by S. C. Emmett
“You sound like a mother. Write more often.” Now that they were together, the hum of faraway conversation was not an irritant. Instead, it was almost soothing. Even the dingy, patched partitions held a certain charm, and the dim lighting was suitable for exchanging confidences.
“Hm.” Kai did not take the bait. His eyes were a little puffier than usual, whether with irritation or exhaustion was difficult to guess. “Having none, I cannot tell.”
“Is not Father your father and mother?” Takshin’s lip twitched. Sometimes, when exhaustion set in, the left side of his face took to shivering.
“Careful.” Mildly, but Kai’s eyelids lowered a fraction. “Your tongue will cut your teeth out, Takshin.”
“Sharp as a pin.” The pun on his name was not bitter, but it was unpleasant. “Like a certain lady-in-waiting.” He hadn’t seen her again… but then, did he want to?
“The Khir girl?” Of course Kai would remember Takshin paying any attention to a court lady, at all.
At least he could ask a few questions without being mocked. “What’s her name?”
“Komor. Komor Yala.” Kai shook his head, and poured yet another measure. They were both drinking too quickly to be prudent. “She handles Zhaon like a blade. I do not envy her position.”
“I hear our new sister-in-law is a winsome creature.” Calling to pay his respects to his newly married brother was another duty, one that seemed almost pleasant.
And yet he had not, yet. Maybe Takyeo would even be hurt by the refusal. Or, it was more likely he would understand, which was his eldest brother’s curse.
No, it was not the understanding. It was the compassion that followed that forced Takyeo’s hand. Weary disgust married to comprehension was Takshin’s particular lot, and it would have served his eldest brother better than it did a rejected royal cub.
“Takyeo seems happy.” At least Kai did not call him the Crown Prince. The general lifted the jug, tested its burden with a single shaking slosh. “Drink more, until you mellow.”
“I like not the idea of blunting any edge, Kai. Unless it is aimed at me.”
“Difficult to strike a shadow.”
“Is he that desperate to speak to me again, then?” Takshin well remembered the screaming when news of his father’s impending second marriage reached Garan Gamwone’s ears, despite his youth during that chain of events. It was burned into his hide, his mother’s anguished cries and his father’s cold reply.
You are frightening the children, Gamwone.
She had given him two sons and was bellied with a daughter, and yet the warlord of westron Zhaon took another wife. Takshin, a second son surviving his naming-day, had been meant to cement his mother’s position, yet he had somehow failed. The genesis of all his later failures lay in that.
Each time Garan Suon-ei Takshin was in Gamwone’s presence, the First Queen was no doubt reminded of her own failure, too. Who knew what the Emperor was reminded of, seeing his scarred, worthless son?
Perhaps you should alter the playing board, Shin-he, Kiron would say. He had an easier temperament, despite his own mother’s madness. Takshin sometimes dreamed of the well, the close cold rankness, and Kiron’s sudden appearance. Hist, brother, the Prince of Shan had whispered. I am here.
No matter which way the tangle of memory turned, there was a blade ready to slice.
Kai appeared to consider the sohju in his bowl closely, as if searching for a solution to a riddle. Which meant he was ready to speak of what truly ailed him. “Of all his sons, I think he understands you least.”
“Understands? Or likes?” Takshin bolted his own bowl. Suddenly he was nowhere near as drunk as he wanted to be, and the fish-leaping of memory inside his skull yet another irritant. “Since I am the one he threw away.”
“That was your mother’s doing.” Kai bolted another bowlful of sohju, to wash the taste of an unpleasant truth from his mouth. Gamwone had not expected Garan Tamuron to call her bluff when it came to suggesting her own son as the Shan hostage.
She should have, she was married to the man. Of course he would not have waited until his second wife’s children reached their naming-day to send a hostage to Shan; the First Queen’s theatrics had only served to hasten the inevitable. She had miscalculated both her position and her husband badly, and how that must have rankled her indeed.
In any case, Takshin had mentioned mothers first; he was now roundly served by it. “Or so you are told.”
“Will you tell me what is truly pulling your tail, Tak?” Kai did not quite sigh like an aggrieved auntie, but it was probably close. “Or will you continue to chew old leather?”
There was no way to explain. So Takshin chose a believable lie. “Tabrak.”
“Ah.” The general nodded, refilling both bowls though Takshin’s hardly needed it. “You definitely should have been in Council.”
“Hailung Jedao would love that.” The Second Queen’s uncle was a grasping goatskin roll, and Takshin generally lost no chance to puncture or madden him.
“You would have enjoyed seeing him caught between two millstones.” But Zakkar Kai’s mournful aspect did not change. The man was thinking of something else, too.
Takshin gave a soft, unprincely half-snort. “He would have enjoyed seeing the dog of Shan sitting and barking.”
“You are truly insufferable today.” Now Kai did sigh. He was perilously close to aggrieved, that sound said.
“Every day. Not just today.” Takshin decided to be curious about something else. “Tell me of the body, Zakkar Kai.”
“Which one?” Kai spread his right hand, indicating the drinking-room as if it were stacked with corpses. “There have been a few, of late.”
“Well, I am here now.” The Third Prince turned the cup a quarter, then another to make a half. Good luck, a blessing to a new venture. Sohju left ring-marks upon the table. Drunken hurai, soaking into cheap wood, staining everything in their orbit. “Either I shall split the hunters or watch your back.”
“They are not after me now.” Kai sounded very certain.
Oh, Takshin suspected as much. Had there been other attempts while he was immured in Shan? More than likely, though the letters from Takyeo or Kai himself had not even hinted as much. “Takyeo, I’d wager.” A newly married Crown Prince could produce an heir, and move his brothers further down the line of succession.
Kai drank, and grimaced. “Or his new bride.”
“Unlikely.” Rumor had the Khir princess as pretty and docile; the Khir expected their highborn women to merely sew and provide heirs, not influence their husbands. Why would Kai think her a target? Takshin’s callused fingertips touched his swordhilt, and the sohju was heating him. The scars would flush soon. “An attempt upon her would upset things, would it not? Another war with Khir would be unwelcome.”
Kai’s expression changed slightly, eyelids contracting and his left thumb rubbing at the hurai much as Makar touched his while thinking deeply. “Perhaps the buyer of the latest services thinks that far ahead.”
Now that was interesting. Services, plural. Takshin set that aside for later thought. “Not Kurin, then.” A good man, he reflected, would not say the name of his elder brother in such a manner.
“Unless he saw a chance.” Kai did not say that Kurin’s attempt upon Kai would have been a great deal better planned and better financed, but then again, that went without saying. “What we have now is a body on the First Queen’s steps and a needle-son with two poison teeth a short while ago as well.”
Takshin had heard of that, too. Rumor of an attack on the Head General, beloved of Zhaon and the Emperor, flew upon wings, especially in the low quarters where a man with a high dark hood could drink in peace—and listen his fill—during long curfew-watches. “And Mrong Banh?”
“He is troubled.”
Well, when was the astrologer not troubled? Even in Takshin’s childhood, the man had been a tongue-clicking old maid, possessed of a mind far too fine for a commoner and a loyalty too comple
te to be safe. “As well he should be. So. What does Takyeo think?”
“He is resigned to it.”
There was the entire theme of Takyeo’s life. Takshin suppressed an acrid sohju-burning belch. “Now he has a wife to protect.” Foolish of Eldest Brother, to agree to a marriage that was only enough to paint him brightly for the hunters. But then, the Crown Prince always longed to make Father proud.
Takshin had decided not so long ago to settle for resisting the Emperor’s demands. It was surprisingly simple once he aimed his prow in that direction. Freedom was bitter, but better than eating shit. “I will do what I can.”
“That would please your father.” Kai found the jug was empty and banged it upon the table twice, summoning a refill. Hurrying feet in the passage said his wish had been heard and would be granted by whatever spirits lurked in passageways of fourth-rate taverns.
“I will not be doing it for him.” Takshin glowered into his half-full cup.
It was Takyeo who had protected young Takshin from Kurin, as much as possible. It was also Takyeo who had sent letters as Zakkar Kai had, once a month instead of weekly but still welcome. Some were admonishments, some were simple recitations of passing events, several were passages or quotations a man of Zhaon education should know. Between each brushstroke was a simple message, all the more powerful for its quiet.
First Prince Takyeo, not yet Crown Prince, had also abased himself before the Emperor many years ago, asking that Takshin not be sent to Shan. A child’s plea, of course.
And yet.
“Takyeo is a good man.” Zakkar Kai poured them both another measure. “An honorable one.”
Takshin nodded. Therein lay the problem. “I will not be returning to Shan.”
“The Emperor will be disappointed.” Kai picked up his bowl. “I, on the other hand, will be relieved.”
Something in Takshin’s chest eased. How did Kai do it, relieve that awful pressure? It was a mystery, and one Takshin was no closer to solving than he had been before he left for Shan, the Mad Queen’s grasp, and his scars.
He tilted his bowl, and smiled his wolf-smile. “Then let us drink to that.”
A WOMAN’S BATTLE
A clear morning with the promise of heat later swallowed the palace, and while the dew was still fresh was the best time for walking. Anh and another servant—Nawo, not kaburei but beholden to Lady Kue in some fashion, moon-eyed and plump with dexterous fingers—followed at a respectable distance, keeping to the shade as much as possible. The first few gardens the princess and Yala peered into held brightly colored blots—palace ladies, but none Mahara wished to speak to even though the end of her formal seclusion drew near. So it was that they kept to the broad colonnaded passages at the edges, working their way north and slightly turning the corner to drift vaguely westward.
Riding would have been better exercise, but Mahara had not asked the Crown Prince’s permission to leave the palace complex and the cavalry square was taken up with guards at their morning practice. No kaibok today, and Yala’s back still contained an ache or two from the red time.
A slight headache from the rising heat-haze was also teasing at Yala’s patience. How did the southroners move, with this oven-blast hovering over them? And it was only spring. Modesty demanded linen even beneath the under-robe, but she was beginning to see why the Zhaon dresses dispensed with yet another layer of material, no matter how gossamer.
“I do not see why I should.” Mahara’s lower lip pushed out as she walked, peach silk moving softly in time and her veil pushed slightly aside to give her room to breathe. The pout was not enough to truly spoil her looks, but certainly too petulant for the Crown Princess of Zhaon. “She sent cotton.”
Yala nodded, her hairpin beads swinging. The First Queen’s insult was a dire one, but it must be met carefully to be turned aside. “Consider the advantage, though. If you respond with grace, it shames her much further, and for a longer time.” How can you not see this? Her own dress, new and high-waisted in the Zhaon fashion, still had long Khir sleeves, and she longed to retreat to the Jonwa and take it off. Spending the day lounging in an under-robe, or better, in a tepid bath, sounded incredibly enticing.
Mahara’s lip could not push out more. “We could put something in her tea. Ink. Chuokon.”
Their skirts brushed together, a companionable sound, and Mahara’s arm was steady in Yala’s. The paving, swept and sprinkled, dried in bony patches. “I doubt a laxative will teach her any lasting lesson.” The idea was extremely humorous, though, and Yala could not help but swallow a laugh.
Which made Mahara ready to plan mischief, if not to attempt it. Tiny prickles of sweat gleamed upon her forehead, gems to match her bright ruby ear-drops. “If I invite her to dinner—”
“—and she takes ill, what do you think the gossip will be?” Yala did not mean to sound so sharp, but the sunshine was too bright, and the sunbell, while perfectly adequate for herself, was a little less for both of them. Still, Mahara wished her to hold it, so hold it Yala did. There was no reason for a kaburei to hear them speaking so, even in Khir. “I asked Lady Kue. The cook would prepare the dishes, all you must do is write the invitation and endure some little time with her.”
“Would you be there?” The ear-drops were a gift from the Crown Prince, bearing much luck in their red glitter and swaying. The princess’s dress, high-waisted and wide-sleeved in the Zhaon fashion, was of beautiful peach silk embroidered with black thread to suggest the fluid shapes of snow-pards, and a likewise gift.
Yala suppressed an uncharacteristic rasp of irritation. “I doubt such a grand lady wishes to dine with me. But I can be behind the partitions, and you may pretend ignorance of anything bad-tempered she says.”
“I do not like it.” There went the jutting lower lip, again. This time it held a quiver.
“I know.” Yala did not like it either, but they must bend with the wind or be beaten down by its force. That was a Khir proverb, and the only reason it had escaped inclusion in the Hundreds was probably the shape of the character for wind. “But it is best.”
Mahara’s face smoothed. Heat, a new marriage, and being far from home would have an effect on the sunniest disposition, but at least she tried. She brushed at her veil, a little irritably. “You always know what is best.”
Now was not the time to admit any doubt. “No. But in this case—”
“You do, Yala. You always have.” Mahara sighed, fretfully. “Sometimes I think you should have been born Ashan, and I Komor.”
“I would not wish the burden of royalty.” The thought of her father’s iron gaze bent upon her princess was amusing and terrifying in equal measure, if only for Mahara’s sake. And the thought of having to eat dinner with the Great Rider and his habit of smashing his fist upon the table in private was unappetizing. At least Komori Dasho never struck his daughter.
He did not have to. A single look of displeasure was enough.
Mahara swung her right hand softly, describing a thoughtful arc, watching how her sleeve belled. “Still, to invite a guest… perhaps we should ask my husband?”
If Mahara was seeking to avoid the responsibility of refusal, well, there was the best way to do so. It was an inspired suggestion. “Certainly. He is, after all, the prince.”
“Crown Prince. Like Daoyan, now.”
That was a warning. Mahara had never spoken of Dao before. A bastard scion was beneath her notice, even if Yala’s brother had sought his company. “Mh.” And now, Yala wondered if perhaps her father had hinted to Bai that cultivating a royal byblow was perhaps wise?
“Father even liked him more than me.” Mahara sighed, a soft, lonely sound.
What did she expect? Even a bastard son was better than none, and both better than the daughters who would leave the family, married into another line and producing heirs elsewhere. “Fathers love their sons, my princess.”
And yet, her father, upon the dais steps with his arm awkwardly about her. Little light, I called you. His letter
s were punctual, too, and full of that odd… un-distance.
Mahara sighed, her steps slowing yet again. The sun was a brazen coin beating down upon paving stones and glittering steps. At this rate they would not return to the Crown Prince’s palace before becoming soaked with salt-sweat. “I shall give the prince a son soon.”
Hopefully, yes. Yala was choosing the proper quotation for such a wish when a low liquid sound, light and rippling, reached them.
“What is that?” Mahara heard it too. “It’s from there.”
They both halted, and the breeze picked up as if delighted to hear such skillful plucking and sliding. The player had a great deal of practice to add to natural artistry, that much was clear, and Mahara closed her eyes, tilting her head to listen.
Yala turned her chin and beckoned; Anh hurried to approach and bow. “My lady?”
“Who is likely to be playing such wonderful music?” Zhaon was harsh in her mouth after so much Khir, so Yala took care to smooth every syllable.
“This is the Iejo. It’s probably the Second Concubine.” Anh looked sober, and perspiring. “She is a great artist, and sometimes plays all day.”
“Hm. She is the Head General’s adoptive-mother now, and a recluse.” Yala glanced at Mahara, who opened her eyes halfway and nodded, answering the unspoken question. The Second Concubine’s wedding gift had been a sathron of beautiful blackened wood, and now Yala guessed why. It was permissible, at this stage of seclusion, to pay a visit to a mother-in-law, and Mahara was not averse. “Go to her door and ask if we may listen more closely to her playing.”
Anh hurried away, the importance of the mission bouncing her leather-wrapped braids rhythmically against her shoulders.
“Maybe she will be kind,” Mahara said, wistfully.
“If she is not,” Yala replied, “we may withdraw.” Even in Khir there was no shame for a woman in fleeing such a battle.
A high-ceilinged sitting-room, hung with lovely, plain, light fabrics and full of a cool breeze, accepted them as a garden pond accepts poured-in bronzefish.