by S. C. Emmett
“The others are being questioned.” Mrong Banh coughed slightly. “They swear he is not one of their number, though he knew their act.”
Acrobats were raised and trained together—but one who walked the Shadowed Path would have the endurance necessary to perform an approximation of their act. And once they were shrouded for their spectacle, who could tell the difference? The eye passed over hill and valley, seeing only what it expected. True attention was difficult and exhausting.
“I did not hit him hard enough to remove his speech.” Takshin shifted his weight, hitching a hip upon another empty table, this one with semicircles cut in its top to facilitate certain positions. “Is his tongue taken out, then?”
Zan Fein probed delicately in a mouth possessing a few fine teeth, none of them cored and stoppered with a lid to keep poison beneath. A faint sweetish odor rose; the saliva was slippery, and fine sugary flakes had collected between the top lip and the gums. “Ah. It has chewed hansong,40 the naughty thing.” He clicked his tongue, and peered at its eyes. The pupils swelled and shrank with no rhyme or reason. “To make it flexible, no doubt, and to guard against unwary speaking.”
Mrong Banh shifted uncomfortably. “They cannot all have chewed the dreaming leaf. I sent the Golden to the acrobats’ quarters, too.”
“To see if there is a body stuffed in a basket?” Zakkar Kai nodded. It was possible—even probable—that this fellow had taken the place of another, and that theft was best performed when the original item was smashed beyond repair. “If he is a dreamer, there is nothing to be done. He may die before speaking.”
It was not like the general to be so pessimistic. Zan Fein did not bother to disillusion him.
“A street acrobat, given hansong and a task? Or an assassin dedicated enough to mimic a performer?” Takyeo smoothed his mustache with a fingertip, looking away as Zan Fein produced a handful of needles. “Either way, a well-planned attempt.”
“The Emperor will be wrathful.” Mrong Banh produced a plain, folded cloth from his sleeve and pressed it to his nose. His discomfort was no doubt acute, and his forehead shone with sweat. “Crown Prince, you must rejoin the festival, or rumors will fly.”
“So must his wife,” Takshin pointed out, pitilessly.
“And you?” The astrologer refolded the cloth, pressed it to his nose again. He could not screen the smell of this place, though. Even Zan Fein’s umu scent could not.
That was not why he wore the blossom, though.
Takshin’s lip lifted slightly. “No one cares what I do.”
“There should not be another reason for tongues to wag at Takyeo’s expense, Takshin. We shall examine the acrobats’ housing.” Zakkar Kai, a peacemaker for once, took one last look at the naked body upon the table.
“Fear not.” Zan Fein chose a gossamer needle; he traced along the sparsely haired chest with a fingertip, searching for the proper point. The subtle body touched the physical at several points, and applying the smallest amount of pressure could twist much from even a dreamer eaten by the leaf. “If there is anything to wring from it, we shall gather the droplets assiduously. I shall attend to the others personally, until I am satisfied there is no treachery or information lurking.”
Now even the Crown Prince looked greenish. It was a pity he was a kind master, the type whose kaburei and vassals would cheat unmercifully. Hopefully he would temper once the fire of rule had found him. Heaven protected its own, and the Five Winds reshaped the world at will. There was steel in Garan Tamuron’s first son, it had merely not been struck yet; Zan Fein devoutly hoped the spark would show soon.
“Come.” Zakkar Kai took Takyeo’s arm. “Leave this matter to Honorable Zan Fein, Yeo. And leave the rest to us.” There were few who would shorten the Crown Prince’s name thus, but the affection in each syllable made the address respectful enough.
Mrong Banh kept the cloth clapped to his nose and bowed as the princes left. Takshin gave Zan Fein—and the beginnings of his artistry, already beginning to moan weakly as the needles worked their science—a long considering look from the top of the stairs.
If Fifth Prince Sensheo had the desire to learn but not the coolness, Third Prince Takshin had the coolness and the will, but not the desire. It was a pity, indeed.
“During a festival,” Zan Fein murmured, once the door had closed with a heavy, hopeless sound. His hands were cold and he would rest them against the stone if they warmed. He sensed more when the fire had withdrawn from his wrists. “Quite disturbing. Say what you wish to, Honorable Mrong Banh.”
The astrologer did not dissemble. “Does it seem, Honorable Zan Fein, that the target may not have been the Crown Prince?”
“And what has led you to this question?” Oh, he did not like the astrologer very much. But it was so good to have a sharp mind to strike a spark from one’s own; such minds were in short supply. Zan Fein selected another needle, and pushed it in.
“His legs.” Mrong Banh lowered the cloth over his mouth, forgetting his disgust for a bare few moments. He was steadiest when occupied by a riddle or discovery.
Ah, was that it? “Strangely developed for an acrobat.”
“Slightly bowed.”
They bore all the marks of youthful malnutrition and heavy riding, young bones like clay pressed into shape that older ones remembered. “Yes.”
“Perhaps he does not speak, this one, because he does not possess a tongue.”
“His mouth is unmarred, except for the hansong’s kiss.” Zan Fein dispelled a smile. This was serious work. “But I suspect your meaning is poetic rather than physical.”
“It is, Honorable Zan Fein. It strikes me that this false acrobat—for they will certainly find a body in the acrobats’ quarters, of one this fellow took the place of—is one who has traveled far.”
The eunuch set aside his needles. His long, spidery fingers caressed the hilts of one or two implements before he selected a fine, thin blade, very flexible, with a spurred point. “I am inclined to agree, astrologer. I would go so far as to guess this naughty thing rode from the North.”
“I was afraid you would say that.” Mrong Banh refolded the cloth and tucked it into his sleeve, obviously determined to master his stomach and his unease at once. For all his sohju flush, he did not seem drunk now.
This room, Zan Fein mused, had a sobering effect.
He bent to his work in earnest.
DO NOT BE OBTUSE
A breathless afternoon made even the most shaded water-garden oppressive, wet yellow sunlight blanketing arching boughs, beating against gazebo roofs, and flattening even kaburei who did not hurry. Guards in their golden glitter-armor edged for slices of shade, and even the small drab jumyo41 birds were hiding instead of dust-bathing.
Outside the palace walls, on the long verandah of Fourth Prince Makar’s severe, old-fashioned home, Second Prince Kurin settled onto richly padded cushions brought out for a guest, yawning as his fan flicked.
Long-nosed Makar, in his usual somber scholar’s robe, nodded at the servant pouring tea. The girl quietly withdrew, her leather-wrapped braids swinging, and for some short while the silence was only broken by the click-thump of a carved water-clock at the other end of the sand-garden.
Finally, though, the Fourth Prince spoke. “That was ill done.” Makar lifted his cup but did not drink. The tea merely touched his top lip, a scorch-caress.
A line had appeared between his elder brother’s eyebrows. “What was?”
“Marring a festival, here in the heart of Zhaon.” He could not be plainer. Someone had gone too far, much too far. There were rules even to the game of succession, and they were best observed. Otherwise, the entire board became a mess, and that Makar did not like.
Anything done shoddily displeased him.
Kurin’s fan continued its work. “Perhaps the rai will rot in the fields? I had no idea you were so superstitious, Brother Scholar.”
“Do not be obtuse, Elder Brother.” Makar finally took a sip, closing his eyes for a moment to unt
angle heat, aroma, and flavor. The sand-garden needed a fresh raking, especially around the two large, rough rocks set at the most pleasing angles from his accustomed viewing-place. A carefully pruned batus tree arching at the end near the water-clock’s trickle and thumping had scattered fallen blossoms, and he had given orders to leave them be—a reminder that artifice was often interrupted by nature, and the wise man kept a light touch upon both to achieve his ends. “First Zakkar Kai is troubled with a Son of the Needle, then a corpse is thrown upon your mother’s steps, and now this. Father must be displeased.”
“Do you think he sent the assassins, then?” Kurin’s fan described a lazy half-circle, and he laughed as if the suggestion delighted him.
It probably did. He was disposed to be difficult today, it seemed.
“Obtuse again.” Makar set his green Anwei rakka-fire cup down. His housekeeper had no doubt guessed this would be unpleasant, and had chosen one of his favorite tea sets to ameliorate. Servants knew, and only the unwise did not give them just enough to gossip about. The morning spent writing business letters had been pleasant enough, but the fact of this visit had hung over it like a cloud of cheap scent. “And an insult to our father as well.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t considered the notion.” Kurin took a small sip of tea with air, pretending to enjoy the bouquet.
Oh, Makar had—every permutation of the possible should be considered—but was it wise to admit such a thing? “If only to set it aside as preposterous.”
“Is it, though? I am only asking, Makar.” Kurin’s orange robe held a yellow tone that did not suit him very well, but to choose a color that did might have been unmasculine, since the cuffs were heavily figured with the character for a crushflower’s thorns. “I am aware you are the one who knows Father best.”
If it was an appeal to his vanity, it went wide of the mark. Kurin was usually a much better archer. “I cannot lay claim to that.” Makar paused. It was time to be plainer. For all that he did not like Kurin very much, they were still brothers. “Your ambition is princely, but it will bring you grief.”
“I have no ambition. Unless it is to aid Zhaon.” Kurin lifted his cup again. “You really think I bought the acrobat-assassin?”
It was the most likely possibility. Now, however, he was not so sure. There was something about the entire affair that bothered him even more than the unmannerly deploying of an assassin during a festival. Makar studied the sand-garden. He let the question rest between them for a long moment. “I think you wish to prove yourself to Father. As do we all.” It was only filial, was it not?
The line between the Second Prince’s eyebrows deepened. “He is ever disappointed.”
“He loves his sons.”
Kurin’s mouth drew down in a bitter curve. It was unlike him to show such feeling so plainly. “Oh, no doubt. One or two of us, though, he loves best.”
“Are you so certain?” It was the way of the world. Even the Hundreds were full of unfair affection. The trick was, Makar mused, not to let such an evanescent thing as someone else’s affection dictate one’s course.
“Aren’t you? Did you invite me here merely to accuse, or to lecture me?” Kurin made a slight movement with his cup, swirling fragrant, steaming liquid. His topknot-cage, an eyebird tail dipped in filigree and bent into a cone, held a similar filigree pin. Both gleamed even in the porch’s shade, venomous glitters. “Both are unbecoming, and unwelcome.”
“Neither, Kurin.” Makar suppressed a sigh, settling more firmly upon his cushion. “I invited you because we have not spoken in some time, and because I am worried.”
“Ah.” Kurin studied the sand, the rocks, the batus at the end. Aesthetic appreciation was not his strong suit, and he was probably thinking the gardeners should be punished for not clearing the spent blossoms. “What worries you, Younger Brother?”
“My own younger brother.” Among other things. Kurin seemed genuinely innocent—unless he had grown far better at dissembling even with someone who had known his many lies since childhood—so they could move to other matters.
Kurin took a small sip, raised his eyebrows as if just tasting the tea for the first time. “Since Jin is in fine fettle, I conclude you mean Sensheo.”
“I do.”
“Is his archery going badly, then?” An artless inquiry. Blossom-heavy branches moved upon a hot breeze, and a few more flowers flutter-fell.
Makar watched them settle among their dead siblings. “He aims at things he should not.”
“As do we all.” Kurin acknowledged the repetition with a slight, sour smile. He set his cup down and set his fan to work again. The day was warm, and he apparently did not believe in hot tea creating cooling humors. “Again.”
“I believe he may cause some small distress.” None of his brothers were scientists, Makar thought as he had more than once, and he sighed internally.
That perked the Second Prince’s ears. “To whom?”
“Oh, everyone.” Makar decided that was enough leading. His elder brother was not stupid, but he sometimes played at it in order to draw an opponent out.
Did he consider Makar an opponent? It would denote a certain lack of imagination, but then, Kurin often preferred certainties to artistic risk.
“He does love to make mischief.” Kurin’s fan, figured with undulating storm-dragons, settled into a lazy rhythm. “Rather like our eldest sister.”
Mischief was not the word for some of Sabwone’s intrigues. Or for Sensheo’s. The two of them were cats with a single mouse, and woe to the rag of fur and bone caught between them. The worst was the affair with Lady Aouhuro and her Golden paramour. “Cruelty is unbecoming,” Makar said, severely.
“Sometimes necessary.”
Oh, certainly, but driving a court lady to suicide and arranging for a Golden to be flogged to death hardly fell under the rubric of necessary. The entire affair left a bad taste, and Sabwone merely laughed when any reference to the unfortunates were made. Sensheo did not laugh, he merely looked satisfied, and that was disconcerting.
It was also ancient history. Both of them had become more subtle since that intrigue, and consequently, more malignant when piqued. Makar chose his next words carefully. “It pains me to see any of my brothers commit an error which could be avoided.”
“Does it? How remarkable.” Kurin’s thumb caressed his hurai. He kept his fan moving but rinsed his mouth with tea, swallowing with a slight grimace. “Be honest, Makar. Do you not sometimes think, even for a moment, of what it would be like?”
Did he think Makar would admit to such thoughts? “You have confused me, Elder Brother.”
“Come now.” Kurin set cup and fan down, tucked his hands in his sleeves, and turned his entire attention to his brother, a faint sheen of sweat gleaming on his brow through carefully applied zhu powder. “What would you do, were you Emperor? You must know it is a possibility.”
Makar paused long enough to make it clear he wished his words to be attended closely. “For such a thing to happen, much sadness must occur.”
“Perhaps you are correct.” Kurin still studied him, hands hidden and his nose slightly lifted. “In any case, we are brothers, and should help each other.”
An invitation to intrigue, or a meaningless pleasantry? No matter, Makar had already achieved his purpose. “You may be assured I will do everything I can for you, Elder Brother.”
Kurin’s smile was very like his mother’s, lacking only a hard lacquer patina. “That is pleasant to hear. You should come to dinner, in a tenday or so.”
“A fine invitation.”
The talk turned to other matters—the racing season about to begin, the difficulty of finding properly trained servants, the strange behavior of spring storms. When Kurin left the Fourth Prince’s house, it was with a light step and a small, satisfied smile.
Prince Makar, however, sat upon his verandah for a long while, watching heat shimmer over the sand-garden, and his brow was troubled. Of course Kurin would not be so foo
lish as to send an assassin after Takyeo in so public a setting, if for no other reason than suspicions—including Makar’s—would fall upon him as the one with most to gain from misfortune befalling the Crown Prince. It was doubly unlike Kurin to engage in such a dangerous affair to blind his opponents, seeking safety in apparent idiocy.
A nagging sense of the solution to the puzzle hanging just out of reach troubled Fourth Prince Makar deeply.
The blossoms, uncaring, continued to fall.
SLOW-RISING BIRD
Dropping into the northern rim of Zhaon’s rich heartland, each town on the caravan’s route was larger than the last. When the dust-eating snake of oxen, wagons, outriders, and hangers-on halted outside Zhaon-An’s North Gate in a wide beaten area reserved for such things, one of the outriders—a strange, lean young Khir nobleman—vanished with his very fine horse, a trick gone unnoticed by the caravan master or anyone else. The outrider had proved his worth several times, especially in the ravaged borderlands teeming with bandit groups taking advantage of recent chaos, but former soldiers were in large supply these days, and the trade-road to Shan much easier than its northern sister.
Those entering Zhaon-An were traditionally required to give their name, occupation, and business to the wall-magistrate of their particular gate-quarter, but a few triangular silver slivers into the palm of a liveried postern guard dispensed with that annoyance.
Of greater concern was the sheer size of the place. It dwarfed Khir’s Great Keep and outlying city; the crowding throbbed like an infected tooth and stole the breath from a man. He had only a scrap of rai-paper with a sketched map upon it to guide his course; consequently, the outrider spent the usual spring-afternoon storm sheltering in one of the taverns, shaking out his cloak since he would not go inside until his horse was safely stabled.
When the rumbling and downpour had ceased, the young outrider spent yet more time wandering to the very edge of the King’s Retreat before sighting a fellow Khir, a muddy-eyed acrobat performing on a street corner. Another silver sliver tossed in his countryman’s bowl gained him better directions in his own tongue instead of Zhaon mushmouth.