by S. C. Emmett
A PRIZE MARE
The procession wound through Zhaon-An, gold-armored imperial guards followed by musicians of every kind playing wedding-chants from Daebo province, then the Shan honor guard upon their blooded chestnuts, their manes—man and horse alike—knotted into stiffened spines with red ribbon. A third of the household retinue came next, young court ladies in their wheeled palanquins, a steward upon horseback, two eunuchs, and Lady Daebo Nijera upon horseback, straight-backed. The good lady, a distant cousin, had a reputation for rectitude, and would no doubt chaperone the First Princess well. The First Concubine had been heard to remark as much, at least.
Women pressing to the forefront of the crowd wailed, keening along with the professional mourners marching at intervals along the column and stopping every now and again to sob-scream as was traditional when a beloved daughter left a noble home, beating at the chests of their torn dresses. Small alloy bits—the tiniest triangular denomination, one-thirtieth of a square copper—were thrown into the baskets they carried and shook; the moneychangers in the Left Market would reap a percentage from that largesse. The mourners would also eat well that night, unmarried or widowed women feasting in honor of a marriage and the promise of new life it carried.
First the wailing, then the feast; such was the proper way to send off a Zhaon princess.
In the place of honor, a large wheeled palanquin glittered, pulled and pushed by seven hefty kaburei with high-peaked leather helmets. Gilt and crimson threw back the sun in hurtful darts; the dragon of Garan and the broken-horned bull of Daebo worked along the surfaces of the box, a pretty package carrying an asphyxiating girl toward doom. A prince of Zhaon rode on either side, safeguarding their royal sister.
Behind the palanquin, the rest of the retinue and the Shan delegation rode, the lords appropriately somber though one or two no doubt had reddened eyes from a last soak in the sinks of the great city. Afterward came servants, oxen pulling carts high-piled with the gifts of a kindly Emperor to a king. The greatest gift was in the red-and-gold palanquin shell, a nutmeat to be pried free. More Golden Guards came afterward, and then the street-cleaners.
Dung was valuable.
Sabwone shut her eyes as the palanquin jostled and joggled. Books and scrolls in a small rack, a basket of light snacks, stoppered flasks of crushed fruit. No tea, but should she require it at any stop, kaburei and the ladies would flutter around her. She had refused to choose any companions, so her mother had taken care of the invitations. They would find high-ranking husbands in Shan, or be sent home after a few years full of reflected honor from their royal mistress and find marriage in Zhaon-An.
On either side of her gilded cage, a brother—Kurin on her left, straight in the saddle and helmed with a high crimson plume. On her right, the place of honor, was Jin upon a restive Guard grey head-wrapped to keep the dumb beast from plunging into the crowd.
Where is Takshin? Sabwone had hissed at Kurin. Find him. Make him come along.
But he had not. Outside the city gates Kurin and Jin would bid her farewell, consigning her to the care of servants, guards, and foreigners.
Barbarians.
Each step took her farther and farther away from civilization, there was no crunchy walanir for her breakfast, and Takshin had flat-out refused to accompany her. I will not return to Shan just yet, he had said, and it was one more thing for Sabwone to fume over, confined as she was.
There was a basket of sewing supplies, as was customary. No doubt there was a hank of silk large enough to knot around her throat if she wanted to take her mother’s advice. She could bite through her tongue and bleed to death, too. The paring-tool for the fruit among her snacks would do as well, if she had the strength to plunge it into her own neck.
Luswone had dared to cry this morning, as she stood upon her steps outside the Iejo. The Concubine’s Palace, every nook and cranny familiar, was an enemy now, because her mother lived there.
I have the silk, and I will tie the noose. I will even help you climb onto the railing.
Jin had not saved her. Maybe it won’t be so bad, he’d offered meekly, and Sabwone longed to slap him. Her palms tingled at the thought.
Then there was Kurin. She could open the slats on her left and peer out, but he wouldn’t look at her. Sister dear, my hands are bound.
He could have helped. Gone to Father, who had clasped Sabwone’s hands and said, My dearest daughter, it will be difficult, but he will treat you well.
It mattered little how her prospective husband treated her. She would be among barbarians, and all her storming had availed her nothing. It was the first time she had been truly balked, and Garan Daebo Sabwone did not like the experience.
Worst of all was Makar’s smirking all through the ceremonies and feasts, the speeches and the drinking, the piling on of gifts and everyone pretending she hadn’t been sold off like a prize mare. How long had he known? It burned, the thought that he had sat upon the knowledge like a qurra on its nest, satisfied and sleek.
And useless, useless Kurin. It will not be so bad. You will be a queen. No more stolen moments with him, no more compliments, no more pretty gifts. The Shan were uncivilized brutes, and even that clockwork bird—oh, how she longed to go into the royal storerooms and smash that useless, insulting thing—could not change that. Why, they hadn’t even started drinking tea until the Third Dynasty. They weren’t like Khir, old and at least respected. They were jumped-up peasants, a merchant family from Anwei gone north and buying their way into a semblance of nobility, and their last queen was mad.
A madwoman for a mother-in-law. At least she was dead.
Sabwone pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. She had not eaten for five days now, but nobody cared. Not Father, not Mother, not Jin, not even Kurin.
She was alone.
Yes, there was the silk in the basket. There was the paring knife. There was biting through her own tongue rather than letting a filthy merchant barbarian touch her. A heroine in Lady Surimaki’s stories—not part of the Hundreds, and not scholarly, but read avidly over and over all her life—would not hesitate.
The absolutely unforgivable thing, though, was that Sabwone… doubted. An Emperor’s daughter should be brave and proud. An Emperor’s daughter should suffer no dishonor.
The First Princess of Zhaon ground her teeth, light-headed and nauseous, trapped in a rolling cube, simmering in her own sweat under bright ceremonial robes.
She had long suspected she was weak, and the thought filled her with fury. Her reticence to take her own silly, useless life was proof.
Sabwone shut her eyes. Her hand crept for her sewing basket, then traitorously, stopped again. It occurred to her, finally, that if she killed herself in Zhaon it would not be seen as a protest. No, they would whisper that perhaps Garan Tamuron’s eldest daughter had a dishonorable reason for such an act.
The Shan capital was far away. She had time.
The First Princess, almost a queen, ground her teeth and waited.
DO AS YOU WILL
Two days after Princess Sabwone left amid crashing cymbals and the shrieks of hired mourners to be married in far-off Shan, Lady Komor’s reply reached him upon thick cloth-paper, the seal a setting sun and a triple-lobed flower mimicking a character for duty. She invited him to one of the Jonwa’s small gardens for the discussed matter—unless, of course, the Third Prince had changed his mind.
He could not tell whether that was an indirect invitation to do so, and he did not care to. He sent a reply setting a time the next day, and her acceptance was conveyed with exquisite brushwork upon the back of that missive.
The weather had broken somewhat, an eastron wind bringing cooling breath to a small blue-glazed gazebo set amid a thicket of virulent green vertical poles of segmented babu. A small folding table held appurtenances—a flask of acrid jau, sometimes consumed when a drunk had no other option despite the risk of blindness; a small, unlit, enclosed hau lamp; two thick needles; a heavy golden hoop; two metal thimbles; puffs
of unwoven cotton in a small jar with an openwork lid; all nestled in a pad of raw silk upon a lacquered tray. He examined them with care, his hands clasped behind his back, and when Lady Komor appeared, stepping down from a small porch ideal for breakfasting or moongazing, he kept her progress in his peripheral vision. She was in dark blue again today, Khir cloth but a dress of Zhaon cut, almost severe except for the pale lunar curves embroidered at the cuffs. It was too high-necked, but other than that, pleasing.
Very pleasing indeed. His own Shan black would set her to advantage. Perhaps that would please her, in turn—did not several court ladies bemoan pampered, pretty men stealing their female prerogative?
“Third Prince Garan Takshin.” She bowed, very prettily, before setting a slippered foot upon the gazebo steps. Her hairpin dangled three indigo beads, glowing-mellow in sunlight and black in the shade. “You brighten the day.”
He searched for any sign of mockery in her expression, and found none. “I have never been accused of that, Lady Komor Yala.” What he wanted to say was, So do you, Lady Spyling. But no, he was to be conciliatory, and circumspect. “Are you well?”
“Well enough.” She acknowledged his politeness very pleasingly, too. “The South is very warm, especially at night.”
“Difficult, too, when your sleep is interrupted by rude visitors?” In other words, had she suffered during the attack on the Jonwa? Kai had verified it was merely a single assassin, and his expression had been thunderous indeed.
Takshin had amused himself guessing who would be so stupid as to send a blade during the Shan delegation, but the entire affair made him… uneasy. And he did not like that he had been trammeled in the Old Tower, unable to move into Takyeo’s home until after the Shan left, as well.
“There was much excitement in the household that night, yes.” She climbed the stairs, that same dancer’s grace, waiting to commit her weight until she was certain. “But it is your health that should be inquired after, since we are about to inflict a small wound.”
That managed to nettle him. “Do you think me likely to turn coward and retreat?”
Lady Komor examined him gravely, a faint flush upon her thin cheeks. Did she find Zhaon food unsatisfactory? Her princess was much more pleasingly round. “I think it is more likely you would refuse retreat at all costs.”
“Then you know me better than most, Lady Komor.” He restrained the urge to grant her a mocking bow.
She indicated the table with one partly cupped hand, too well bred to point. “Shall I explain? The jau cools the implements and the skin, the needle is chosen and passed through, then the hoop is fastened. I commissioned it from the Artisans’ Home, which was the delay in responding to your letter.”
“Ah.” As if he had not cared one way or the other, or waited for the reply. “I had thought it was the festivities.”
“You did seem rather busy.” Her acknowledgment was grave, but amusement lingered in her pale gaze. “There were friends of yours among the Shan, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” He settled upon the tri-legged stool, conscious of her slightness and of still looming over her.
Lady Komor studied him for a few long moments. If she was irked or fearful at his closeness, she made no sign. Her skirts moved gently under the breeze, and her slipper-tips were pointed in the Khir fashion. “Perhaps a cushion upon the floor instead, if it does not incommode you? I do not wish to pass the needle at an angle. It must be level.”
Was that the real reason for her set expression? Takshin nodded. “I shall do as pleases you, Lady Komor Yala.”
A thoughtful soul, she had two pillows as well, both with Khir embroidery upon their faces, probably brought step by step from the cold North. Did she miss her home? Could he ask? He settled upon the one she indicated, and she brought the tray of implements from the table with swift grace.
When she was settled upon her knees as well, she laid the tray between them. “Normally, a sister does this for her brother.”
He tried to imagine Gamnae this careful or prepared, and failed utterly. “What if a man does not have a sister?”
“His mother, or his wife.” She paused. The beads from her hairpin were smooth and round, and their color suited the dress exactly. “But we are in Zhaon, so a friend will do.”
“Ah.” Did she call herself his friend? He stilled, considering the notion, but she spoke again and he found he wished to attend, and closely. “As you like.”
“The hoop is important. We call it kyeogra, a stopper—it must be endless, to catch the voices calling you and keep them chained.” She struck a flame for the lamp and the tiny box used for such a purpose vanished back into her sleeve. What else did she keep in there? A cloth or two, certainly. A needle for mending? A paper horse, like the Great Sage Mhong, to be brought out and restored to flesh by a muttered incantation?
Takshin sought further conversation. “I should learn more Khir.”
“There are teachers.” No opening in her response, the absolute minimum required for politeness. Still, she was here, and had sought him out, to whatever degree.
“Perhaps you may teach me.” Takshin aimed for a light tone, as if he were Jin bedeviling Gamnae. Who was the man using his voice for this? He sounded ridiculous.
But Lady Komor smiled, passing the needles through flame again. “My duties to Princess Mahara may not permit it.”
“Mahara.” A pretty word, but nonsensical in Zhaon. “What does that mean?”
“Crown Princess Mahara is named for the wind that comes from the south in summer, and brings warmth.” Yala dipped the larger needle into acrid jau again. “The Great Rider was joyful when she was born.”
“I thought Khir hated their daughters.” He could have cursed his tongue out of his mouth, for a shadow fell across her expression.
She looked away at green segmented pillars, lush every summer and harvested at the first snow. Dipped the needle again. “A daughter is not a son, but some daughters may delight their fathers.” A polite proverb, a closed door.
He liked her better when she was fretted, and he could not imagine a father being anything less than delighted with one such as her. “And your own father?”
“I am his only daughter, too.” A small shift of her weight upon her knees and haunches, as if she meant to leave. Or as if the memory was painful. Her strange, pale eyes darkened as well.
Keep her here. “What does your name mean?”
“Yala is a small bird, very gentle, very soft. They are used as lures for the hawks; they freeze when the shadow drifts over them.” Her long sleeves, folded back, exposed slim coppery wrists marked with thread-thin, inked lines; a faint misting of sweat showed at her temples.
All of it suited her, and he remembered her clutching a sunbell, cautious but unafraid. Both are due some respect. “I cannot imagine you thus, Lady Komor.”
A small smile was his reward. She passed the needle through the enclosed flame one final time, and her expression lightened. “In my clan, the Komori, it is a little different. I am named for one of my ancestors during the First Dynasty, who was able to make a hawk rise and return without a lure.”
“First Dynasty.” Of course, she would have her pride. She wore silk like the Crown Princess, which made her noble indeed. “When Khir ruled.”
“When Khir ruled Zhaon, and Shan, and as far as Anwei.” The beads of her hairpin made a sweet sound as they touched each other, and a breeze from the pond, fragrant with latai blossom, made the babu rustle secretively. “Those days are gone now, are they not, Prince Takshin.” It was not a question. Rather, a soft, sad finality.
Did she suspect him of seeking to entrap her in a treasonous wish for Khir’s primacy? He searched for something else to say as she brushed his hair back, a bentpin holding the black strands free of his ear. “I am named for a warlord who never lost a battle. His chamberlain poisoned him.”
She was so close, he could smell the faint smokiness of ceduan in silk. Did she wear this dress often? The color wa
s strange but lovely, and she seemed to favor it. “A sad story.” She dabbed at his ear with jau-soaked cotton, a cold touch sending rainflesh down his back.
“He trusted someone.”
A nod, her hairpin beads swinging; all her attention was bent upon her task. “Dangerous to do so.”
“Is it?” He did not mean to sound disingenuous, but her consciousness of such danger was interesting.
“Here? Of course.” She bent her head, busying herself with the pin, the bowl of solution, the small shielded flame, the hoop. “At least in Khir, I knew who my enemies were.”
“Do you have enemies?” Tell me. I will bring them to you bound and gagged. What did women like, if not that? He should ask Makar. Better yet, Takyeo. A married man should have some idea.
What, precisely, was Takshin thinking? Behaving in this manner was certain only to bring him grief, and yet he was unable to stop.
She glanced at him, those strange eyes fathomless. “It is impossible to live without them, the poets say.”
“Here, you should know your friends too.” Was that too plain? Was she laughing at him, inwardly?
“Another difficulty.” She paused, and regarded him levelly. “Are you certain you wish your ear pierced, Third Prince Garan Takshin of Zhaon?”
“Address me informally, Lady Komor Yala.” His eyes half-lidded. He was committed to this course. Let her mock if she willed, he would teach her not to if she did. Others had learned. “I place myself in your hands.”
“Very well.” Another pause. “This will sting.”
His hand flashed out, caught her wrist. “Little lure.” Slim, much smaller than a man’s, and soft-skinned. He could squeeze, grind the bones together. How could you touch something so fragile without the urge to break, and the contradictory imperative to cradle tenderly at the same time? “You should run away while you can.”
“I am here, in the palace of Zhaon, many miles from my home.” Was that bitterness in her tone? He did not know her well enough to tell.