by S. C. Emmett
“You’re no fun.” Jin lifted his cup again, flushing with excitement and sohju. A fading scrape across his right-hand knuckles was evidence of training, the one thing he seemed to take seriously. “Another toast!”
“Careful.” Kai handed the Crown Prince a fresh pair of eating-sticks. “You will fall asleep in the soup, Jin, and wake to find your topknot gone.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Jin’s eyes sparkled. He had been happy from the cradle, they said, always with a smile and a new plan for mischief. If his elder sister had bothered, she could have had him for an ally instead of an uneasy tribute-payer. Sabwone had little time for a younger brother, unless it was to torment him.
“I might not.” Kai’s grin was unforced, for once, and his cheeks almost hurt with the force of it. “But Sensheo would.”
One of the partitions slid open; a shadow fell over the threshold. The Crown Prince lurched to rise, which meant the rest of them had to, and Takyeo greeted Third Prince Takshin with expansively widened, crimson-clad arms. “Taktak! Come in, come in! Now we’re complete. You must drink quickly, we’re ahead of you.”
“Always late.” Takshin’s scarred lip twisted, and his gaze met Zakkar Kai’s for a brief moment. He nodded, and Kai moved to make room between his left and Sensheo, whose full lips tightened with distaste. “My apologies.”
“Takshin?” Jin blinked, blearily, and brightened. “But I thought he was in Shan.”
“I came back for the wedding.” Takshin, in the severe dark costume of a Shan noble, settled himself. “You must have heard as much.”
The Crown Prince poured another round. “Now, you must all drink, but not me.” Takyeo’s shoulders had eased. “If I have much more, I will spend the wedding night sleeping.”
“It might be a good thing, if she’s ugly.” Kurin laughed, a high sharp sound, and picked at a plate of fried haokta. “A blind-eyed Khir witch.”
“Elder brother.” Makar shook his head, reaching with elegant, sharpened sticks for a slice of pickled taur root. “Your tongue is addled.”
Sensheo had decided to be difficult as well. “Don’t they say sohju breeds truth?”
“They also say pissing into the rain makes you doubly wet.” Zakkar Kai downed his ration, again. At least soldiers did not bait each other this sharply. “Takshin. I’ve longed to see you. What news from the Land of the Sun?”
“Nothing of interest.” Takshin settled himself cross-legged, surveyed the food, and accepted a boneware cup full of colorless liquor. “To you, Eldest Brother. May your marriage be peaceful.” Which meant they all had to drink, and for a moment, blessed silence filled the room.
“Is it true she brought but a single lady?” Sensheo’s tongue clicked, an imitation of Mrong Banh’s favorite thinking-noise. If there was any weakness to be found, he would pick until a fingernail lifted its edge. If it took finding fault with a new bride as a mother-in-law should, he was more than willing. “And no dowry?”
“Khir itself is her dowry,” Makar said, quietly, but the words held an edge. He had finally lost patience; no doubt the weariness of travel had not been washed away as easily as the dust. “Must you be uncivilized upon even this occasion?”
“Doesn’t their king have a bastard son?” Kurin’s cup spun, empty, upon the tabletop, a traditional feat performed for luck. But his sleepy gaze was leveled at Zakkar Kai, who met it calmly enough, a faint smile bringing up the corners of the general’s lips. The Fifth Prince had long been fond of holding Kai’s parentage against him. No doubt many of the others did too, but Sensheo was usually the only one ill-mannered enough to persist in making it plain.
“Politics at a wedding.” Takshin lifted his cup to the Crown Prince again, then bolted it much as Zakkar Kai did his. “How ill-bred, elder brother.”
“I thought weddings were nothing but politics.” But Jin’s good humor had fled, and he glanced worriedly from Kurin to Kai, blinking furiously through a screen of sohju, unsure of quite what had happened but aware the mood had changed.
“Can we not have one single dinner without—” Makar began, but another partition slid open and Mrong Banh stepped through, holding a round earthenware jug with a sealed top. He huffed, panting, his small potbelly fighting with the jug for room, and set it upon the table with a clatter, spilling a dish of inksoup. Kurin and Jin both lunged away from the mess, Kurin with a small sound of disgust and Jin with a delighted laugh.
“There!” the astrologer cried. “I’ve kept it for fourteen years, my princes, and now you shall drink with me.”
Kai glanced at Takshin, whose faint, ironclad smile hadn’t changed. He was suddenly sure the Third Prince had been aware of Banh’s presence behind the partition, waiting for a moment to step in, as well.
He bears watching, Zakkar Kai thought as he often did, and as if Garan Takshin had heard the thought, he met Kai’s gaze and raised his cup in a small, mocking salute.
BRAIDED REEDS
The entire compound was full of celebration. Here in the smaller Hanyeo—the Queens’ Palaces, attached to the Emperor’s Kaeje—it was a quiet, cultured bustle. The Second Queen did not care for loud noises or for display, but the red lanterns were hung upon her steps and bridal presents had been delivered punctually to the chambers in the Jonwa Palace the new princess would take possession of tomorrow. The traditional observances had all been exactly fulfilled, but not a single breath had been taken over their borders. None could accuse her of unfulfilled duties or of attempting to overplay the First Queen’s presents.
The Hanyeo sheltered behind the chambers of state and the original, now extensively remodeled keep of Zhaon-An, which had given the city its name and now held the Emperor’s quarters, the state rooms, and various accretions of etiquette and luxury. As wives sheltered behind their husband, the two halves of the Hanyeo sat side by side, divided only by a single stone wall—and a great deal of icy politeness upon either side.
Second Queen Haesara, a little taller than most of her ladies-in-waiting, dressed simply in burnt orange and with her hair arranged in the high asymmetric style of Hanweo, glanced at her guest. “It is a comfort to me,” she murmured, “that you would visit.”
First Concubine Luswone, the angular but full-lipped beauty of Daebo, inclined her upper half, gracefully accepting the honor of being thus addressed. “It is ever my intention to ease Your Highness.” A small gift—a half-pound of jaewrai,20 sealed with red wax—lay between them upon the highly carved table, and behind a curtain, one of Haesara’s ladies plucked at a sathron. Whoever it was had talent but needed practice, and perhaps it was meant as a mild insult. Or perhaps tonight, Haesara wished for rustic accompaniment instead of artistry.
Tea was brought in exquisite, pale porcelain. Queen and concubine waited for the servants to withdraw from earshot, and gazed through the carved screen at a small pond clustered with broad green leaves. Later in the season, white cupflowers would float upon the broad green pads, pale dreams behind the regimented, geometric wooden slats.
Finally, Haesara touched her white porcelain cup. It was a tiny, refined curve, restrained as everything else she allowed. “I suppose she paid you a visit, as well.”
The First Concubine’s mouth, painted a pale peach, pursed. Her dress was the yellow of a snow-choked sun, and crystalline glitters hung from her hairpins. She allowed very little to crease her face, and patted nia oil into her cheeks nightly to refine already flawless skin. Despite this, fine dry lines had begun at the corners of her eyes and lips. “A visit such as that changes the color of the day,” Luswone murmured.
Haesara nodded. The sathron continued, plaintive notes of a Hanweo lament matching the calm of evening, a piquant counterpoint to the sounds of joy and merrymaking elsewhere. Soon there would be fireflowers, great transient blossoms in the sky over the entire palace. It would stink of black powder and metallic dyes until the wind swept from some quarter to cleanse, perhaps carrying rain upon its back. “Was it threats, or blandishment, this time?”
“And she complimented the Fourth Prince upon his scholarship just yesterday.” Haesara turned her attention to her own plump wrist, where a single piece of greenstone had been carved into a bangle, resting delicately against smooth copperbrown skin. “At least we know her targets.”
“For now.” The concubine gazed into her cup. “My daughter is of age. I wonder if she will be sent to a faraway land.”
“It would grieve the Emperor to lose her grace at court.” Meaning Haesara had heard nothing of plans to marry First Princess Sabwone off.
At least, not yet. There were rumors, certainly, especially since so many couriers were sent to Shan nowadays. Of course, that could only be diplomacy now that the Mad Queen was safely with her ancestors and Suon Kiron had not succumbed to any stray blade or poison-drop administered by an ambitious noble. The rumors also held that Garan Takshin had something to do with the heir to Shan’s survival, which must gall the First Queen to no end.
Haesara found thought of that galling brought a smile to her lips, but dispelled it, since Luswone obviously had a purpose.
Luswone’s filigree ear-drops swung, gently, as she shook her head the tiniest fraction. “Is it selfish of me, to wish her kept close?”
“If it is, I am likewise selfish.” Haesara considered the concubine, who still stared into her cup. It was unlike Luswone to be so plain with her meanings. The Daebo were eel-slippery; that should have been their house crest instead of the prong-horned, delicate kua-hoof. “I sense you are troubled, Concubine Luswone.” There, a politeness in return for the plainness. It was just as well Queen Gamwone was… as she was, or the concubines would have been dangers instead of allies.
Well, the Second Concubine was useless, a suffering mouse in her bower with that parvenu as her adopted son. Still, Zakkar Kai could be useful, with the right inducement. A general, especially a lucky and victorious one, had a latitude of action a queen did not, and even more than a blood-prince.
It was fortunate that Kai seemed one of the few whose loyalty was not at auction. Or perhaps no bidder had been found willing to go high enough.
Luswone had even less latitude than a queen. Her family was aristocratic, even if her position left much to be desired. She had borne two sons and a daughter—not to mention plenty of ill treatment from the First Queen—with grace.
“Our husband, may the stars shine upon him, is not a young man.” Luswone’s voice dropped even further, allowing Haesara to pretend to ignore the words, if she chose.
The queen studied the concubine’s profile, then turned her attention to the screen and its green backdrop. A warlord had married a rich merchant’s daughter and used that wealth in his plan to unify Zhaon, and now he was Emperor. He was blessed with many sons, meaning an heir, any heir, was assured.
But no ruler could allow rivals once he ascended a throne. Such ascensions were… delicate, and largely fatal to non-victorious claimants. First Concubine Luswone was right to worry, and her unease matched the Second Queen’s own.
“Braided reeds are stronger than solitary ones,” Haesara murmured, finally. It was past time for more than a token alliance with the Daebo concubine. “We are mothers, First Concubine. It is our duty to protect our children, and give them good examples.”
Luswone nodded. Her relief was palpable, though her face did not change. Instead, her shoulders curved slightly inward, and the sheath protecting her highborn nail tapped the side of her cup, once, a tiny sound lost under the sathron’s plucking.
“Your Highness is wise,” she said, and, the most serious business concluded, the two women settled themselves to drinking tea and exchanging other, less interesting gossip.
TO WANT TO LIVE
Mahara’s hair, sleek and freshened with sweet oil, was as luxurious as ever. Yala drew the ivory comb down, her thumb rubbing a carved fish-back. She hummed as she worked, a familiar lullaby from Khir. Hush now, my little one, ugly in your crib, hush now, my little one, a goblin’s face, a goblin’s face. One must always dissemble, especially over a cradle. You could not tell when an evil spirit was listening, jealous and ready to strike. To rob a parent of a child, or substitute a dutiful son for a wayward daughter.
Dissembling became a habit. What was her father doing at this moment? It was not a table-day at Hai Komori, so he would be dining frugally and alone, without even a sathron to accompany him. Her father was of the opinion that music was for after a meal, to aid the digestions and to comfort the liver, that seat of all thought and strength.
Yala pushed the thought away, and it went quietly. Windowless, thick-walled, and hung with red, this room glowed with lanternlight. A thick-curtained bed of dark wood sat in its exact center, a small table with two golden cups and a glowing, polished white stone jar of thick sweet kouri21 in the east quadrant to greet the marriage and the morning with honey. Braziers simmered, taking away evening chill, and Mahara’s cheeks were wet. Her sleeping-robe was unfamiliar and heavily embroidered as well, and she had only picked at the bridal dinner despite the presence of Khir dishes—small birds in dulum sauce, spice-paste, puffs of zhu. Yala’s own high-waisted Zhaon dress, the cuffs embroidered with pearls, was a gift from the Crown Prince as well.
The conquerors had dressed their sacrifices well, though the clothes did not fit as well as they could have.
Yala kept combing. There was a certain comfort in the small tasks of readying her princess for bed. When the Crown Prince arrived, Yala would have to leave the room and make her way through labyrinthine corridors, three gardens, and into the Crown Prince’s Jonwa palace, where Mahara would be moved in the morning.
Assuming the wedding night went without incident. Or with only such incident as was expected and necessary.
Mahara sniffed, wiped at her cheeks with short, violent movements. Under the heavy sleeping-robe was a thin shift of fine linen, its throat and sleeves gathered close, no doubt to soak up a maiden’s tears. “I am sorry, Yala.”
“For what, my princess?” She examined the ends of the princess’s hair minutely. It would be time for a trim soon, to halt the fraying of travel. Straight and lush, with a sheen of blue instead of the ruddier Zhaon coloring, the mass fell like water down Mahara’s back. It was not enough that Mahara had been born royal, she was also beautiful, raised to be a demure wife to a noble Khir house needing defanging or an injection of dowry-gift to rescue its fortunes. Daughters were useless, but a royal daughter could bind a too-strong House to the Great Keep… or raise another House to use as a balance against restive, more fortunate others.
“I… my father would scold me.” Mahara shuddered, heavy, stiff embroidery squeaking slightly. “I am weak.”
Yala sought soothing words; they came only with difficulty. “Of all the words to describe you, my princess, that is not one I would choose.” The Khir had no queens; a royal wife was merely a vessel. In Zhaon, it was perhaps different. Yala would have to discover how different, and quickly. Her princess’s seclusion as a new wife was to be at least two full moons long, with only short ceremonial visits to break the tedium. Such a seclusion was meant to seal the wife to the husband’s side, accustom her to the running of a household different from her own, and also to give her nothing to do but conceive an heir, that most important of duties.
“But I am crying,” Khir’s only princess whispered, like a shameful secret.
“Well, yes.” Yala nodded; though Mahara would not see her she would sense the motion. “You are far from home, and tears are natural on a wedding night. Even were we at home, it would be the same.” Except at home, there would be the linked arms, singing, the drinking of makong;22 the celebration would be reserved for the morning, when a wife was born afresh as salt and earth for her husband’s home, an ornament until she was a son’s mother.
; Mahara absorbed this, still dashing the water from her soft face. “I cannot stop.”
“It will halt on its own.” What other comfort could she offer? “The Crown Prince is said to be kind, my lady. He will treasure you.” Or I will bury my yue in his guts. She wondered if she truly had the courage to do it.
I suppose I will find out, if I must. Her back was cold with rainflesh, the prickling of unease.
“He is Zhaon.” Mahara almost spat the word, but the flare of ill feeling was quickly submerged in a new consideration. “What do they do, upon a wedding night?”
“The same thing Khir men do, perhaps?” There were the illustrations in books and scrolls, of course, and even a Khir noblewoman had seen horses copulating. It was unfamiliar, yes, but no mystery. “Except less well, and less bravely.”
That earned a pale laugh. Mahara patted at her cheeks again, forlorn. “Yala, be serious.”
“I am, my princess.” Now was the time for logic to build a bulwark against uncertainty. “You are a guarantee of peace, and a future son-mother. They must treat you well, or Khir will rise against them.” I wish I believed what I am saying. Ever since she had known she was accompanying Mahara, belief was in short supply.
“But we are already beaten.”
“Defeated, but not beaten. Besides, harm or insult done to you would cause even the kaburei to fight, my lady.” A pretty sentiment, and one she hoped not to have to test the truth of. Yala set the comb aside and gathered the top third of Mahala’s hair for the usual night-braid.
“Leave it down.” Mahala’s head dropped forward. “Listen.”
Yala did, stilling as if her father spoke. “There is no sound,” she murmured. It was not time yet. Only the candles spoke in soft whispers, and the brazier creaking out its warmth.