The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  Of course the physician did not wish to be dismissed. “Your Majesty…”

  Tamuron, unmoved, simply looked at the man. Tian Ha endured that cool, remote gaze for a few moments, then prostrated himself again and backed from the august presence. He hurried away, his court-hat bobbing, and Mrong Banh’s nose twitched with a suppressed sneeze. It was probably the umu perfume.

  Zan Fein’s eyelashes, thick as a woman’s, swept down and fluttered up. “Such strange occurrences lately.” His bloodless lips curved like half a cat’s smile. “I have a theory.”

  “Not another one.” Mrong Banh almost rolled his eyes. Zan Fein liked theories, and his skull was said to contain a multitude of them. But the eunuch had granted Banh the honor of noticing the wound-styles, so the astrologer must grant Zan Fein the honor of advancing the most likely explanation for the morning’s discovery.

  “We shall hear it.” Tamuron settled himself upon his cushion. If he enjoyed the not-quite-friendly rivalry between two of his counselors, none could tell; he did not bother to add fuel or damp the flames. “If you care to grant it to us, Zan Fein.”

  “I would not deny such an august request, however little use my poor skills may be.” Catlike again, the eunuch’s eyes half-closed, attention turned inward. “I believe this particular assassin was intercepted, and flung from the roof to send a message.” The eunuch’s chin dipped in a nod. “Indeed, I would be willing to bet a silver tal31 or two upon it.”

  Tamuron nodded. “And why do you think thus?”

  “Consider what has changed in the palace of late, Divine One.” Zan Fein settled on his haunches. “And how such change disturbs a delicate balance.”

  “Was there such a balance?” Mrong Banh folded his hands inside his broad brown sleeves edged with dark blue cotton again, but in a far more relaxed manner. He did not like the head eunuch, but at least Zan Fein was not stupid. There was much to be said for a colleague—if not an enemy or precisely a friend—worthy of some respect.

  The numberless heavens knew there were few people worth any measure of that precious resource.

  “Of a sort.” Zan Fein allowed himself a larger smile, now the expression of a cat basking in strong sunshine. “Now there is a new prince, and the prospect of an heir for the Crown Prince. Even the happiest of families may suffer a small amount of tension when additions are made.”

  “Mh.” The Emperor nodded. He removed a square of thirsty fabric from his sleeve and dabbed at his forehead. Thankfully, there were few courtiers or eunuchs even at the end of the hall to note the movement, for this session was early indeed. “Are we to be awash in assassins, then?”

  “More than usual?” Mrong Banh could not help sounding sardonic. “Honorable Zan Fein believes this will be the last for some short while.” The devotees of the Shadowed Path were, like most merchants, creatures of profit. There was little to be gained when their victims were wary and prepared.

  Tamuron looked to the far end of the hall, but his gaze did not see the pillars or the few courtiers yawning into their sleeves. This was, instead, the expression he wore during the start of a campaign when his foe had been alerted to his intentions and required some manner of ruse to be drawn to defeat. “And?”

  “And I concur.” It irked the astrologer to agree so unreservedly, and the Emperor must have known as much.

  “Then we may leave the matter for a moment.” Tamuron returned his hands to the royal sleeves. Today the brocade was heavy; perhaps that explained the sweat. “There are larger issues. The delegation from Anwei has arrived.” He gestured, and Zan Fein rose with murmured thanks at the mark of high esteem. To be on your feet before the Emperor was a noble thing indeed, even if it turned your legs into solid bars of pain after several hours of bearing the honor.

  “I see.” The eunuch produced a fan from his sleeve; when opened, calligraphy was visible upon its rai-paper-and-cotton fabric. A line from Cao Zheun—in winter, a butterfly is slow. Morbid, but completely in keeping with his aesthetic. His long eyes blinked quickly, now a lizard’s tongue-flick. “Honorable Mrong Banh, perhaps, has suspicions of their message?”

  The Emperor had no patience for protocol upon this particular question. “Tabrak.” He almost spat the word. The Pale Horde, sweeping from their high northwest almost-desert, descending as locusts upon the richer lands, were not a plague to be taken lightly or turned aside without cost.

  “It has been over thirty winters.” The astrologer nodded. “Enough time for them to replenish their ranks.”

  “As the rains come, so do the white ghosts.” Zan Fein’s fan began small, regular motions, indicative of his full attention upon a particular problem. “And Shan?”

  Everyone wished to know the astrologer’s opinion upon Shan, from the Emperor to Prince Makar. It was the question of the hour. “I believe Prince Takshin has that matter well in hand.” Another draft of umu reached Mrong Banh. The Anwei used thick tarsmoke in naval battles to confuse and choke their opponents.

  Zan Fein was a close reader of tactics. “At least the Mad Queen is no longer a concern.” A delicate flick of the fan. “The Third Prince is no doubt grieving for his… adoptive-mother.”

  What a way to phrase the question. “As is Suon Kiron, no doubt.” Mrong Banh’s mouth pulled down at the corners. He had always been against sending a prince as hostage, but his opposition had weighed but little those many years ago. At least the Mad Queen’s son was not quite an unknown quantity. “Prince Takshin tells me the coronation ceremony was the occasion of much relief upon the part of noble and commoner alike.”

  “So. Shan is more certain, but Anwei is worried.” The Emperor brought them back to the matter at hand. “And Khir is married to us.”

  “It may be time to send an ambassador to the Tabrak.” Zan Fein’s fan did not pause. “Simply to be certain.” His expression suggested he did not care for the idea, and after he finished the sentence his fan flicked once, dismissing the prospect even as voiced.

  “An ambassador might be mistaken for tribute,” Mrong Banh pointed out, knowing very well the eunuch agreed. When he played the snake-eater, Zan Fein played the snake, and vice versa. Between them, the possibilities were explored, and Garan Tamuron could choose the path Heaven willed Zhaon to take.

  The common people had begun to place small figures at their family shrines, the Emperor’s name painted in whatever crimson could be found upon the small terra-cotta figures. Prayers offered before the evening meal included his name. Such was the effect of victory—and ceremony. When there was an Emperor, Zhaon was strong. They longed for a ruler to keep them safely enclosed just as dogs longed for masters to feed and train them.

  “Who among the ministers is likely to suggest we send one?” Tamuron finally asked.

  Ah, so that was what the Emperor wished. Mrong Banh shifted his weight, easing his left foot. It ached dreadfully, and his robe made a soft sound. “Hanweo, certainly.” The Second Queen’s uncle, Minister of the Eye, was not quite craven, but Hanweo lay astride the traditional path of the Pale Horde’s invasion, and such things were bad for noble coffers. “And Nahjin.” The Minister of the Left Foot was ever nervous.

  “Tansin might protest, but he will follow Hanweo.” The eunuch shook his head, slightly. His thin, beardless cheeks sucked in. “In opposition… the First Concubine’s eldest brother, perhaps. And General Zakkar will not think much of such a gesture.”

  “His opinion carries much weight,” Tamuron murmured. “The Crown Prince must be in attendance this afternoon.” He would provide a counterweight to those seeking to swim against his father’s current, as well.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Mrong Banh inclined his upper body slightly, acknowledging the command.

  “Newly married men are peacemakers,” Zan Fein added. But not very loudly, for Tamuron’s gaze settled upon him, and the royal visage, reddened with a rise of fiery humors, was also stern.

  “He will do as his father bids him,” the Emperor said, and they moved to other matte
rs.

  ATTEMPT TO RENDER MORE

  A bright, hot midmorning brought much of the court to the Artisans’ Home. It was a short walk from the Jonwa, and since Mahara had decided to spend the morning taking a Zhaon lesson from Lady Kue, Yala was free to follow a streamlet of brightly clad court ladies, fluttering ribbons and mincing steps, to the great low-timbered complex full of tiny apartments and stalls. Its tiled roof was not red, for no royalty resided within, merely artists, apothecaries, and eunuchs waiting the seasons until called to attend the Emperor and his flock. At its westron corner, the Old Tower loomed, ancient stonework, blue tile, and a five-pointed roof over its bulbous top. Yala had heard that the court astrologer spent much time there, an artificial hill to watch the night sky from. For special occasions, there was a greater tower along the north wall.

  At home in Khir, artisans would have been allowed into the Great Keep for performance, or if summoned to show their wares. But this—a whole palace quarter of court-supported makers of fine things, or teachers of skills princes and court ladies would desire—was something new, and she wandered among the painted, much-partitioned passages and small houses for a long while, halting when a particular display caught her attention. Weavers, distillers, gold- and silversmiths, binders, musicians, dressmakers, tea blenders, perfumiers, and more kept tiny apartments here with the most appealing wares. The artisan families allowed to nestle under the Emperor’s eaves could display a special symbol in the Great Market beyond the walls, but if delicacy or etiquette forbade a court lady from sallying outside the walls, she would find plenty to tempt her within.

  Water-gardens threaded through and around the Home, full of dew that had not yet burned off and alive with flickering dragonwings. Yala kept to the shade and found a cunningly carved stone arbor near one of the smaller ponds, a clear eye unscaled by green pads. Starvine looped and rioted over the support, spreading along a low balustrade, about to unloose its pendulous, yellow, waxen flowers in cascading handfuls. This particular pond was regularly dredged; its bottom raked, pale sand shimmering under a clear weight. Reeds fringing the edges glowed green. The effect was of a lidless mirrorlight, laid to reflect the sun into the sky’s vault.

  So much trouble and effort to keep sand clean and water clear, and nobody to witness the brilliant lapping but a Khir lady-in-waiting in a green and blue hajo32-patterned dress, her hairpin holding a common, angular stone and red beads. There was bound to be a poem for disquiet in the face of this luxury. She leaned against one of the arbor’s supports, contemplating the question, and heard light, firm footsteps.

  General Zakkar Kai, in a sober dark tunic but his topknot wrapped with a crimson silk band, halted beside her. He turned his back to the pond, watching the downhill path to this shaded place.

  Yala’s mouth turned salt-dry. Her palms ached, and it took a few deep breaths before she could loosen her fists. Driving her nails into her own flesh would not change anything, or provide relief.

  The general dispensed with pleasantries, but still did not look at her. “Are you injured? At all?”

  She had to cough, softly, to clear the way for her voice. “No, my lord.” Her thighs ached, and her right wrist felt bruised. Using the yue against an attacker was not the same as practice, but she had not done badly. Although the… honor of the kill had gone to the General.

  Was it an honor, to him?

  “Please, address me as Kai.” From the side, his nose was proud, his deep-set eyes not so shadowed, and his lips not quite so overlarge. “Surely we have moved past formality.”

  I am not so certain. What was the etiquette for this situation? She settled herself to be polite, as if he had not put his arms around her in the dark. And, useless to deny it, as if she had not let him do so. “I did not thank you for your aid.”

  “There is no need.” He made a slight, dismissive movement. Of course, he was general to the Crown Prince’s family. He was merely protecting Garan Takyeo, and she a mere corollary.

  At least he was not attempting… familiarity. “Nevertheless.” She still felt the leather of his half-armor under her cheek. It was different than Bai’s rough affection, certainly, and different from Dao’s attentions just over the border of formality. The Khir said the Zhaon all stank, but they seemed to bathe just as much as anyone else, and Zakkar Kai had not reeked.

  Quite the opposite. A slight, hot breeze touched starvine, ruffled the water’s clarity.

  “It must pain you, to thank one such as me.” He shifted his weight slightly, his left hand twitching before it subsided. Did he mean to touch her, or did he think her about to strike him? “Therefore, avoid it.”

  “Pain is inescapable, until one reaches Heaven.” Zhe Har the Archer said as much, and Yala felt a weary surprise that in the presence of this man, after last night, poetry was still applicable.

  “I do not wish to be its cause.” He paused, his back just brushing the carved stone of the arbor’s fence. “Not to you.”

  At least he had some manners. She could hardly do less than be somewhat kind in return. “What a pleasant thing to say.” Her palms were too damp, and underneath her dress, the silken band below her breasts was dampening rapidly too. It was not the heat.

  Her body now knew what it was to strike flesh with the yue in earnest. It would not soon forget.

  They stood for a short while, almost shoulder to shoulder, the silence alive with soft watersound, the murmur of voices uphill, the whisper or buzz of dragonwings. She was alone with a man in Zhaon, and the thought filled her with a variety of unsteady panic.

  Finally, the general spoke again, half-turning his shoulders in her direction. “I would ask your opinion of something, Lady Komor.” He dug, two-fingered, in a pocket, and brought out a small dark object. “Tell me, do you know what this is?”

  She turned her head, studied his cupped palm. Upon his warrior’s calluses lay a ring with a queer metallic glitter that was not metal. It was sin-stone, that eater of ill-luck, highly prized among those in unclean occupations. A sinuous curve, the ring bore stylized swollen wings that would grip the wearer’s finger.

  Yala’s jaw threatened to drop. “Shinkesai.”33 She extended one trembling fingertip to almost touch its mellow gleam, then snatched her hand away. “I never thought to see one here.” Her throat was too dry to speak properly, and her knees had become soaked babu instead of bone, liable to bend when she did not wish them to.

  “So it is Khir. I wondered.” Zakkar Kai looked merely thoughtful, as if holding a ring to eat the terrifying ill-luck caused by harvesting souls were a mundane, everyday occurrence. “What does this signify? A flightless serpent, but with wings?”

  “It is not Khir. It is a kesaicha. They live on the edges of the Yaluin and the West Mountains where the Yellow Tribes congregate. No few of the Yellow Tribes worship them.” Yala folded her hands inside her sleeves, hoping the ring had not sensed her attempt to touch it. “The wings are poison sacs. The rings are worn by… by…”

  “Assassins.” He saved her the trouble of saying it and closed his hand, hiding the awful thing from sight. “The Yellow Tribes? That is a long way to send a walker of the Shadowed Path.”

  “Is that what they are called here?” Her pulse beat thinly in her throat, her wrists, even her ankles. “Where did you… no. It was not upon him last night, was it?”

  “Khe Ganwon said Zhaon-An is the navel of the world.” Zakkar Kai made a fist and dropped his hand, turned to face the path again. “It is not so strange that one from even the Yaluin would come this far to sell his services. Yet it worries me somewhat.”

  “Only somewhat?” Yala’s voice was a cricket whisper. She had to cough again to clear her throat, but Zakkar Kai’s expression did not change.

  “Of course, Khe is not part of the Hundreds.” He shook his head, a slow, thoughtful movement. The crimson on his topknot-cage gleamed—the most fortunate color, and a prince’s right. “You are partial to Zhe Har, I take it.”

  “Should I not be?”
She watched his profile. Why would he show her the ring, and why did he have his back to the water? He stared at the path as if he expected reinforcements. “Are you meeting someone here, General?” A Zhaon lady, perhaps? Or a contingent of palace guards?

  “Hm?” He glanced at her, returned his attention to the path. “No. I saw you entering the Artisans’ Home and followed in the hope of exchanging a quiet word. To caution you not to speak of last night.”

  “I am not stupid, General Zakkar.” Tartly, and she wished she had brought something to occupy her hands. They ached to move. Her right palm bore a slim red mark from the yue’s handle, but no one had remarked upon it. She could blame a tightened ribbon, perhaps.

  “I do not think you stupid at all, Lady Komor. Are you carrying your yue?” His Zhaon laid a different weight upon the single syllable, softening until it lost every edge.

  “A noblewoman always has her honor.” A faint attempt, not at levity but dissimulation. Her right hand, covered by a long Khir sleeve, tensed a little. She shook her left hand free, rested her fingertips upon the carved stone balustrade. To put his body in the pool… how often was it dredged? And how could she escape detection, were it necessary?

  She had not much appetite for her breakfast, and now she was glad. A shinkesai was no laughing matter, and the thought of another… another corpse was unpleasant in the extreme.

  Did men ever feel this revulsion? Bai and her father had never spoken of it.

  “Do not be troubled.” Zakkar Kai’s boots were hard-soled, not the glove-shoes of the palace men, as if he would ride to war at any moment. His tone was, all things considered, rather gentle. “But be careful. A man carrying a weapon inside the Palace without leave would be put to death. You they will simply flog. That will leave your princess in an awkward position.”

  Flogging was for traitors, and kaburei. A noblewoman would not suffer such a thing. Yala’s temples began to ache. “Do you threaten me, General?”