by S. C. Emmett
“This is not well,” she whispered, in Khir. “It is not.”
“It is well enough,” he replied, haltingly, though handling the sharp consonants tolerably well. Or so he hoped. “Go to bed. Think no more upon this.” He did not rest his chin atop her head; that seemed too intimate even for this situation. His half-armor did not creak, supple and well used, but he was heavy enough to wring betraying noises out of stone or roof-tile. Carrying a corpse, he would have to stay upon the most solid of roads. It was not a pleasant prospect.
“How can I…” She did not move, stiff slender iron instead of pliable flesh.
Was this your first? Of course it was; at least he could take this as proof she was not a face-dancing shadow intent upon killing Garan royalty. Perhaps she was merely a defender. It was a neat solution to the question of why Ashani Zlorih had sent only the one lady, but not, he suspected, the entire answer. “Listen to me.” Do not stand in their way next time. They will think nothing of killing a lady-in-waiting. And why, in the name of the gods, did such a thought turn the crimson thread into a flood of colorless, acidic sohju rage?
She stilled. Her ear was pressed to his chest, and his traitorous heart was still pounding. Did it think he was still in combat? The muffled blade was dead, he had made certain. Why was he still nervous?
“Listen,” he repeated. “Are you listening, my lady?” As if she knew and trusted him. It did no good to imagine, and yet.
“Yes.” Slightly muffled. She did not draw away, but she did not soften, either.
What should I tell her? Mercifully, he found good advice in the soup his thinking liver threatened to become. “Return to your chambers. Do not let yourself be seen. Do not think upon this, and do not fear.”
“I am not afraid,” she whispered in Zhaon, and they both knew it for a lie.
“Good.” He decided to let her keep the fiction. “There is no need for fear, my lady.” Now that I am involved, that is. Had he not been returning from a late council session with Tamuron and some few ministers, all would have turned out much differently. “Now go.”
His arms loosened, but for a moment, she paused. Then she took a single step, leaving the circle of his arms, casting one more glance at the slump-shrouded body. The back of her left hand rose to her mouth; she hurried away with her robe whispering and her slippers noiseless upon large stepping-stones.
It lasted no longer than a breath, her pause, but while it did, Zakkar Kai wondered at the sudden sweetness of a night containing murder.
Then he, too, looked at the body, and took a deep breath, settling his shoulders under their armor and grateful the man’s wrappings would keep the effluvia of death from making the task before him even more disagreeable.
A BLADE OF HIGHER QUALITY
First Princess Garan Sabwone wrinkled her straight nose, her largest fan moving gently. It was a beautiful morning, and she liked to spend those upon this particular porch with her breakfast waiting upon a covered tray, her hair not yet dressed and her favorite deep yellow morning-robe, patterned with embroidered dragonwings, loosened. The green-garden was at its best on late-spring mornings, with dew still sparkling and the light sharp and clear. “Disturbing,” she murmured.
“Isn’t it, though?” Second Prince Kurin closed his own fan, set it aside. He had already breakfasted at his mother’s palace; the servants were scurrying to bring him tea. The First Concubine’s household rustled and ran with morning activity. A sathron was plucked—the mistress was at her daily practice with that noblest of instruments. A flute slowly followed the notes, Prince Jin resentful of any demand that took him from training but an obedient son nonetheless.
A prince must learn such things, even if he had no taste for them.
Well-regulated, Concubine Luswone’s part of the Iejo did not admit of gossip or excitement. Still, some of the servants whispered, and Prince Kurin, bearing the news, found Sabwone already knew.
“The body was savaged,” he said softly, lingering over each word. “The fingers were hacked off.”
“Disgusting.” Sabwone’s nose wrinkled again. Her fan flicked, brushing away the unsavory details, and snapped closed with a flick of her own, very pretty fingers. “Perhaps I shall lose my appetite, Kurin.”
He did not think it likely, but he also did not provide further specifics, settling his orange sleeves with a decided twitch. “The guards saw nothing; they must have been asleep. My mother is beside herself.”
“No doubt.” The First Princess stroked her jaw with her closed fan, an indication of deep thought. “Perhaps your family has a secret protector?” The corollary—or someone else does—lay between them, invisible under a cool breeze full of a scented morning.
Such a question could mean she was innocent, or that she knew very well who the target had been. A search of the assassin’s body had provided thought-provoking instruments—grip-sole shoes full of roof-tile dust, wicked curved knives with blackened flats, small twine-wrapped glass bottles of venom or unidentifiable substances, and the like. From the position of the corpse, it appeared it had been thrown from the roof of the First Queen’s part of the Kaeje.
“Makar suggested as much.” The Fourth Prince and Kurin’s younger brother Takshin had also examined the corpse minutely where it lay, before nodding at those sent to carry it off. There would be a ritual to cleanse the front steps of any corpse-pollution, and the Emperor would no doubt visit his first queen afterward.
That should be amusing, if Kurin cared to attend. Perhaps even his little brother would be there. If Gamnae was, she would seek to smooth the folds; at least the barbs his mother threw and his father returned would largely pass over her head.
His little sister was not, alas, very bright. At all. Marrying her off would be a relief, yet Kurin had not decided where it would be most advantageous yet. His mother had her ideas, but he would withhold consent for a while yet.
It would do the First Queen good to understand her son was no longer a child, and must be consulted upon such matters.
Sabwone lifted the tray cover and peeked beneath, holding her smallest finger elevated in order not to disturb the resin-lacquered nail upon it. Her loosened robe moved aside, showing a fascinating slice of gentle swelling, the beginning of her right breast. “Sweet rai again. I should refuse.”
He could have said sweets for a sweet or something similar, or needled her with a simple to sweeten your disposition. As charming as she was when prodded, Kurin found he liked her far better otherwise, especially lately. “Send it to Jin.” Kurin almost laughed at the thought. “He is still a child.”
That earned him a sideways glance, her bright, very fine eyes half closing. This particular look of hers always pleased Kurin—she looked thus when she could not decide whether his last words were a compliment or a roundabout needling. “He is,” she answered, finally. “But even the old like honey, now and then.”
Oh, she never disappointed, this beautiful, clawing sister of his. Kurin’s cheeks bunched as his smile turned genuine, and her laughter had a familiar edge. His tea arrived, and the girl who poured it was his spy in the First Concubine’s household, a little slip of a thing whose peasant family had fallen into debt and consequently sold her at a low price—a small initial investment for a prince, reaping large rewards later. They were always his preferred ears, loyal out of fear or gratitude.
It did not matter which.
He settled upon his padded cushion, sipping at roasted-rai tea—his favorite, and held to be a great cleanser. You could not be too careful with your health.
Sabwone lifted the cover again, set it aside. She chose the clear broth accompanying the sweet rai, and sipped with her hands held just so, wrist cradled in opposite palm and smallest digit lifted the requisite few fingerwidths again. Kitten-small mouthfuls, and when she had finished, she set the pink slipware cup, painted with yeoyan blossoms, down with a tiny click. “I wonder…”
Kurin waited, but she did not continue. “What do you wonder, pretty si
ster?”
“Someone seems to be sending single assassins.” She selected a slice of white, crunchy-pungent walanir, laid it upon her delicate pink tongue. “Are they are thrifty, or merely unintelligent?”
Kurin’s good mood evaporated. “Perhaps both,” he murmured. “Or perhaps a new enemy sent a blade of higher quality, but only one, to avoid suspicion.”
“Possibly.” Another slice of walanir, plucked from its bed of peppery greens. “Are you certain you will not have something to eat, Elder Brother?”
He refused, just as politely. The conversation turned to other, less exciting court gossip, and when the servants came to clear her breakfast and hasten her to the dressing-room, Kurin took his leave. They would meet later, in a garden or elsewhere. He had to ration the enjoyment of seeing the First Princess. A pleasure that could wound was one to ration.
All in all, the morning was quite satisfactory. Even if the money paid for a high-quality service was lost, which made it all the sweeter—except for the fact that he did not know quite who had lost it.
He did not even have a guess, and that was, for Second Prince Garan Kurin, very unusual indeed.
A DELICATE BALANCE
Mrong Banh folded his hands inside his sleeves, his round face somber. For once his topknot was not askew but drawn painfully high and tight, held securely by a bone pin and leather cage. “Tossed from the roof.” Perhaps his hands were not quite steady, for he kept them tucked as if he were cold. “The assassin’s fingers were… missing. Removed after death, I should say. But not long after.” That was the most puzzling thing in the entire affair, and the astrologer had the deep and maddening sense that if he could just answer that question, the rest of the riddle would fall into place.
Physician Tian Ha, his court-hat laid aside and his topknot also firmly in place, remained upon his knees. Deprived of his usual skull-grin, he looked very much like a puffbird, snub-nosed and round, ringed eyes opened wide in perpetual surprise. “The First Queen is abed, my lord Emperor. The shock was too much for her delicate nerves.”
“Delicate as caltrops,” the Emperor muttered. His gaze was piercing and distant though his eyes were somewhat glassy, and the threads of grey in his beard might not have thickened overnight—but it was perhaps a near thing. A fine misting of sweat stood upon his forehead, though it was no more than spring-warm in the gardens or the great court hall.
Mrong Banh coughed, casting the Emperor an apologetic glance; it would not do to let the head physician carry poison to Queen Gamwone’s ears. Not that it mattered—what he could not carry, he would invent. Still, the astrologer did what he could to smooth the folds in that fabric. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. The dust is thick outside.”
Tian Ha busied himself with flagrant knee-bowing yet again, the customary attitude of a courtier giving bad or even moderately unpleasant news. When he straightened, he tugged at his court-hat, keeping it near his knees. “There has been a thorough search of both queens’ households. Nobody is missing, nothing seems amiss.”
“And no hero has stepped forward to claim this deed?” The Emperor stroked his beard with his fingertips. “How very strange.”
“Perhaps it was a quarrel among assassins?” Tian’s thin lips drew against themselves. That was the surest indication he knew very little; he did not generally look so sour when he had at least a suspicion. “If the body was brought from outside, Your Majesty, it is an insult to—”
“Let us not be hasty.” It was perhaps rude to interrupt, but Mrong Banh was almost at the end of his considerable patience. It was an insult or threat to the First Queen whether the body was brought in or made in the palace, so to speak, and that lady was not above manufacturing such things to serve her own ends.
Such a thing, of course, could not be said, and Mrong Banh did not wish to give Gamwone’s creature any leeway. If the physician was planning an accusation for his patron’s ends, he could do it without an astrologer’s or emperor’s help.
A long, swaying shadow appeared at the end of the hall and resolved into Zan Fein, the Head Court Eunuch. Dark robes flagrantly bare of any ostentation but still sumptuous enough to whisper, his elongated beardless face a rising moon, he minced along on high jatajata30 sandals. The wooden bars upon their soles click-clacked when he wished others to know of his presence, but were catspaw when he did not. As usual, a draft of umu-blossom—expensive, and cloying—followed him, an invisible veil ready to seine unwary fish. He took his time, pausing at each courtier’s station for the usual bow when entering the Emperor’s presence, giving both onlookers and the Emperor a few moments to consider the situation.
By the time he arrived before the Throne of Five Winds, Tamuron’s expression had turned to granite; Mrong Banh had taken advantage of the pause to breathe deeply and unclench his hands inside wide sleeves.
“May Heaven smile upon the Emperor.” Zan Fein settled upon his knees at Tian Ha’s side. The physician leaned away slightly, a draft bringing the umu to his face like a soaked rag. “The corpse has been examined.”
“So Mrong Banh was telling me.” Garan Tamuron turned slightly, gazing at the astrologer standing at his side. The Emperor was also more flushed than usual today, and his under-eyes bore the smudges of sleeplessness.
Banh cleared his throat. “Yes. His fingers were removed, shortly after death—a very traditional punishment for a thief, to be sure, but applied a little late.”
If the Emperor was annoyed at this re-treading of ground, he did not show it. “You suspect he was simply a thief?”
“Not at all.” Mrong Banh folded his hands outside his sleeves, sedately. The work could now begin, and with both Banh and Zan Fein to maneuver, the First Queen’s pet physician would find it significantly more difficult to further his patroness’s ends. “There are a few other interesting things. Honorable Zan Fein noted the man’s origins.”
Tian Ha settled on his heels, perhaps realizing he should have been with the body instead of tending the First Queen’s so-delicate nerves. A few prickles of sweat showed upon his forehead, too. “No doubt there are some signs visible even to untrained eyes,” he murmured.
“We guess the man was from Keolh-ha originally, by the wrappings of his blades.” Zan Fein’s slight smile did not alter, but then, it rarely did. A somber Head Eunuch was a dangerous sign, and a grinning one had never been seen—at least, not publicly. “It is strange, I did not think assassins sent their trainees so far afield, but he was definitely from the northwest, and definitely a walker of the Shadowed Path.”
“Not a thief at all.” Mrong Banh repeated what he had said this morning, examining the body. “And twice now, an assassin brings unanswered questions.”
So too did Zan Fein repeat the chain of logic from the morning’s discoveries, for the Emperor’s benefit. “Or perhaps he was pursuing a target local assassins had decided against? He, unlike the most recent unpleasant individual to make an attempt within the palace, had only one poison tooth. Intact, too.” The eunuch spread his own surprisingly strong, elongated fingers. His palms were soft, delicate as a highborn woman’s.
Strangler’s hands, Zakkar Kai had called them once, and Banh had been forced to agree.
“And the General?” Tamuron’s gaze was piercing. He did not wear a ceremonial hat; his topknot was wrapped in gold beaten thin to be malleable, and carefully pinned. Mrong Banh thought it very likely a shy palace girl from the baths had been selected for the honor of dressing Tamuron’s hair this morning, one with quick hands and the habit of glancing at the ground before she spoke in the accent of Tsueruei—Tamuron’s own birthplace.
And what of it? When a man grew in age, the things of youth—his own, or another’s—became precious. The Emperor had not visited either of his queens or the First Concubine in quite a while, perhaps unwilling to give any of them the appearance of being in favor.
“General Zakkar was not disturbed last night,” Mrong Banh replied. It was a lucky thing, for Kai needed all the rest he coul
d gather lately. The Emperor used his favorites ruthlessly, and Zakkar Kai was among the highest regarded. “He wished to examine the body too.”
“This fellow is very popular in death.” Tamuron’s wry tone did not approach true amusement. He gazed down the great ceremonial hall, the bear-carved pillar returning his look with interest. “The First Queen…”
Physician Tian Ha hurried to supply a few words. “Beside herself, my lord.”
“Women.” Zan Fein’s mouth curled. His topknot, silky black, was caged with delicate beadwork, fragrant polished ceduan held by spider-thin silk thread. “Honorable Mrong Banh noticed something quite strange about the body, too.”
Tamuron’s eyebrows rose slightly. He tucked his hands inside his sleeves, and his full attention settled on the head eunuch. “Oh?”
“There appear to be two different styles of wounding.” Zan Fein inclined slightly, giving the honor of that discovery to the astrologer though it could have been shared. “A sword, relatively broad, applied from the back, then very deftly to the chest, between ribs. The man’s throat was opened by a sharper, shorter blade.”
The Emperor nodded, his gaze sharpening. His broad gold-embroidered belt creaked slightly as he shifted upon the padded bench of the Throne. “So which killed him?”
“They appear to share the honor.” Then, Banh thought, the fingers had been sliced free—for what purpose?
“Other assassins? A silent hero in the palace?” Tamuron freed his seal-hand and stroked his beard, the great greenstone-and-silver ring clasping his first finger glittering dully. “This is a riddle.” Finally, the Emperor nodded, the short, sharp movement that said he had reached a decision. “Physician Tian. Thank you for your care of the First Queen. You may return to her now, and tell her there is no danger. Her guard will be doubled for a few weeks, as well.”