves hid the fact. “Must we begin in such a fashion? I have never done you wrong, Your Highness.”

  You have never done me much good, either. Half-armor was uncomfortable while sitting for long periods, but Daoyan wished to make a point of not trusting anything in the Great Keep, even the water. “Khir did Zhaon no wrong. Unless you count the Second Dynasty.”

  “They are only temporarily strong. Their warlord has too many sons; chaos has already begun, for those who have eyes to see.” The head of Domar dipped his chin, affecting to study the desk-top, the rack of brushes, the inkstone and dish of water ready and glistening, the stacks of paper, the blotter and lesser carved seals, the large, shining new seal-box. “I am speaking plainly, to the future Great Rider of Khir. We are weakened, but still dangerous. It is only the southroners who fight on full bellies.”

  “They strangle our trade with Shan and Anwei, and have for years.” Daoyan could have recited the litany of Khir’s woes in his sleep. “The Ch’han would like to help, but we are so far away, and it pleases them to have us only strong enough to guard their southron passes, no more.”

  “You have very good ears, Your Highness.” Domari Ulo bowed slightly while delivering a compliment, but those cat-eyes had narrowed. Behind him, hung slightly to the right in order to be seen from the desk no matter who stood before it, a hanging of thick pressed rai-paper held a quotation from Xao Le-ong, a little-known sage with only a fragment of a single work in the Hundreds.

  The banked fire burns longest, Komor Yala’s brushstrokes read, careful and flowing. She had presented the hanging upon his sixteenth birthday, a somber girl in Komor dark blue with a shy almost-smile offering the wrapped package with both hands, under Bai’s watchful glare. Below the characters, a few thick black lines gave the suggestion of wood, and precious crimson ink had been daubed with a thick brush to make coals.

  “You flatter me, elder.” Daoyan settled his feet more comfortably under the desk. He also wore boots in the palace; slippers were a dangerous luxury. Acrid tanuha incense was burning in the adjoining waiting chamber, to ward off bad air and the ill-luck of disuse. A faint shuffling sounded from that quarter, clients seeking patronage, nobles seeking favors, all jostling to see which way the new prince would turn. “I had tutors. My royal father made certain of that much.”

  “I do not doubt it.” Ulo moved to the reason for his visit with surprising speed. “We were forced to give Zhaon your royal sister.” The Domar shook his head, probably pained by the effort of being so direct. “To bring peace.”

  No doubt Ulo fancied he would have fought better in the morass of mud, blood, and shit that was a battle. “An unwelcome event,” Daoyan murmured. A sister he had never spoken to lest his mother’s dishonor contaminate her, a pretty, moon-faced girl dragging Komor Yala into the abyss. Of course it wouldn’t occur to Bai’s little sister to go against the Great Rider, much less her father. The study’s bright mirrorlight dimmed, clouds veiling the sun as the uneasy border between winter storms and spring rain passed over the Great Keep.

  Ulo had apparently decided it was time to be even plainer, surely a sign of great distress. “Your royal father is occupied with grief and rebuilding. It falls to you to ensure Khir’s future.”

  And how do you propose I do so? Daoyan let his hands rest, slack and relaxed despite their burning, upon the desk’s ruthlessly organized top. The biggest gilt-chased box held a new royal seal, heavy greenstone carved with a name that should have been his at birth. Would have been his, had fate allowed. “A weighty obligation, Lord Domari.” In other words, he was disposed to hear more.

  “Difficult decisions must be made.” Ulo’s sleeves did not tremble, but his voice dropped, low and confidential. “Zhaon has occupied us much, of late. But there are other lands, especially to the west.”

  A thin icy fingertip scratched lightly down Daoyan’s back. He’d felt it more than once. A bastard son had to be pleasant, had to display no ambition—and had to place his boots carefully, not to mention tighten his own saddle-girth.

  Accidents were common, and there were plenty of nobles who would like to see him blotted from the scroll of the living, his mother’s brothers chief among them. A succession crisis in Zhaon was a tiny matter compared to what the so-upright, so-honorable Se
cond Families of Khir would do to each other if the Great Rider died without an heir, however illegitimate.

  Or if the last heir met with an ill fate. “Many other lands,” Dao agreed. “The wastes keep us from experiencing trouble from that direction.” Why bother with sharp-spined Khir at the end of an ocean of sand, if Shan’s trade routes and the rich underbelly of Zhaon were available? Even Anwei had learned as much, and merchants acquired their lessons slowly, if at all.

  “Oh, true. But others among our neighbors might not be so lucky.” Ulo paused.

  So that is your game. It was one Daoyan was more than prepared to set a counter or two within. “Where are my manners?” He finally indicated the hard wooden chair, his own private joke. They would assume much from the contrast between cushion and plainness, and those assumptions would tell him just who and what he was facing. “Will you be seated, Lord Domari?”

  “You are very kind, Your Highness.” The minister bowed and lowered himself onto the seat. “So, Zhaon and Khir are to be married. Zhaon will grow even richer from tariffs and tolls, and that makes them a ripe prize.”

  “Assuming they breed no more generals like that cursed Zakkar.” It had become the practice among the survivors of Three Rivers to spit when that name was mentioned. Daoyan wondered how Ulo would react if a prince did so, here. A rich little tidbit of gossip to carry to his scheming friends, no doubt.

  “Their so-called emperor grows no younger, and his pet general has mighty enemies at court.” The minister made another small sound, expressing either well-bred contempt or slightly less-than-noble satisfaction. Or, more likely, a mixture of both. “Should misfortune befall Zhaon, they will no doubt call upon Khir. Even weakened, we may be enough to tip a balance.”

  Unless there is a reason not to. The cold fingertip was back, and it was joined by another, raking lightly as a playful courtesan upon a patron’s nakedness. “Of course we would ride to the aid of my royal sister, should there be need,” Daoyan said carefully.

  “Of course.” Domari Ulo nodded. “Yes. Of course. If… there is need.”

  Much now became clear. Idly, Dao wondered what would happen if he rose, strode around the desk, and backhanded this oily, treacherous baryo to the floor. The royal seal was heavy and its box of fine quality. Skull-shattering, even, if properly swung.

  But that was only a momentary pleasure, and he had other plans. Many, many other plans, and it seemed this fellow would provide valuable service without even realizing it.

  Daoyan’s smile broadened, became natural. He touched the gong at his elbow, and called for tea. Domari Ulo’s own smile widened as well, and the minister freed one hand to stroke at his chin, a clear sign of satisfaction. His clan’s great seal-ring gleamed upon his first left finger.

  “It is my belief,” Dao said softly, “that the wise men should be listened to when a kingdom is in danger.”

  Ulo, like the legitimate nobleman he was, assumed he was wise.

  And began to speak.

  REMEMBER YOUR LOYALTY

  Your Highness!” Zan Pao’s forehead met hardwood, his prostration excellent and trembling. He was grease-pale, and his eyebird-bright robes, too fine for his station, would not give up stains easily. Especially since the floor in this tiny inn-room—well off the main road, and unpleasant in more ways than one—had just been mopped.

  A prince had specifically requested the cleaning in preparation for this meeting. He had also, politely but specifically, asked it be done with stable water.

  Strange were the ways of royalty, indeed.

  “It is fortunate our paths met, Honorable Zan Pao.” Garan Makar, Fourth Prince of Zhaon, folded his hands and regarded the unfortunate head eunuch. The Scholar Prince was a tall, spare figure, his robe dark but rich. A straight nose and quiet dark eyes added to bladed cheekbones made him a scroll-picture of serenity. It was said he translated the Thousand Pages into common Zhaon when he was eleven, at the same age he killed an assassin in Second Queen Haesara’s quarters, defending his mother and younger brother. His sword was more often hung upon a wall-hook than at his belt, though, and the fan tucked neatly in his sleeve was a gift from Daorak Ghen, the famous tutor of the Emperor’s youth.

  “Very fortunate, yes.” At least Zan Pao had sense enough to add nothing else. Behind him, similarly prostrated but upon a prayermat of coarse wool, was a scholar—the Haor boy, the one whose careful missives had allowed Makar to catch up.

  The Fourth Prince, standing at the latticed window, rubbed his right thumb meditatively over the greenstone ring upon his left middle finger. It bore a fine carving matching that of his hurai, the seal of a royal family member in the high characters of Zhaon. “It is very strange,” he mused aloud, “that a princess should be traveling with so few guards.” And two of the First Queen’s most junior maids. No, the Emperor would not like this at all. Makar’s hair gleamed, his sleek topknot caged not with gold but with stiffened leather. Ostentation was not in his nature.

  It made estimating his worth more difficult, at least for the unwary.

  “Your Highness…” The full measure of Zan’s miscalculation would be crashing in upon him now. Perhaps the First Queen had promised him a minister’s post. The greedy were the easiest to bait.

  “The honor of escorting the Crown Prince’s bride has caused a great deal of excitement.” Any enjoyment Makar would take from this would be minimal, yet he still felt a certain measure, carefully reined. “You are relived of the burden, Honorable Zan Pao.” He produced the sealed order from his sleeve, handing it to the expressionless royal guard to his right. “Your new posting is Hangedai, where you will remain until recalled.” And the desert will no doubt teach you some manners. “That is all.”

  The guard—one of the Golden, in bright-chased armor with Makar’s personal sign upon his armband—ferried the order across the room and deposited it in the eunuch’s shaking hands. When the mute unfortunate had dragged himself out with many a bow and a large measure of well-disguised and speechless indignation, Makar turned back to the window. The view through the thin wooden screen was unappetizing at best, but at least this town had a paved main avenue instead of a sea of spring mud. The fields surrounding were fragrant with new life, and some of them were even flooded for rai, that king of crops. “Scholar Haor. Please rise. How fares the princess?”

  “I tested her food personally.” The young man took the invitation with alacrity, brushing at his robe. Wide-faced and broad-shouldered, he was the first son of a lucky peasant family, all the hopes of mother, father, and siblings pinned to his back. Prince Makar, noticing his merit, had smoothed the way, and that small kindness would continue to pay dividends as the Haor boy aged and rose to his level, wherever that happened to be. “Er, she has a lady-in-waiting. Who also did, I’m sure. Khir noblewoman, very quiet.”

  That cannot be all. “And?” Makar tucked his hands in his sleeves.

  “The Khir escort turned back at Gurai, well before the border.” The scholar spread his hands, indicating a measure of puzzlement to match the Fourth Prince’s. He adjusted his scrollcase, too, and settled his civil-scholar’s hat more firmly.

  Makar considered this news. “I see.” Ashani Zlorih had one bastard son left, and he sent his daughter all but unguarded? It was either an insult, or he did not expect the princess to survive her trip to Garan Tamuron’s court. Or, the Fourth Prince reminded himself, there was another reason lurking in his father’s royal head to demand the Khir princess come all but naked, not even a dowry train. “Make the princess and her lady comfortable afresh, introduce the new maids; ask them to send word when they are ready for a visitor.” He had brought four junior palace-girls not yet attached to a princely retinue with him; the First Queen’s two haughty maids would be attended to shortly. Makar rubbed the greenstone band again, the characters’ sharp carved edges biting his fingertip, a cat’s nibble. Much about this worried him, but as long as he brought his eldest brother’s bride to the capital intact, he would be blameless.
“And, Scholar Haor?”

  “Yes, Your Highness?” The young man was almost pathetically eager to please, his prostration full of the alacrity of the truly meritorious seen at last.

  It was almost too easy, Makar reflected, and cautioned himself against overreach once more. “I will remember your loyalty.” And no doubt Haor would remember not only his patron’s small aid, but more deeply, the care taken to keep his robes from staining.

  Details mattered.

  He was still young enough to blush, this boy. His last bow was deep and extremely respectful. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  According to the foreign ladies, winter’s bony grip had not relaxed in Khir’s mountains and highlands. Here, though, the fields had begun exuberant greening, and the trees were dressing themselves in new festival finery. Enough damp remained to keep the dust of the main road tamped, and the true season of mud had not arrived just yet. Yeoyan blossoms carpeted the roadside, bruised and fading; many of the orchards were alive with fleece. “This is much better.” The Khir princess, a moon-faced, plump, pleasant girl with a noblewoman’s charms, tilted her head back to feel the spring breeze. “Why did they have us in a box, before?”

  The cart had been an insult, but thankfully, she did not seem to have recognized it as such. Finding a way to describe this tactfully to the Emperor would be difficult, and Makar would have to understate. To do otherwise would raise a suspicion he was seeking to work against the First Queen. The time was not ripe for open warfare between Queen Gamwone and his own mother—always assuming Second Queen Haesara would condescend to something so ill-bred as battle.

  That was Makar’s responsibility. A son protected his mother. “An oversight, to protect you from prying eyes.” Makar bowed slightly, apologetically, in the saddle. At least both of them could ride; the proverbs said when Khir were born, the goddess of horsemanship whispered at least one secret into their still-unformed ears. “Head Eunuch Zan Pao was so excited by the honor of escorting you, his arrangements fell short.” And Makar had performed the thankless task of trawling each of Pao’s hangers-on, separating the simply stupid from the ambitious and dangerous. The former still attended the Khir princess; the latter were sent with their patron to the northwestron desert, and much good would it do them.