The Throne of the Five Winds

by S. C. Emmett

  “I’ll hang myself,” Sabwone hissed, her head tipped back, her throat working. “I’ll hang myself and haunt this wretched place!”

  “Good.” A shocked silence followed Mother’s single, clipped word. “If you must, do it quickly. I suggest before lunch.”

  Sabwone dropped her hands and whirled. Jin flinched, but Mother’s face was deadly pale, her eyes blazing, and the sight halted whatever either of them might have said.

  “I have the silk,” Mother continued, “and I will tie the noose, I will even help you climb onto the railing. But I will not have any more of this disgusting, disgraceful display. You will either hang yourself, or you will attend to your dressing, visit the Emperor, and express how thankful you are that he has made such a glorious match for such an undeserving, spiteful child.” First Concubine Luswone turned upon her slippered heel, pulling at her peach robe to right its lines with her soft, manicured fingers. “Jin. Come along, our tea is waiting.”

  “Don’t leave me,” Sabwone whispered, and Jin put his head down.

  “Come, Sa-bi.” His throat was dry. “Some tea, and we may find a way—”

  “Garan Jin.” Mother halted, her chin almost touching her left shoulder. “You will leave that girl to make her decision.” That girl, dismissive, the word for a misbehaving servant-child. “The Emperor has sealed his decree, the marriage is contracted; an emissary of Shan is coming to take her to her husband. It is done, and wailing will not undo it. Come along.”

  Sabwone pinched him, hard, high up on his left arm. Her face was dead pale as well, eyes bruised from weeping, and her glare promised trouble if he didn’t do what she wanted.

  But… Father had spoken. An emissary was coming. It was done. She was going to go to Shan.

  “I’ll try,” he whispered, and hurried after Mother, his head down and his neck aching.

  He was, he supposed, not a very good brother. Because what he felt, instead of righteous anger on Sabwone’s behalf, was…

  Well, relief. He had never dreamed he would be free of his beautiful sister’s poking, prodding, pinching, and ill-tempered games.

  No, Sixth Prince Garan Jin thought, miserably, he was not a very good brother at all. But at least he could hurry and be a good son.

  FIRST SESSION, LADIES’ COURT

  Seclusion was lifted, the North Pavilion was cool with garden-breezes this early in the morning, and Mahara’s first formal appearance since she had made her informal debut with the princesses was going extremely well. A small coterie formed, Lady Aoan Mau sending a kaburei to inquire if the Crown Princess would honor her by hearing a sathron-song, and Mahara’s genuine smile in response had thawed one or two faces. The Second Queen’s favored faction closed around Yala and her princess, and a few other court ladies—including Lady Huan, wan and tall in dragonwing-patterned silk and cotton—gracefully drifted closer, bowing like supple stems to those higher in rank before sinking onto cushions plumped and placed by servants. Maids and kaburei ran to fetch pomade, scented bags, small birds in cunning cages to be fed one grain at a time, sewing baskets, all the little things needed for a moment’s diversion.

  “Did you hear?” Court Lady Gonwa poured a steady stream of amber tea, her thin wrist still held at the correct angle. She did not bend in the middle, but moved her entire torso as a unit. Mahara wondered if she wore armor under her sunshine-yellow robe—vertical ribs in stiffened leather, like those for the back-injured. “It is the season for weddings.”

  Mahara nodded. Takyeo had told her, warning her of gossip, and even thought to include the most becoming phrases etiquette demanded. “Most felicitous news.”

  Lady Aoan Mau coaxed a soft ripple from her sathron. “Now only the Second Princess remains to be settled.”

  “She is young yet.” Lady Huan coughed delicately into her sleeve, and motioned for a handkerchief. Her youngest niece, a sloe-eyed girl in wide pants, round-cheeked with a sober mien, a single braid down the back of her child’s tunic, hurried forth to produce one from the basket over her arm, bowed in Mahara’s direction, bowed in Lady Gonwa’s, and froze, clearly unable to recall what came next.

  Yala caught her eye, tipping her head at Mahara again and smiling when the girl performed her prescribed second obeisance and settled with a cheeky, grateful little wink.

  “Ah, youth.” Lady Gonwa’s expression was rather set. “Sometimes children do not know what is best for them.”

  “And sometimes it is the elders who mourn.” Lady Aoan Mau’s fingers danced, producing a discordant mutter from the strings. “There is bound to be lamentation in the First Concubine’s house, losing a beloved daughter.” News of Sabwone’s display had raced through the complex like fire among rai-paper slum houses, and very few seemed overly inclined to pity the First Princess.

  “And relief, for a good marriage made.” Lady Huan produced a fan and flicked it open, her faint smile intensifying. The relief, her tone intimated, was widespread.

  “Would that all mothers had such news.” Lady Gonwa poured Mahara a measure of tea. “Crown Princess, perhaps you could offer some words of comfort to Princess Sabwone.”

  “My Zhaon is still so clumsy.” Mahara accepted the tea with both hands and a gracious nod. Her crimson-wrapped hairpins glittered, and Yala busied herself with arranging the sewing basket upon her own green-silk lap. “What could I say?”

  “Perhaps there is an expression in Khir?” Lady Gonwa’s expression was bright, and somewhat hard. It was likely one or two of the First Princess’s ill-natured intrigues had inconvenienced those she cared for.

  Mahara looked into her tea, so Yala leaned forward slightly. “Losing a daughter means gaining sons,” she said in Khir, then repeated it in Zhaon. “Among the Khir, a wife to bring strong sons into a family is a celebration.”

  It was true enough, though the proverb held an overtone of disdain. You could not trust that a new wife would produce strong heirs immediately, and the food she ate before bringing her first son into her husband’s clan was referred to as a gambling debt if a father-in-law was in an uncharitable mood.

  Many were.

  “Is that so?” This was young Lady Eon-ha, of Lady Aoan Mu’s coterie. She wore her hair low, her pin thrust through the braids at the back and its fall of thin silver threads a glitter when she turned her head to glance aside, which she did infrequently but perhaps more than strictly necessary. “Perhaps we should draw it as a poem—should we send for paper?”

  “Oh, no.” Yala let herself smile and lift her sleeve, as if to hide a blush. “My lady princess will no doubt have a much better suggestion. There is Hai Lung, of course, who wrote maxims for girls upon marriage in The Book of Water, and there is Ne Shao’s Correct Poems, though he never married so is held to be somewhat less than an expert.”

  “A scholar!” Lady Gonwa set the teapot down, and Lady Huan poured for her. “Are all Khir women so learned?”

  “Yala’s father is a very upright nobleman.” Mahara turned her head slightly, taking in Yala’s stance with her peripheral vision. She looked pleased. “And very traditional. He made certain she had the three graces.”

  “And what are those?” Lady Huan inquired.

  “Riding, reading, and re-shuan.” Yala found the fabric and the hoops she required, and drew both free.

  Lady Aoan Mu’s fingers stilled upon the strings. “Re-shuan?” Her accent was tolerable, and she lowered her chin slightly to express modest dismay at her lack of knowledge.

  “Silence,” Yala and Mahara chorused in Zhaon, and the ladies all laughed. Lady Gonwa hid her mouth behind her sleeve, but Lady Aoan Mau threw her head back, her bare brown throat gleaming, and her sathron chuckled too. Lady Huan’s youngest niece, perhaps not understanding the joke, still giggled, a bright unaffected note sharing adult merriment.

  Lady Gonwa dabbed at her eyes with a folded cotton cloth and lifted her cup, which meant the teapot could be passed to other high-ranking ladies. Yala’s own teapot, full of fragrant siao,47 meant that her
rank had not yet been fully decided, so she set out the traditional three empty cups upon the tray before pouring her own.

  “Is that siao?” Lady Gonwa leaned forward slightly. “Please, Lady Komor, do me the honor of allowing a taste?”

  “It would please me like nothing else,” Yala answered, “as long as I may have some of your heaven tea soon. Princess Gamnae is correct, it is sweetest when you prepare it.”

  So, her rank as the Crown Princess’s first court lady was above Lady Gonwa’s, or at least it pleased the matron to have it seem so. Very well. Now that seclusion was lifted, the delicate process of sifting through the noble daughters to build Mahara’s faction could begin.

  Mahara smiled, sipping at her own cup and watching a pair of eunuchs clip-clopping along on their slatted jatajatas, perhaps called to the Great Court to trace edicts or fetch seals. Their swaying was not a woman’s, and the shoes were either to keep their vital essence from draining into the earth, according to Cao Lung, or to stop them from contaminating a proper woman’s footsteps, according to Zhe Har. There were no eunuchs in Khir unless they were kaburei taken as booty in border raids or bought at the Sunken Market. In their dark robes and strange, careful, mincing walk was the character for longleg bird, and the character for two-faces as well. The Zhaon held there was a god for them, a father who gathered those not quite male or female into his household. In both Khir and Zhaon the gods of battle, of course, held those men who shortened a clan’s bloodline by spending themselves upon male companions, and there were two goddesses of hearth and one of harvest who did the same by holding female companions closest.

  Conversation turned from Princess Sabwone’s impending marriage to the state of the palace in general, the next state banquet, and the First Queen’s latest attempt to set a fashion for a pad-shouldered dress. It was generally agreed that Zhaon’s first lady felt the cold easily, so of course she would not mind the extra weight in spring, but in summer it would be intolerable and perhaps the court ladies would find them overly stifling. Too much warmth, and the balance of vital energies inside a woman—naturally cold, often expressed as the character for a deep layer of chill water felt while swimming—could be upset.

  A few girls were brought forward. A plump cousin of Lady Gonwa’s with a slight, charming gap between her front teeth and a shy fetching blush when addressed directly by any elder, another of Lady Huan’s nieces in a cotton dress embroidered with spread mockbird wings, and young Lady Su Junha, kinless at court but of a highly noble family. The last was in a faded, plain silk-and-cotton dress that had been prettily reworked at least once, and her slightly guilty glances and reddened palm—not chapped, but only because it had been soaked in some forgiving oil, and the bridge underneath the finger-bases losing a callus of manual work—spoke volumes. However noble her pedigree, her family was no doubt desperately poor, and this was the first test of Mahara’s graciousness.

  By the end of morning tea-time, Yala had selected both Su Junha and Lady Gonwa’s cousin Gonwa Eulin, but kept Lady Huan’s nieces at a slight distance. Another girl, with a pleasing smile and quick dark eyes, was lost in a book until Yala called her forth to answer a small, very easy question about the division of the Hundreds in Zhaon, which she answered with alacrity that showed a quick mind, even if her modest stammer betrayed nervousness.

  They would do to begin with, and Lady Gonwa signaled her approval of Yala’s choices by sending Eulin to fetch a basket of her freshly mixed heaven tea to be taken to the Jonwa, where the inner court-lady chamber had been aired and freshened in preparation for new arrivals. Su Junha, of course, would accompany Mahara and Yala on their walk back to the Jonwa; her belongings, no doubt scanty, would be sent for. The mockbird-dress girl, Lady Huan’s niece, was invited to embroider at the Jonwa tomorrow, as was Lady Aoan Mau’s lone suggestion, a thin coltish noble girl distantly related to the house of Hanweo, who Yala suspected would be an eye for the Second Queen.

  The book-girl, Hansei Liyue, was of a junior branch of the First Concubine’s clan, one with no claim upon the main family but still noble enough to be sent to Zhaon-An with a collection of dresses and a small stipend augmented by Luswone’s charity. To take responsibility for her and Su Junha was a pair of gracious acts, and well within the household budget; Gonwa Eulin would be a strong link to the acknowledged chief court lady, and later Lady Huan’s niece and the coltish girl an indirect one to Second Queen Haesara if they did not pall upon closer acquaintance.

  The First Queen’s ladies at the other end of the Pavilion did not approach even to take a sip of tea, borrow a book, or compliment the group around Lady Aoan Mau and their soft sathron-accompanied singing. But Yala took her time studying those shapes in the middle distance, marking their faces in memory, and she also marked who among those clustering Mahara this first day did not possess the ease of long acquaintance or warmth. There would be missteps, certainly, those she did not at first know were eyes for another, but all in all, the first session of the ladies’ court—much less straightforward than the men and clerks clustering the Emperor’s daily sessions, positions inferred or implied instead of worn upon their shoulders with embroidered marks of rank—had not gone badly at all.

  A NATURAL BETROTHAL

  The edge of Summer’s thick green robe brought a rare cloudless afternoon, filling the palace to the brim with thick golden sun-heat and hurrying excitement. The kitchens were flame-hells and the deep cellars, cool and weeping, gave up casks and crocks. Beggars crowded the palace posterns and a few enterprising ones even shook their bowls outside the Alwan and the baths sloping away from the great curve of the complex’s northern wall—shared with the rest of Zhaon-An’s ancient borders—into royal hunt-woods. Both large markets, as well as the smaller ones, were full of sparksticks and sweetbuns, red thread and cheap pink paper lanterns.

  The delegation from Shan had finally arrived, and the Emperor sat in state that long afternoon while the gifts were brought and piled high. Behind a thin dragon-figured screen, a semitriangular shape in heavily embroidered crimson silk was the First Princess, the jewel of Zhaon, sitting demurely as a maiden should.

  Fans moved in soft eunuchs’ hands, and the courtiers applauded politely with fingertips against the back of the left hand. The Emperor smiled, a proud benign father, as lean dark men from Shan stacked precious ingots, bolts of costly bright fabrics, ivory and lacquered ceduan chits denoting so many head of cattle, so many fine horses, so many bushels of rai and flax, so many kaburei and embroidered robes—Shan, the shield of Zhaon, showed his wealth like an eyebird spreading its vast tail.

  The Mad Queen had been vicious and erratic, but her household accounts had ever been in order. It was to be hoped no latent streak of cruelty ran in her son, but even so, this was a fine showing.

  No royal maiden could hope for more.

  Third Prince Takshin, placed next to General Zakkar Kai upon the third dais of the Great Hall, simply wore a very slight smile through the entire affair and often accepted bows from some of the higher-ranking Shan emissaries, greeting each obeisance with a nod. He wore dark Shan-style half-armor as well, and his topknot was held with leather and silvered bone, a cage that matched one Kiron of Shan was rumored to wear often.

  A varnished portrait of the groom Suon Kiron, King of Shan, was brought and ceremoniously unveiled, the Shan bowing before the painted gaze of a tall, narrow-hipped man in somber armor holding the reins of a galloping black warhorse. Many gazes turned to Third Prince Takshin upon a square cushion, seeking to judge by his reaction whether the rendering was a true one.

  Takshin’s expression did not change.

  The princess behind the screen did not lean forward, yearning for the sight of her intended. Of course a maiden would be reluctant to show any eagerness, or to leave her parents’ house. It was only natural.

  Second Prince Kurin was impassive, his own fan flicking lazily; Fourth Prince Sensheo smiled broadly and leaned aside often, commenting upon the proceedings to his elder broth
er Makar, who wore bright summer blue and held his favorite fan. The Crown Prince and his new wife upon the second dais sat very close together, the picture of fresh matrimonial harmony, though some thought it a trifle inauspicious that a bride sent as conqueror’s tribute watched the gifts being piled. However, the Crown Princess, pleasingly plump and placid, her hands folded over a middle that had not thickened yet—it was too early, though—lowered her eyelids modestly whenever the Crown Prince spoke softly to her, no doubt explaining the finer points of the ceremony in simple Zhaon.

  On a smaller cushion placed near the throne, First Concubine Luswone sat elegant and smiling as a mother of a bride should be, in the high-necked peach silk she preferred. Sixth Prince Jin was at her side in sober rich brown, often glancing at the screen and its motionless crimson blur. Of course the young prince was concerned for his sister.

  The final gift was set ceremoniously upon a pedestal of fragrant dark cheo-wood, and unveiled in degrees.

  A high-peaked birdcage of very fine ironwork appeared as rich red watercloth was drawn aside, two noble Shan girls in fantastically embroidered riding-dress delicately spidering their fingers to make sure no thread was caught and no thin ornament snapped free.

  Inside the cage, something glittered, and a ripple went through the assembled Court.

  The taller Shan girl turned a key, and the glitter whirled into life. It was a clockwork taufo bird, its beak opening, the carven curve of its throat swelling as strings inside the cage’s base were plucked and a winsome melody fell upon the astonished silence.

  When it finished, the applause was deep and far more genuine. The Crown Princess clasped her soft, plump hands, and all remarked that her surprised delight made her even more agreeably pretty. First Concubine Luswone’s cheeks relaxed and she looked wonderingly upon the cage; even the Emperor tapped his flat right hand into the cup of his left several times, denoting deep approval.