by S. C. Emmett
So it was that as deep blue evening stole breathless and humid into the streets where Khir congregated in Zhaon-An, the nobleman found himself before yet another inn, this one with a leaping, long-legged horse painted in the northern fashion upon its large sign matching the one upon his rudimentary map, and perhaps felt more relief than was strictly acceptable. A few words passed with the portly, also muddy-eyed innkeeper gained him one of the better rooms but not the finest, and finally Ashani Daoyan was able to strip half-armor, quilted padding, and his topknot, scraping road-dust free with bone implements and sliding into the relief of a tepid inn-bath.
Of course, the bathhouse was where gossip lingered, and he listened as the attack upon Zhaon’s Crown Prince during the Knee-High was embellished, embroidered, passed from mouth to mouth, and the Crown Princess mentioned only in passing. The heir to Khir’s throne retreated to his room with much to think upon, but his work was not done yet.
Finally, wrapped in a comfortable, sober cotton merchant’s robe, his grey eyes ringed with exhaustion and reddened from dust, Daoyan descended into the common-room with his sword and passed a few more words with the innkeep, who finally indicated a small table in a darkened corner, holding an indistinct figure also in brown. There was no teapot or jug upon the slightly slanted table yet, for the fellow Dao had come south to meet had just arrived.
Daoyan made his way between other tables crowded with patrons calling for dishes, servants pouring tea and calling orders to the chief steward who passed them into the kitchen’s smoky rollicking, sohju and kouriss jugs thumping down, merriment rising as dinners commenced. Even the servants were all male, a blessed relief from Zhaon taverns and their sly-eyed southron slatterns. Finally, he halted at a respectful distance, and said the words Domari Ulo had given him. “Blessed is the wind.” It was a relief to fill his mouth with the purity of Khir again, and to hear it spoken only lightly salted with a few Zhaon terms at the other tables.
The man in brown had a long narrow nose, dark kaburei eyes, and the other half of the pass-phrase in archaic Khir. “It brings ash upon its back.” He indicated the only other seat at this table, a chunky graceless thing without a cushion, its flat wooden bed polished by many a cloth-clad buttock.
Daoyan settled with only a token hesitation. It put his back to the rest of the room, never a comfortable position. He ached all over, and would have been glad of any bed without fleas, no matter how small. “Have you eaten?” The polite, traditional inquiry for a guest or stranger was, he decided, the most appropriate here.
“Not yet.” The man’s head-wrappings were in the fashion of the Yellow Tribes, but he had none of the heavy-jawed insolence of those nomads. He gestured for an inn-servant’s attention; both his hands were bare of rings but not of scars and calluses. “What news from the North?”
In other words, had the plans changed? This fellow was not well-bred at all, to engage in business so swiftly. “Not so much,” Daoyan said. “I am of the nature of reinforcements.”
“Ah.” The fellow scratched under his head-wrapping, pushing aside two layers of dun material. “A prick for a slow-rising bird.”
So this fellow had a hawk’s temper, or liked to play at one. He certainly had the beak for it. Daoyan shook his head, and decided his sword was best kept across his knees instead of hung upon a chair-back. “No, my friend—if I may call you thus?”
“That depends upon your House.” For a moment, the false tribesman’s mouth turned down as if he tasted something bitter, a man unwilling to acknowledge his “betters” since they often proved nothing of the sort.
How often had Dao felt that, and had his expression ever been that transparent?
An inn-servant, a heavy-lidded lad with a mobile mouth and bruised fingertips, splashed a brimming jug of sohju and two cleanish wooden cups upon the table, spat a query, and was answered with a single nod before disappearing at high speed in the steward’s direction. The man in brown must eat here often, to be assured of such service.
“I’d rather not say.” If Dao had to give a name, he would use the one he had ridden south under. There might even be a certain satisfaction to the borrowing. “We are both safer that way, no?”
“Then you may call me friend, for I’d rather not as well.” In other words, they knew enough about each other as it was. The man reached for the jug, pouring both of them a healthy measure, and toasted Daoyan with a single, economical motion. “I suppose you have heard the news.”
The cup was likely to be dirty, but Daoyan swallowed the sohju anyway. So far, all he had seen of Zhaon was filth, luxury, and wastage; no wonder they had overwhelmed Khir’s noble sons. He set his empty cup down. “An acrobat at a feast. Rather showy.” Sohju exploded behind his ribs, a welcome warmth like fireflowers.
“One works with what one has.” The man in brown refilled both again, but his wary examination of Dao didn’t change. “I didn’t expect that fellow to succeed.”
Why bother, then? But Dao merely nodded; despite his robe he was no merchant to find fault with an artisan confined to lower-quality materials through no fault of his own. “I suspected it was an opening gambit.”
“Well.” That brought a shadow of a pleased smile to the man in brown’s weather-darkened face. “What did you bring, if not news?”
“Ingots and slivers,” Daoyan said, and watched that smile-shadow widen. “I have only one small matter to add to your orders.”
The impresario—for so one who found, paid, and orchestrated assassins was called in Khir, like a theater master—laid a finger upon his lips. “Let us have dinner, and you may tell me afterward, friend. The cups are badly turned here, but the cook is Northern, and his curd is well-made.”
“I look forward to sampling it,” Daoyan murmured, and toasted the impresario in turn.
END IS ALWAYS ASSURED
The innermost heart of the Kaeje was draped with tapestries and hangings to ward off the chill from sweating, ancient stone walls. A small shrine in one corner held a closed portrait-case, candles burning before carved, fine-grained ceduan. There was no pleasant verandah leading to a garden; this room was a sanctuary and defense. Still, its occupant liked it more and more, if only for the fact that he could leave his attendants in the outer chamber.
Garan Tamuron, Emperor of Zhaon, sat upon a mildly uncomfortable—but very expensive—cushion embroidered by the First Queen and exhaled dutifully as a physician in slightly ragged robes probed for his pulse with dry fingers. “Ah, Mrong Banh. Good of you to come.” As if a summons could be disobeyed.
Still, if there was one man in the world he would forgive open disobedience from, it was probably the perpetually disheveled astrologer, who performed the ritual bow at the door with an air of distraction that had fooled many a lesser man into thinking him unintelligent.
“How could I not? I thought there a prospect of sweet buns, but instead I see you are engaged with medicine.” Banh’s wide, genuine smile was the same as it had been those many years ago, when he ran to fetch tea and preserved headfruit for tavern drinkers—and told their fortunes with a shy gleam to his dark eyes and an air of utter earnestness. His topknot was held by a simple wooden pin, no cage to denote high rank or attention to aesthetics. He had probably put the new robes away with a sigh of relief, too.
The physician did not look at the curtained door. “Your Majesty’s servant must examine the royal chest.” He was rumpled too, dressed in dark sober cotton, but he had arrived with Zakkar Kai’s seal upon his recommendation and set to with the alacrity of a small merchant.
“Why, it’s Honorable Kihon Jiao.” Banh straightened, and his smile widened with genuine pleasure. Mirrorlight showed the tender flesh under his eyes, marked with the perpetual sleeplessness of one who followed the stars. “You are in expert hands, Your Majesty.”
“You know this man?” Tamuron tried not to sound amused as he unlaced the side-placket of his sitting-robe. There was the small council this afternoon, and he did not look forward to it. H
ailung Jedao had taken to sniping at Kai lately, and Tamuron could not be seen to be overly partial to the general until the waters had settled. Takyeo would have been a welcome balance against such behavior, but the Crown Prince was no doubt soothing the nerves of his foreign wife.
Or using that excuse to avoid something likely to be disagreeable. Tamuron could not precisely blame him—the boy was a dutiful son in all ways, and it was best to give him what rest was possible now, while he was merely heir and not Emperor.
Later, there would be no rest to be found. Would his eldest son find this room first a refuge, then a prison, as Tamuron had?
“A fine physician. I have read two treatises of his, both highly original.” Mrong Banh settled himself at his usual scribe’s desk, his scrollcase clattering against polished wood. The front of the desk held beautiful, restrained carving, the god of archery on his endless hunt with a leaping stag before him and his high-peaked cap a reminder of foreign invasions. “Forgive my clumsiness, Your Majesty.”
The physician regarded Banh for a long moment, head tilted like a stilt-bird’s seeing fish in the water. “Ah. Astrologer. Honorable Qurong, is it not?”
Banh shook his head. His family name—or its mispronunciation—was often a source of much merriment, yet he refused to change it to something less amusing. “Mrong.”
“My apologies.” A slight, very correct bow. Kihon was a peasant name, but this fellow lacked nothing in politeness.
Tamuron suppressed a chuckle. “I am pleased to find you know each other. It shall make conversation easier.”
“Conversation?” The physician’s eyebrows rose, as shaggy as his head; he wore no topknot, but did not have the curving side-locks of one who had cut his from grief. “I must listen to the royal liver, Your Majesty. Please be silent.”
Banh lifted one sleeved hand to his mouth, unsuccessfully attempting to hide a chuckle. Tamuron’s lips pulled down, but he let the man do as he wished.
Kihon Jiao fitted the cold metal bell of an ear-cup to Tamuron’s chest; though it was padded with brushed-on bendtree gum, it still caused a ripple of shiverflesh. Kihon bent, and the Emperor discovered that while he looked shaggy, the physician in fact smelled of citron soap and a faint note of fresh air. Without a tang of leather, though, it was not a soldier’s aroma.
Tamuron missed that. Sweat, weapon oil, stiffened or glove-soft hide, the smoke of night-powder and the grassy pungency of horse… sometimes, when he retired in search of sleep’s inverted country, he told himself to dream of an army camp. Of the tents in regimented rows, of the ordered bustle and the anticipation of hard marching. A soldier never found it difficult to drop over the border into rest.
An Emperor, however, often did. And dreams did not obey even one Heaven had smiled upon.
“Hrm,” the physician said. He was not one of the court physicians, which was all to the good—the First Queen’s creature led that pack of medicinal hounds, and Tamuron did not want them carrying tales of his worsening ailment. Not yet, not until there was at least the prospect of an heir for his eldest son. “The sweat, it rises at night?”
“Yes.” When was the last time he had felt truly well? Tamuron could not remember, and it bothered him. The rashes had come before, usually just after battles or tricksome negotiations, but now they came monthly like a woman’s red times and his joints were swollen-tender.
The physician selected a small ivory pointer from his tools and touched a few spots upon Tamuron’s chest. Each one was tender, and Tamuron nodded. Under sparse, greying chest hair, the rashlike marks had faded somewhat, not quite glaring angrily but still looking askance. “And here?” The physician glanced up to see another nod. “Ah.”
Tamuron suppressed a measure of irritation. “Well?”
“I have not completed my examination, Your Majesty.” Kihon set the pointer aside and selected a small jar from his heavy leather satchel. “When I do, I shall speak upon my findings.”
Mrong Banh looked down at the scroll he was unrolling, but not quickly enough.
“You are worried,” Tamuron said.
The astrologer did not bother to argue, or pretend confusion. “Should I not be?”
At least this physician’s discretion could be trusted, if Kai and Banh both agreed on him. So Tamuron’s shoulders dropped, and he glanced at the door. There could be an ear listening, quick to carry tidings to another tapestry-shrouded room. “I am not yet certain,” Tamuron said. What remained to a man, once the summit of his ambitions had been reached?
Only leaving something fine for his sons, and this he would do.
“Your Majesty has a suspicion,” the physician said, somewhat sourly. “You are seeking confirmation instead of diagnosis, which is unwise.”
“An Emperor must always be suspicious.” Mrong Banh made a short jabbing motion with his inkstone-case, very much like Ha Jiau, the current darling of the Theater District.
The physician sniffed like a farmer testing the quality of fertilizer. “And yet we must discover, not confirm.”
Tamuron tried not to sigh. “If the learned men are finished?”
The physician bent to his work again, smearing a small amount of a pleasant-smelling paste upon one of the rashes. He sniffed Tamuron’s armpits, examined his ankles, the hollows behind the knees, his nape, all with that same ivory pointer. He peered into Tamuron’s nose and ears with a small silver mirror polished to a high gloss, examined his teeth, smelled his saliva, and asked several low questions about his appetite and bowels. The royal stomach was palpated, and the royal fundament and its crevasse subjected to some inspection. Finally, he scraped the dried paste away from the rash gently with another ivory tool, sniffed the paste, and studied the rash.
When the poking and prodding was finished, Kihon Jiao bowed low and retreated some few paces to another small scribe-table, this one with a flat cotton-sheathed cushion he had brought himself.
Tamuron resettled his clothing and turned his attention to Mrong Banh. “You have the scrolls?”
“Yes.” Banh hesitated, though. “My lord…”
My lord. Not Your Majesty, or even Emperor. It was somewhat of a relief to hear the familiar syllables, to remember a time inside a general’s tent, the taste of copper in his mouth and his forces ready for the morning’s action.
During the smokescreaming chaos of battle there was no time to think, and afterward there were the wounded and dead, the smell and the grief. But before, anticipating his opponent’s moves and drinking one last swallow of sohju to sharpen the senses and warm the belly, ah! That was the finest thing in the world.
He sometimes envied Zakkar Kai, who would feel that sharp anticipation again. He had even, inside the secret halls of his heart, taken to envying the youth of his sons. “Tell me, Banh. Who attacked my son?”
The astrologer did not glance at the physician, which was an encouraging sign. On the other hand, his mouth turned down, and a weight rounded his shoulders. “The assassin died without speaking.”
“No doubt Zan Fein was dismayed.” Tamuron watched the physician, who appeared to take no notice of this conversation.
Wise of him.
Mrong Banh, with another anxious glance, continued in a low, confidential tone. “He turned his attention to the other acrobats. The body of their true fellow was found stuffed in a wicker basket for their poles; the assassin was an imposter who had often watched their practices and joined the crew already costumed just before the performance. They know nothing.”
It had a certain neatness, and yet. “Is Zan Fein convinced of that last assertion, my friend?”
“Reluctantly.” Banh’s grimace spoke for itself.
Of course the acrobats could not ever be allowed to leave the dungeons, even if innocent. The best they could hope for was a draught of sleepflower42 to ease their passing. And of course there would be no order, simply a hint given to the head eunuch after Council.
Zan Fein would serve Takyeo with the same quiet diligence. Faint comfort
, but what other kind was there? Tamuron began to tie his robe-laces. His fingers were slightly clumsy, instead of Dho Anha’s slim, capable attentions. He must settle something upon the bath-girl, a poor recompense for the ease she brought him. It did a man good to speak to a woman who was not seeking favor or ingot. “And there is nothing else to add to your report?”
Banh spread his hands, a helpless movement. So there was more, but even a discreet physician should not be privy to it.
“Your Majesty.” Kihon bowed over his table. “If it would please you to hear my conclusions?”
“It would. Approach, both of you.” Tamuron gave the short, sharp motion of a general beckoning scouts in to hear their reports. “Physician, whatever you have to say, Mrong Banh may hear. Hold nothing back.”
They settled themselves before his cushion, finishing the movement with identical bows. Kihon Jiao spoke clearly, simply, and to the point. “It is not infectious, but it is only a matter of time,” he finished. “We may slow it, Your Majesty, but the end is assured.”
At least he did not coat the bitter paste with pounded rai to make it easier to swallow.
“The end is always assured,” Tamuron murmured. It was a classical allusion; perhaps Makar or Kai would have recognized it. His throat was dry and his hands were already cold, lying in his silk-clad lap. He had begun to lose his sword-calluses. Each day was so damnably short now, and paradoxically an endless waste to be trudged through. “Kihon Jiao, you are now our personal physician. You will be housed in the Kaeje and attend us daily.”
The man took the news with barely a flicker of eyelash. He simply nodded, and settled his hands upon his thighs. “I beg leave to attend my other royal patient as well, Your Majesty.”
“Certainly.” Poor Kanbina. Did she resent him now? There did not seem room for it in her gentle nature, and yet a corner devoted to that purpose could be found in any human soul. Hadn’t he thought Gamwone reasonable enough, in the early years? “How is the Second Concubine’s health?”