by S. C. Emmett
Jin, lost in his footwork, had not even noticed visitors. Makar and Sensheo ambled across the wide, stony space—princes did not hurry—while Kurin bowed correctly, a gleam entering his sleepy gaze. “Eldest Brother. And sister-in-law. Good health to you both.”
“The Second Prince, Garan Kurin.” Takyeo’s rounded, triangular face, set in a pacific smile, brightened at the sight of Kai. “And General Zakkar Kai, recently given a prince’s seal by our father the Emperor.”
The Khir princess inclined in a bow calibrated exactly to greet those of slightly lower standing, and her lady did the same. Kai kept himself a few paces back, and his own bow was more respectful than Kurin’s.
“Second Prince.” The princess’s Zhaon was childish, and very careful, and she kept her gaze low as a new wife’s should be. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am told you are fond of gyurin.”
“Chess,” the lady-in-waiting supplied, softly, and the princess repeated it, nodding thoughtfully.
“Yes, chess, that is the right word.”
“I am.” Kurin, while not preening, was perilously close. His long nose was all but twitching, and the gleam in his sleepy eyes was one Kai had seen before while the prince watched a small struggling thing speared upon a pin. “I hope we have occasion for a game or two, sister-in-law.”
She raised a hand to her mouth, a coy gesture. “I am little good at such things. Perhaps we may recite riddles?” She smiled, very winningly, and Kurin thawed a bit.
But only a little. “Alas, I am dismal at riddles.” Kurin tucked his mask in his belt, the weighted wooden sword held carefully at his side, as if it were sharp indeed. “You would have better luck with Prince Makar, whom you have met. And this is our brother, Fifth Prince Sensheo.”
Etiquette took the conversation through niceties. It was agreed that Makar was a famous scholar, and Sensheo with his constant thumb-ring the best archer, and the Crown Prince a superlative tactician, of course. Kurin complimented all and turned any discussion of his own good qualities adroitly aside, playing at humility. Kai held his peace, while Jin, lost in his dream of attack and retreat, continued merrily unaware.
The lady-in-waiting—Komor Yala, an old, proud name if Kai remembered his Khir—was ever ready to supply the proper Zhaon word to her princess, and did not glance at him. Sensheo attempted to draw her out once or twice, but she effaced herself thoroughly instead of with Kurin’s showiness. Which meant Kai could study her in the shade of her sunbell, watching her pale gaze move from one speaker to the next. Several times she glanced at Jin, tensing slightly when he executed a half-turn or otherwise swept his tasseled spear in the general direction of their small group.
Interesting. A soldier might stiffen that way too, raw with combat-nervousness. A woman, though… did she fear they were barbarians? Khir held all outside their borders to be less civilized, but did not every country?
“Perhaps we should move to the shade,” Makar said, finally. “Prince Jin seems lost in his practice.”
“Another prince?” Princess Mahara viewed him curiously from under long charcoal lashes, her hands folded suitably and her yellow sleeves showing their embroidery in a cascade of claws, bright gold-thread eyes, and spotted flanks.
“Sixth Prince Jin,” the Crown Prince supplied. Marriage probably suited him; he was not one for the sinks of the Floating District like Kurin, and now he was a proper head of a household. Perhaps it would give him some relief from Tamuron’s constant ox-driving. “He has just received his first set of armor.”
“At least he will not be riding north,” Kurin added. The obvious addition—to Khir—hung unspoken, and Jin’s steady movements ceased. He ended with a hua that echoed from the stone walls, spear at the correct angle, his topknot loosened, a picture for a scroll-illustration.
An uncomfortable silence bloomed. Sensheo blinked, Makar’s mouth tightened, and Takyeo’s smile faltered.
“War may be found in any direction, if a tyrant goes seeking.” The lady-in-waiting’s tone was soft, thoughtful, her Zhaon highly classical as her head turned aside, gazing at the shoulder-high stone wall holding the bowl of the drillyard contained. A simple but effective piece of work, that turning, obviously and pointedly not looking at the prince who had almost-insulted her country. “Or so wrote the sage Dao Lian of Nihua.”
A Zhaon sage, at that. Kai’s mouth threatened to drop open, and a thin thread of amusement lit in his chest.
Makar recovered his wits first, as usual. “Lady Yala is well acquainted with the Hundreds and other classics. We conversed upon them at length, and so made our journey to Zhaon-An much shorter.” He bowed, and Kurin’s cheeks suffused momentarily with color that was not, Kai thought, from sun-heat reflecting off stone.
“Jin!” Takyeo called, almost as soon as Makar had finished speaking. “Come, you are rude!” More introductions and tedious pleasantries would no doubt follow, while they all expired of the heat.
Lady Komor did not look at Kurin or pretend to study the walls now. Instead, her pale gaze was finally fixed, steadily, upon Zakkar Kai. He returned the favor as the conversation reached its protracted but inevitable end, and was reminded again of Three Rivers and the serried ranks of Khir nobles before they charged, the hush before death descended to reap the battlefield.
In his pocket, under the leather half-armor he wore for practice, a scrap of cloth with three pearls clinging to silken thread burned.
MUCH ELSE TO ANTICIPATE
The royal baths nestled against the northern wall of the palace complex were splendid, but the Crown Prince’s palace had its own small, exquisite bathing-house, practically unused. The servants trekked to the Small Baths along the northwest wall; the eunuchs and other courtiers made use of bath-houses outside the palace proper. After dinner and readying Mahara for bed it was already dark, but Yala’s skin crawled with the need for cleanliness.
Three copper tubs, each set in its own partitioned enclosure with wooden watersheds overhead, waited; Anh scattered dried jaelo blossom in the one Yala indicated and watched her mistress lower herself, slowly, into the silky embrace of hot water. This was a luxury Yala could accustom herself to, with no need for a chain of servants to bring a bath bucket by bucket. Instead, scalding water flowed through stone and metal pipes then down the wooden trough when the chain was pulled. She would discover later how it was heated. For now, it was enough that it was, and she could gaze upon a mosaic of butterflies over sun-eye flowers while she soaked.
Yala’s hair, unbraided and hanging over the edge of the tub, shimmered in the candlelight. A thin white scar flushed along the outside of her left thigh; there were others on her upper arms. The yue did not forgive, but the kisses were butterfly-light; she was a good student. A few inked lines upon her forearms, gifts from the Komori hawks, did not flush.
“My lady.” Anh peered at her mistress’s arms, settling upon a padded stool with a wooden comb. Quick-fingered and merry, even at this hour, she gathered Yala’s hair. “What are those?”
“Hawk-kisses,” Yala murmured, the Zhaon words fitting strangely in her mouth. So much to absorb; her head was stuffed full as a festival platter or a Panchwan puppet. She closed her eyes, settling against the back of the tub, and sighed. Kurin. Makar. Sensheo. Jin. There was another prince, the Third, returned from Shan and reticent to show himself even to a new sister-in-law.
And the Head General, of course. Zakkar Kai.
Of greater concern were the court ladies. They would have alliances and antipathies of their own, and traditional visits to the two queens, both mothers-in-law now, would eat tomorrow whole. One concubine had retired into private life; she was held to be delicate. The other would be introduced after the fifth day, but her gifts had arrived promptly—exquisite black lacquered jars of cosmetics made by her own hands. That would deserve an appropriate response, but it must be weighed against the queens. The Second Queen’s gift, yards of beautiful maroon silk and two fans of costly, beautiful hairpins, was traditional enough.
The First Queen’s gift had not arrived. From the looks exchanged by some of the court ladies who met with Yala to prepare the ground for court life—Lady Gonwa and Lady Saru in particular—Yala had gathered the depth of the insult, and let the toes of her right foot drift to the surface of the water. “The Second and Third Princes are the First Queen’s sons. Yes?”
“Yes.” Anh worked at a small tangle, carefully holding the hair above so it would not tug. “And the Second Princess is her daughter.”
Kurin, the Second Prince. He was the one who disdained Khir that afternoon. Perhaps her response had been unwise, but it was too late now, and in any case she had studied Zakkar Kai almost insolently after delivering it. It could be said she had addressed the general of Three Rivers instead of the Second Prince, but nobody present was likely to be fooled. Ah, well. “Then there is the Second Queen. Prince Makar and Prince Sensheo are hers, correct?”
“Yes.” Anh found another small tangle and worked at it with kitten-tongue flicks.
Yala continued down the list. “The First Concubine.” Luswone, what a pretty name, even to Khir ears. “The youngest prince, and another princess? Yes?” Once she met them all, she could begin discovering who was allied, who was not, and who was likely to be difficult. Mahara’s own observations would have to be taken into account too. She would see things Yala would not, and together they would map the alliances and small hatreds of this court. It would take quite some time to decide just who Mahara should ally with, but it did not seem that the hills were entirely bare of game for that hunt.
It was, in short, just like daily life in Khir’s Great Keep, women barred from politics playing petty games of insult and compliment upon each other. There were, however, troubling intimations that Zhaon women not only were allowed to hold property, but also exercised influence in the corridors of male power, something few Khir noblewomen would stoop to.
“Yes. First Princess Sabwone.” Anh’s steady combing paused for a moment. “She and Queen Gamwone are… very friendly.”
I see. “The General Zakkar. He has been raised? He is now a prince?” Tall in utilitarian half-armor, quiet-eyed, his chin somewhat square and his eyebrows heavy, he had looked sardonically amused that morning, probably realizing what Yala was about. At least he knew who Zhe Har the Archer was, though the sohju had probably made him forget the night of the wedding and Yala’s brief appearance.
Be careful, Khir mothers had taken to saying over the last seven years, or Zakkar Kai will come… get… you.
The entire palace had been head-sore the day after the wedding, except Crown Prince Takyeo. It showed a certain restraint that he had not drunk himself sotted before visiting Mahara. And so far he was proving to be thoughtful, polite, well mannered, and kind enough.
It was a relief. Husbands were unpredictable beasts at best, and a Khir wife was to give no cause for reproach. Here, it seemed, wives were allowed some little leeway, and Mahara was naturally obliging enough. Yala was cautiously hopeful that the peace would endure.
“Some call General Zakkar the God of War.” Anh’s tone was hushed, respectful. “He is adopted by Concubine Kanbina, and so he receives a hurai. After… well.”
“After Three Rivers.” Khir’s defeat. “It is no secret, Anh. You may speak upon it.”
“My lady.” The kaburei girl gathered a scant palmful of sweet oil, working it into the ends of Yala’s hair. “We are all waiting, you see.”
There did not seem much else to anticipate. Yala’s toes dipped beneath the surface. “For?”
“Is the princess kind? She seems kind, and not likely to use the sudo.” Anh paused, then said the rest in a rush. “The Khir are… forgive me, lady. They say the Khir are severe, and very quick to anger.”
“Some are.” Baiyan would have fixed Second Prince Kurin with an unsettling stare and that slow, paralyzing smile he used upon those who thought Hai Komori too threadbare to be cautious of. Yala’s array of options, however, were severely constrained. “Some Zhaon must be as well.”
“They… say the Khir are barbarians. Who drink from their enemies’ skulls.”
“Not since the Second Dynasty.” Yala tried not to laugh. “A barbarian is a matter of speech,” she added. Delicious, the heat soaking into every ache, loosening every muscle’s bowstring. She stretched her left foot, next. Finding a safe place for yue practice was another puzzle, one she had little energy for at the moment. “So says The Book of Insects.”
“Written upon insects?” Anh sounded as if she did not credit the notion. “Are there such books?”
“That is merely its title, not its paper. It was written by a sage who…” Yala sighed. Lecturing was tiresome. “He was a Zhaon, in the Third Dynasty. What you call the Years of Ash.”
“When the Tabrak first came from the westron desert past Shan, and many were the lamentations.” Anh half-chanted the phrase. “Are all Khir women so learned?”
“If their noble fathers are wise.” Her own father was probably in his study after dinner, with no one to chide him gently into retiring. He rose at or before dawn year-round, and he was not as young as he had been. There was nobody left in the household who could dare to even suggest he care for his health a little more. “Strength in knowledge and strength in hunting make strong sons.”
“Ah. That makes some sense.” Anh’s quiet combing was thoughtful, now. “I hear a Khir man only takes one wife, no matter how rich he may be.”
Of course. That is proper. “If he wishes another, the first must die.” Yala examined her hands. If you stared long enough, any part of your body could be made alien. Strange. Foreign. Papery jaelo blossoms clung to her forearms, delicate star-shapes. “How many wives must a Zhaon man have?”
“As many as he can feed. Though concubines, ’tis said, eat less.”
A small shiver of distaste worked through Yala’s entire body. “Are you married, Anh?” It did not seem likely, though she was certainly old enough.
“No, I am a palace girl.” She giggled, softly. “Besides, I am kaburei, I cannot marry without leave.”
“Would you wish to?” It would fall to Yala to give leave, and also to find a small dowry for a close-servant who wished to marry. Imagine, a close-servant of her very own. The Zhaon were indeed luxurious.
“I do not know.” The kaburei girl’s tone was thoughtful. “Do you?”
“It seems a troublesome thing.” I doubt I will have a chance, before growing old. Husbands were bad enough, holding a woman’s honor and her chains at once, but to become a dowager auntie… well, that was not something to be desired, even if one could find a comfortable servitude. There was always the chance one’s patron would die, consigning a woman to the care, however cold, of the closest male relative. “Two braids, for bed. Loose ones.” There was more than enough to think upon before bed, and the heat filled her with lassitude. Sleep would order the world inside her, and she could make sense of the one without after traversing the night-realms.
Anh’s bow, sensed instead of seen, was still respectful, and not without its own grace. “Yes, my lady.”
ARE BOTH USES POSSIBLE
As usual, the Emperor of Zhaon was not abed though the duskwatch had been set, cried, and passed. Instead, he was at business in the Kaeje’s great hall of state, seated upon cushions one broad, low step below the Great Throne’s padded bench and sunburst-wall. Daily work took place here; the throne was for high affairs. Columns marching down either side of the hall, carved with dragon, phoenix, tiger, and bear, watched over the minutiae of rule with frozen grimaces. Candles and squarelamps burned since the mirrorlight had died, mellow golden light dripping over gilt fang and shining claw; Garan Tamuron’s golden robe seemed heavier than usual tonight. At least, his shoulders bowed a weary fraction, and there was a troubling line between his fierce eyebrows.
Tamuron frowned at the stack of decrees, reports, and various other scrolls or bound items upon the low table filling the other half of the step, the corners of his eyes
wrinkling. “If you are bringing me more paper, Banh, I might become displeased.”
“May all Heaven save me from such an event.” The brown-robed astrologer bowed, his smile wide and genuine, his hurriedly brushed civil-scholar hat and indifferently gathered topknot both slightly askew today. He was not out of breath from hurrying down the long hall, and had not forgotten the third of the bows required when one approached the throne. “Perhaps I should say the current hour is auspicious for rest, Your Majesty.”
Kai, wishing he were in armor instead of a court robe, shifted his weight. “You never tell me that.” Standing for discussion was as tiring as weapons practice, but Tamuron wanted his opinion upon this and that and the other, and would not let his favored general free.
Takyeo had already been granted leave to depart, hurrying away for a late dinner with quite an unwonted spring in his step. The marriage, it seemed, had a steady start.
“Because you are too stubborn to listen, Zakkar Kai.” Banh folded his hands inside his sleeves. The pitting upon his cheeks from childhood disease looked more marked tonight, and there were shadows under his dark eyes. His beard, recently oiled and brushed flat, held a fleck or two of grey. “I shall hide the wedding horoscope, then, and present it some other time.”
“Ai, one more scroll.” But Tamuron looked pleased, and stroked his own small, neatly trimmed beard. His rings glittered and his cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were bright. A little too bright, almost feverish, and he rubbed at his ribs, callused fingers scratching heavy golden embroidery and grimacing. “Tell me, then. What do the stars say for Takyeo and my new daughter-in-law?”
Mrong Banh clicked his tongue once, a thoughtful sound. His gaze held a twinkle of merriment, and the deeper shine of true interest. People, according to Banh, were all very well, but he preferred to spend his time among the heavenly bodies. Who, after all, would not? “There is harmony in their many houses, Your Majesty, despite some small early obstacles.”