by S. C. Emmett
She had to shake her head, hoping he would not be insulted by her lack of knowledge. “I have not. What are they?”
He also did not look pained or nose-high when she made mistakes in her Zhaon. Mahara was very conscious that she was not a scholar, and that she perhaps should have spent more care and time learning the southron language. It had all happened so quickly. First the rumbles of war intruding even into her bower, then the certainty that nothing could defeat the fine Khir army… then Three Rivers, and now she was a married woman, without a friend except for Yala.
And she had cried, in the safety of her maiden’s bed, after her father had informed her that only the young Lady Komor had stepped forward to accompany her; the rest of the noble girls who attended her at court had hastily found reasons not to and a Great Rider defeated in battle could not force them. She was to go almost alone into the southron dragon’s jaws. When the tears passed, she had decided she was lucky, for Yala was clever and loyal, and never looked nose-high either.
At least, not at her princess. More than once another Khir noblewoman had earned a scathing glance or two, and Mahara had sometimes dreaded being the recipient of one of those quiet, bone-slicing looks. Some girls were born decorous and demure, and others less fortunate had to live in fear of never filling even that small measure.
Takyeo laid three of the long, spearlike green vegetables atop the bed of rai in her bowl. He did it gracefully, too, his sleeve held away and his fingers dexterous with his own smooth wooden sticks and their gold sheathing. “Try them. They’re very good.” Patiently, without any indication of irritation.
She picked one up, and nibbled at its end. Took another bite, suddenly very interested. A new taste, and not a bad one. “It’s good.” She sounded surprised, even to herself.
“Only married women can eat them.” A shy smile. “Because of the shape. They are called mother’s soldiers.”
“Ah.” Her cheeks turned hot. But she was married now, and surely there could be nothing wrong or embarrassing if her husband said such things, could there? “Do you like them?”
“They were my mother’s favorite.”
A painting of his mother hung in the Jonwa’s ancestor-shrine—a woman with a long pale blue robe, a high forehead, and a rather sweet, sad smile. The painting seemed very likable, with a gentleness lurking in its brushwork, and Mahara’s offerings of incense were in the Zhaon style. Yala had quietly told her what was expected, and was never wrong. “Then I shall like them. She was very beautiful, your mother.”
That made the worry-line between his eyebrows deepen. “The First Queen would say she was common. She married my father before he was Emperor.”
It was also Yala who had told her the gossip—that Garan Tamuron’s first queen had been a merchant’s youngest child, with only a faint claim to nobility through her own mother, a daughter of an impoverished house sold off like so much mutton. A woman’s lot, to be handed to another when circumstances dictate. “It is the First Queen who is common.” The words burst out. Mahara stole a glance at his face, and continued, emboldened by his expression. “I dislike her.”
Her husband nodded thoughtfully. “So do I, wife. But we must be careful. She is very powerful.”
“But she is merely a woman, and you are Crown Prince.” She mispronounced it, but he did not look pained.
“Yes, well, her family is powerful, and I often wish I were not.” His gaze sharpened, measuring her.
Mahara nibbled at the spear-vegetable. Another new thing, one she considered at length before nodding. There were some who would crave the power, and affecting humility did not disguise that craving. A Khir princess was to avoid meddling with men’s concerns, but the Zhaon women did not seem to share that stricture.
Yala would be able to find a couplet or a winning line from the books stuffed in her head, but the princess was alone here. She was not doing too badly, either, Mahara decided. “Yes,” she said, finally. “It must be a great burden. I will be a help to you.”
Now he smiled without a shadow of worry, and she had to admit, it gave him much more handsomeness. Though his eyes were dark, they were appealing enough. “I am sure you will. Have you tried this? It is similar to Khir curd, I am told. Tomorrow there will be Northern dishes; the new cook will be pleased to offer them.”
Perhaps this would not be so bad. She could play kaibok here, and if she was careful, he might stay calm. Their food was bland, but that was to be expected. So far, there had been nothing she could not face.
The princess picked up her bowl again, with the pretty, habitual curve to her wrist. Polished rai was a royal food, at least. “You are very kind, husband.”
“I wish to be,” he said, and when he smiled again, something in Mahara’s chest bloomed like a panil flower.
WARY AND PREPARED
Bai would have pretended unwillingness, but he would have gone with her. Or, if it were a moonless night, he would have shaken her awake to share the night’s pathways. He loved mischief, but what he loved more was training his little sister to ghost through the halls of Komori, even out onto the tiled roof, dodging guards and achieving whatever objective they had agreed upon. Their father’s library, or the Great Hall, or a particular attic-room full of dusty, shrouded, ancient furniture—the game was to reach it silently, with all others unaware of their presence. And, of course, to return to their chambers with none the wiser, especially Yala’s talon-sharp chaperones, ever watching their charge’s deportment to keep her honor unstained.
It is not enough to be quiet, little sister.
Yala whispered past the nodding guard, a shadow in shadow, musky southron night-breath filling her lungs. Bai’s careful tutelage echoed in her heartbeat, filled her arms and legs with a clear sparkling excitement better than sohju.
Step so, and spread your weight thus… little idiot, do you wish to be caught? Do it again, and better.
Like much else, it was relatively easy if you watched, and waited, and smiled. The guards eventually looked the other way, rubbed their eyes, caught a few moments of sleep leaning against pikes or posts. If a girl was quick, practiced at muffling the rustle of betraying skirts, the darkness was a friend. She was a silent fish in a nighttime pool, a bronze darter below winter ice, slipping into a Jonwa gallery leading to a dry-garden full of spines and succulents. This pleasure-walk had no bridge, but there were flat rocks arranged in a winding path. Here, in her long-sleeved night-robe but safe from prying eyes, she amused herself by hopping from one rock to the next, holding herself in absolute stillness on each as soon as she landed in one of the Four Stances of the yue. Hill, Valley, River, and Hawk, each the base from which the blade would flash, arm, leg, and will intent upon a single purpose.
Ten stones, not enough to repeat the stances thrice. This irked her a little, but she decided to hop back to the center of the garden and finish there. It could not be helped, the world was imperfect even when harmonious, as Yian Kayuo had often said in his Book of Four Earrings—
What was that?
She froze, head tilted, her indigo night-robe swaying. Replayed the noise inside the secret chambers of her ears. What was it? Scraping, something drawn across stiffened leather? A muffled clatter?
It was a man’s small miscalculation that saved her. That, and hours of practice under the eagle eyes of two iron-backed noblewomen, one a maiden aunt and the other an impoverished cousin, dedicated to service of the house sheltering them both. An unmarried woman had little to look forward to, especially among the noble families, but Lord Komori was only severe, not cruel.
A shadow heavier and taller than Yala landed in the sea of pebbles surrounding the large stepping-stones, her sudden halt throwing off his balance. The grinding of small stones brought her around, her night-robe’s skirt flaring, and her hand, with the ease of long habit, blurred for her yue. Her teachers had often tossed tiny objects while she practiced her stances, making it a game—when she heard the object in the air, or even the slight creak of weight
transferred from foot to other foot against whatever flooring there was as the throw commenced, she was to draw and strike. Best of all was to bat the thread-spool or the blunted dart aside with the flat of her blade without losing flow or altering breath.
A game, indeed. Now in deadly earnest, she did not pause.
Knee bending, the yue tearing stitches as it whipped free of her low-belted Khir robe, and a musical clash-slither broke night-quiet as a curved, darkened blade met hers. Bending backward, then, for a slight breeze was the whisper of his second knife, striking for her throat. Her foot flicked, glancing off a leather-clad knee that turned a fraction but was unable to fully dodge the blow. Her yue flipped, wrist moving in the floating-of-the-lure motion, fading into the swallow-tail to bite both flesh and cloth at the end of its arc.
The man in night-dyed cloth and leather, his head wrapped and the only betraying gleam that of his eye-whites, did not retreat. Instead, he spun, both blades flickering out, meaning to strike at her middle.
But the yue was prepared for just such an attempt. The Dancer’s Pose pushed her waist aside, weight dropping into her left hip even as her knee bent, and her left hand rose gracefully as her right, freighted with the slim blade, whispered down blinding-fast. Both the man’s knives—harshly claw-curved and shorter than a yue, their flats blacked with something—passed within a hair of the wide, stiffened band of silk drawing the robe against her navel. The yue bit again, a glancing, stinging slice across his forearm.
Sweat gathered in her armpits, at the hollow of her lower back, along the sides of her naked throat. It happened so quickly, there was no time to think. Her knee straightened, the yue performing a half-moon with its edge still outward, and the River Stance pushed her in the opposite direction, bending again as the man swiveled and struck once more, perhaps angry that the woman in a low-belted, long-sleeved Khir night-robe over a thin linen shift was not dead yet.
Assassin. The consciousness of danger crashed upon her, but the yue knew no fear. It was a needle, and she the thread following.
Another crunch and splatter of stones was a second man’s feet landing in the dry-garden. Two-against-one changed the stance she must use; she pitched forward, shifting from River to Hawk, from the gentle curving of defense to the speed of wings, talons, and razor beak striking from a clear mountain sky. The yue buried itself in the first man’s throat; she wrenched it free and pitched back, leaping, her forefoot grinding in small stones as a solid meat-carving thunk echoed against the colonnade and a dripping point burst from the murderous shadow’s swathed chest.
She gained another stepping-stone, her heels bruising against its surface as she shifted to Hill Stance. She was wary now, and prepared. Let them come, she would show them how a noblewoman met… death?
I do not wish to die. Surprising, to realize it so clearly.
The muffled attacker dropped like a string-cut puppet. The sword was wrenched free of his back with another awful, tearing sound. Blood spattered from his cut throat, though the fabric wound around stopped the spray from reaching her. Yala, her yue held diagonally and her grip firm despite palm-sweat greasing bare, cross-hatched metal, fought to contain her breath. Her ribs sought to heave, her pupils swelling, shadow and dim light full of skittering movement.
“Shh,” the new arrival hissed. “Do not fear, princess. He is dead.”
Princess? She blinked, unwillingly—a single moment of blindness might leave her open to another strike. Her heart thundered, and the sweat all over her was grease-cold. Small stones click-shifted under a pair of boots.
“General?” she whispered. “General Zakkar?”
“Yes.” His Khir was tolerable, but only that. He was not muffled, but in leather half-armor, and it was his sword that had struck the assassin from behind. “Ah. You are not the princess. Easy, Komor Yala. The battle is over.”
He must have seen the shape of her dress, and thought she was Mahara. Yala did not drop her guard. A sudden sharp stink rose. For a moment she thought she had soiled herself with fear before she realized she was clean, and it was merely the… the corpse.
And Zakkar Kai, his sword a long bar of moongleam, stabbed the body again to make certain life had fled.
THIS IS NOT WELL
Kai exhaled sharply. There were no other assassins, which was welcome news. However, now he was presented with quite a different problem. Small stones crunched underfoot as he stepped onto a larger one, instinctively seeking firmer ground. “You carry a blade. In the palace.”
“So do you.” Komor Yala, her nighttime braids disarranged and the low belt of her Khir night-robe askew, stared at him, ghost-pale, her strange eyes wide. Thus disheveled, she looked far smaller than her iron-backed daytime self. When she spoke, her Zhaon was halting. “It is yue. Every Khir noblewoman—”
“You are neither prince nor guard, my lady.” His pulse had yet to return to its usual even rhythm. What was she doing here, in a robe, her hair down? “You could be flogged or tortured for bearing a blade, here.”
She lowered the weapon in question, slowly. Not quite battle-mad, but from the look of her she had only narrowly decided he was not a threat. “For defending my princess, or my own honor? I would open my own throat before I allowed such a thing.”
“How very Khir of you.” He bent to clean his own blade on the assassin’s clothing. The dragon-headed sword had claimed yet another soul. It was an old blade, and sometimes he wondered if it hungered. “If I were to raise the alarm, they would wonder what I was doing here.” In the Jonwa, after dark, with a half-dressed woman and a fresh body at his feet? The scandal would be unpleasant at best.
“I wonder that, General Zakkar.” Her Zhaon had become more natural. At least she was not screaming.
“I saw him climb the wall, and followed.” I thought him a lover, or intent on mischief. Now they were faced with this. It was a headache, as sharp as the thorny succulents just recently unwrapped from their winter finery. “Be quiet for a moment.”
She approached, stepping carefully over the sea of small stones, her weight hardly disarranging them. Bent like a panil flower’s stem, wiping her own blade upon the dead man’s clothing. When it was clean, she examined its gleam critically in the dimness, and cast a quick glance over her shoulder at a rustle in a nest of thornback. She stiffened, preparatory to a defensive stance, and he realized she was… unused… to this manner of event.
Which was a great comfort, but still. Kai had to throttle a thread of uncharacteristic crimson rage. The battle is past, he repeated to himself. “It is merely a night-rat.” The bumbling masked creatures cleaned every crevice and corner better than a kaburei’s scrubbing, and their clever little hands also thieved valuables not locked away, an event much celebrated in amusing illustrations.
“Rats. In a palace.” Her shudder spoke for itself, though she could not have been unaware rats, masked or otherwise, were just as desirous of luxury as men. Was she in the habit of wandering unattended at night? Had she done such things at home? It did not seem likely, given what he knew of the Khir and their trammeled women.
“Listen.” Kai moved to offer his hand, but she stepped hurriedly back. The yue moved, a slim wicked blade ideal for close quarters. Did she carry it everywhere? She was certainly skilled with its use. Every Khir noblewoman, she had said. “Does the princess have one of those?”
“She… my father kept to the old ways, General Zakkar.” Her breathing was still ragged, and she brushed at her face with her free hand, pushing at stray hairs. Her braids had loosened with the exercise, and the contrast with her daylight self was… arresting. “Some modern fathers may not see the need for yue practice, perhaps.”
In other words, perhaps not, but she was not willing to trust him with the information. Was she an assassin? He did not think the Khir would let a noble lady… and yet, Ashani Zlorih had only sent the one attendant with his daughter, ostensibly in response to Zhaon’s request for a retinue not overlarge.
Kai had several thou
ghts upon why the crafty old fox had done so, and none of them were comforting. “Well enough. Keep yours hidden well, Lady Komor. I will deal with this.”
“How, exactly? A… a corpse is heavy.” The blade vanished, he did not see quite how. So she had a sheath for it, perhaps sewn even into her night-robe? No doubt the assassin had seen her silhouette, and thought her the princess out for an insomniac walk. Or a sleep-journey; there were some who went abroad while unconscious, the body slipping the chain of conscious will.
“I shall find a way,” he said, grimly. The problem of moving a corpse was simple. Where to let it land was not quite so, and deserved a few moments of careful thought he was ill-disposed to spend just now, with that strange anger filling his belly. Where did it come from? It was of another type than the irritation of knowing yet another shadowed blade had been sent after Takyeo.
Assassins were, after all, a danger common to princes.
Lady Yala brushed afresh at her hair with trembling hands, rearranged her robe, and straightened her sleeves. Kai took another step, between her and the body. She closed her pale Khir eyes and swayed, and when she turned aside to retch he caught her waist, keeping her upright. The slim heat of her burned through her shift, her robe, his half-armor; her shaking infected him.
Would an assassin, even a young one, do so after such an event? She was a noblewoman; they did not often take the Shadowed Road. When they did, they were to be feared, for they were swift and deadly, and often intent upon vengeance for a family’s dishonor.
Or so the tales said. Even in the Hundreds there were mentions of vengeful noble daughters striking enemies and falling into a maiden’s grave.
Lady Yala did not vomit, but it was close. When the retching had finished, he pulled her closer, his left hand threading through her hair to cup the back of her head, his right flat against her back. It was a measure of her shock and disbelief that she did not struggle. “Shhh,” he soothed. She smelled of jaelo blossom, the acrid tang of fear and effort a sharp counterpoint. His chest-armor would be uncomfortable, pressing against her cheek. “All is well, my lady.”