by S. C. Emmett
“It does not seem so,” Anh agreed, anxiously. Her entire body ached from the slipping, sliding, terrifying confusion yesterday, added to tossing and turning upon her mat before her lady was returned by Zakkar Kai. And in such awful condition—bedraggled, pale, with bleeding wrists. “Shall I look again, and—”
“Anh?” Yala’s cracked, tiny whisper tiptoed from behind the partition. “Is that my princess?”
“’Tis indeed.” The Crown Princess brushed past Anh, her fingers resting for a moment, a weightless touch upon the kaburei’s shoulder. Anh tried not to lean into the motion—good luck flowed from those of higher rank—and peered around the edge of the screen.
Her mistress was a grand lady even though foreign, and Anh was all but bursting with the drama of events. The strict enjoinders to silence from the Crown Prince himself were barely enough to keep her contained, but she was able to hint darkly that Lady Komor had suffered a severe shock and required much nursing. Running to and fro from the kitchens, bringing small things to tempt an invalid, carrying Lady Komor’s pretty torn dress to the laundry and washing it herself despite the fact that she was of much higher quality than the water-rats kept her busy, in any case, and filled her with luminous sparkstick importance.
A great lady gave honor to those who served well.
The Crown Princess knelt at the edge of Princess Yala’s bed. She said something soft and low in their funny, sharp-edged tongue, and Yala replied. The princess stroked her lady’s forehead, softly, and held one of Yala’s poor hands. Her wrists weren’t cut as a suicide-ghoul’s, but the skin had been worn bloody-raw by some cruel binding; Anh had solicitously dabbed herbal pastes Zakkar Kai himself had brought from his pet physician, the one with the shabby robes and sharp tongue, against the wounds. Lady Komor’s ankles bore marks too, though not deep ones, and Anh had worked fine dry rai powder scented with sweetspice and berrypalm through her hair, combing the mixture free along with traces of mud and rainwater. It was not quite as good as a bath, but until her lady was ready for one, she would be as clean as possible.
The Crown Princess kept speaking, soft and fast. Was she weeping? It sounded like it. Anh kept peering into her lady’s room, mirrorlight banished so a noblewoman could rest. A single small, exquisite clay lamp, heavily shielded, glittered upon the table where her lady wrote letter after letter, the slight sound of her brush loud in the silence.
Everyone had been so worried that the Khir would be barbarians, and cruel as well. Instead, the Crown Princess was a beautiful, amiable creature, and Lady Yala… well, she was quick and graceful, and even if she lacked beauty she had some other quality Anh could not quite name but which filled her kaburei close-servant with distinct pride.
“All is well.” Lady Yala’s queer grey gaze glittered as she spoke in Zhaon. She was not feverish, though she looked it, heavy-lidded with flushed cheeks. “I am relieved you are safe.”
“We will not leave the palace.” The Crown Princess’s Zhaon was accented, but much better. Still, she used the informal inflection with Lady Yala. Perhaps childhood friends could speak so in Khir, even among royalty.
What was it like to be so far from your home, among strangers with mouths full of different words? No family, the Crown Prince was supposed to be Princess Mahara’s family now, and whatever children she had would be Zhaon. And would Lady Yala return home to marry?
If she did, would Anh become the stranger in a different country? Or would Lady Yala give her to the Crown Princess? It made Anh’s poor tired head spin to think of it. She hadn’t dared dream of being a great lady’s maid, but Lady Kue had called her quick and docile, and so Lady Yala had smiled and nodded, accepting her.
It was the first time Anh had been chosen, really, and her liver and heart both swelled again with the memory. She’d been afraid, when summoned to stand in a line that morning, that she would be sent to serve elsewhere. It would not be so bad to be a bath attendant, or to run and fetch for the artisans in the Home. It would be horrid to become a water-rat, or to be sent to the stinking hot hell of the kitchens, even though you could eat what you willed there.
The worst luck was to be sent to the Kaeje. Or more specifically, to the First Queen’s household. The stories from there were enough to turn your liver sideways. Even if the First Queen wasn’t cruel, her chief lady was, and had a taste for both the whip and the sudo.
Anh listened to their funny language, salted with a few Zhaon words here and there, and wondered what they were saying now. It was probably beyond her anyway, like brushstrokes upon paper. This one is another way of spelling your name, Anh. It means “beautiful child."
She heard her own name; the Crown Princess beckoned her. “Come in,” she said, kindly enough, and Anh, her legs leaden, obeyed. She hadn’t told anyone, yet, but still, the secret burned like one of Heaven’s constant fireflowers and she wondered how long she could hold out. Maybe Tanh the head clothespress maid, or Dho Gani, Lady Kue’s chief maid, might be able to keep it to themselves. But Anh couldn’t lower herself to speak to a clothespress girl, and Dho Gani carried a long thin flexible sudo to snap at any kaburei or porter who did not hurry enough to suit her.
Anh settled at a safe distance and bowed, her forehead touching her folded hands upon the floor.
“Oh, come closer, and sit up.” The Crown Princess’s remote beauty did not alter. She did not sound displeased, merely a trifle impatient. “You are very brave, and very clever. My Yala says you deserve a reward, and I agree.”
“Your Highness… your… my lady…” For a moment, Anh could not remember how to address such august personages. “I ask nothing. It is my duty.”
“There must be something you would like.” Lady Yala, propped upon embroidered cushions solicitously fluffed every hour, smiled gently. There was a weary gleam to her too-thin face, that nameless quality that turned her almost-ugliness into something more. “A small stipend, perhaps? To save for a dowry?”
“My lady!” Slightly scandalized, Anh shook her head. A stipend for a kaburei was simply not done. Not until they were old, retreating to a farm or the Weavers’ House. “No, no.”
“What of your family, then?” Lady Yala persisted. “Your parents?”
“They are happy in the village.” Anh scrubbed her hands together, fretful. Besides, they had sold her after a bad harvest. She had failed them by not being born a son who could sit for examinations or help with the fields; she would be ashamed to send them money. They would suspect she was earning it upon her back, instead of through hard work as a proper palace kaburei.
“There must be something,” Lady Yala persisted. “Something small, perhaps?”
“Nothing. Only…” Anh hesitated.
“Tell us.” The Crown Princess leaned forward, as if waiting upon the words of a simple kaburei.
Anh’s cheeks were hot, deep embarrassment making her fidget. “It’s very silly.”
“Anh.” Lady Yala closed her eyes, and the girl, wary of protesting too much or too little, hurried to explain.
“My festival dress is very old,” she said, slowly. “I should like a new one.”
“We will find beautiful cloth, and I will sew it myself,” Lady Yala said. “As soon as I am rested.”
A festival dress sewn by a great lady. Anh’s throat was dry, and she stammered her thanks. She would not tell anyone, Anh decided as she bowed again, her forehead resting lightly upon her knuckles. She would die before she told anyone of these events, no matter how the secret burned.
And if Lady Yala was ever sent back to her cold, barbarous home, Anh would follow.
YOU WISH TO BE COMPLIMENTED
A feline scratch against the lintel, a low word at the door-guard, and Third Prince Takshin stalked, carefully placing his silk-soled slippers, into Princess Mahara’s receiving-room. Gonwa Eulin’s round, pretty face turned sour, her plump berry-stained mouth drawing down as if she tasted something bitter; Hansei Liyue looked up from her embroidery and just as swiftly back down again,
straightening self-consciously. Su Junha, wrapping thread upon spools for Mahara’s unfinished morning-robe, was listening to Huan Iyara’s muttered asides and hid a smile behind her sleeve, her eyes sparkling, before she caught sight of the visitor and went pale, a spool of silken amber dropping into her lap.
Yala, aching and somewhat flushed, had just settled afresh upon her cushion to rework a dress-sleeve for Su Junha. It was an easy task, and restful, but she still had to pause every now and again to lay the fabric down and reach for a cup of cooling siao tea upon a small low table to her right, nestled next to a bed of multicolored floss ready to be pressed into service. She did not watch the Third Prince as he approached, seeming wholly occupied with her neat, even stitches.
“Hello, little lure.” Freshly bathed, a little sweet oil in his topknot, and with his scars drained pale, he halted before her cushion.
“Third Prince Takshin.” Now she glanced up, the needle piercing thick orange silk. A bright, auspicious color, sunshine on a smoky afternoon. This robe, from the chests in the attic, was old, smelling of ceduan and nose-stinging mothbane, but after reworking and a long airing, it would do quite well for the Su girl. “We are honored by your visit. The Crown Princess is walking in the garden with Lady Kue, if you seek her.”
He grimaced, a swift attempt at scowling vanishing as he studied her. “Now what would make you think I seek her? I came to see how you are faring.”
“Well enough. I must wear my sleeves properly long for some while.” She set the silk in her lap, carefully, and turned to the small basket at her side. Mirrorlight burnished her blue-black hair, glittered upon the small colorless crystals in her hairpin. They were not expensive, but they were bright, and cheered her this morning when she had to halt a few times during her own dressing, her ribs heaving and her hands trembling like wind-brushed leaves.
Even sleep and a good breakfast had not taken away the strange unsteadiness, though she told herself firmly that the adventure was over, had in fact ended quite well, and there was no need to be afraid.
Apparently her hands did not believe her. Her fingers trembled a little as she searched through the floss for the hank she wanted.
Third Prince Takshin examined her for a long moment before sinking down, arranging his knees upon the bare wooden floor. “It suits you. But truly, little lure, are you well?”
“You must not appear too interested,” she replied, in an undertone. “It will cause gossip.” Then, a little louder, “Will you not take a cushion, Third Prince? That cannot be comfortable.”
His reply lacked volume and discretion both. “I am to care for gossip now, as well as the Crown Princess? And comfort too? You load me with cares, Lady Komor.”
“Please.” She lowered her lashes, occupying herself with measuring out a goodly portion of thread. “We must not let anyone guess what happened. It is dangerous.”
He shook his dark head, disdaining a cushion and the danger at once. “Nobody will guess. They will think me enamored of you, that’s all.” His eyes glittered, pupil and iris blending into each other to give his gaze a directionless quality, difficult to meet.
Yala suppressed a shaky sigh, twisting the end of the thread. Slipping it through the needle’s eye would be a chore if her hands would not steady. “And you should avoid that too, Third Prince.”
“What if I do not wish to?” Amusement colored each word. Now he smiled, the unscarred half of his mouth curving higher than the other.
She still did not look at him. If he wished to settle upon bare floor like a peasant, well, there was little she could do. At least she had offered him proper seating, and no doubt Mahara’s ladies, quiet now, were straining to catch every word. “Are you always this contrary?”
He made a slight motion, quite probably a shrug. The kyeogra glittered at his ear, and the greenstone hurai glinted against his left first finger. He wore no other ornament. “Strike where you are least anticipated.”
“Cao Zhien.” The rest of that passage was upon the joys of riding your enemies down in a bloody field, and it was not quite acceptable reading for a noblewoman, no matter if it was in the Hundreds.
His scarred lip now twitched with amusement. “They call you a scholar.”
“Merely a poor reader of the Hundreds, Third Prince.”
“Lady Yala?” Su Junha had risen and drifted closer upon slippered feet, bowing like a flower-stem in the Third Prince’s general direction. She was still pale, and she knelt at a safe distance, tucking her skirt in the accustomed fashion and setting out a small square of silk the same color as Mahara’s unfinished robe. “I beg leave to interrupt; do you think this thread will do for the sleeves, perhaps in twined hau characters?”
The spool was a deep plum color, and would not do at all, but the Third Prince might not know as much. A transparent ploy, but braving his temper in order to bolster Yala in her condition was a fine gesture upon Su Junha’s part.
“Come, let me see.” Yala indicated the cushion next to hers; thank Heaven the prince had not settled himself there. She watched as the girl spread silk and thread, and almost winced at the ugliness of the contrast. “Hm. It would be a strange choice, but perhaps effective.”
Takshin made a dismissive noise. “Ugly, you mean.”
Su Jinha cast her an agonized glance, but Yala had this well in hand. “And what would you know of a woman’s sleeves, Third Prince Takshin?”
“Should not a woman who wishes to marry listen when a man tells her what is attractive, and what is not?” His crooked smile was genuine, and Yala realized he was truly amused, and playful. Just like Bai, sharp words and rough courtesy covering affection. He did not seem to have many friends in Zhaon; perhaps he was like the tufted-hair mountain pards who occasionally attached themselves to a monk or poor but honorable maiden, guarding their friend with ghostly ferocity. Their loyalty was absolute once given, the stories said, but very few humans were found worthy.
“That depends upon whether she finds the man attractive,” Yala answered equably. “You are held to be somewhat ill-mannered, Your Highness.”
Su Junha did not gasp at Yala’s baiting, but it was close. She did lean toward Yala, holding the plum-thread spool, a slight nervous smile flickering upon her young lips. Bravery lurked in this girl, and Yala’s heart warmed. She had, indeed, been a good choice.
“Outright rude is what you wish to say, Lady Yala.” Third Prince Takshin laid quite unwonted stress upon her name, an incrementally more informal address than she would have preferred. “Barbaric is what this other court lady would no doubt add.”
Su Junha made a small noise, and Yala subtracted the spool from her, deftly. “I shall thank you not to terrorize my princess’s ladies, Third Prince Takshin, or I will have you quit her receiving-room and ban you from the dinner table as well.” Oh, yes, now she had his measure, and he was only as annoying as she would allow him to be. “Have you seen General Zakkar today?”
That brought a slight scowl to his thin lips, but Takshin’s dark gaze gleamed. He liked being needled in return, just like Bai. “Oh, Kai’s around. I’m sure he’ll visit.”
“That would be pleasant. The Head General is a fine conversationalist, and last time complimented Su Junha’s hairpin.” Yala found her fingers had steadied. She threaded the needle, blessing the bright mirrorlight, and knotted the end with a paired loop-twist. “I believe she blushed, did you not?”
“As a maiden should.” Su Junha had recovered. She had most admirable grace, and took slight direction exceeding well. Her hands had softened still further, and though her pale peach morning-dress was worn, it was mended with exquisite care.
“So, it is compliments that make a fine conversationalist? I have no skill with those.” Takshin did not quite sulk, but his expression had changed, and that gleam was gone. So mentioning Zakkar Kai took the bloom from his fretting.
Interesting. “You have other skills to recommend you.” Abruptly, Yala tired of careful fencing. Soothing him was tiresome,
even if she understood his prickling now.
“Such as?” He was not quite finished with her, it seemed. Why was he upon the floor instead of a proper cushion?
“Ah, so now you wish to be complimented.” She allowed herself to consider the spool next to the orange sleeve, next. This was an ugly pairing too, but she would not let him remark upon it. “Very well. What can we say of the Third Prince, Su Junha?”
“He is very brave?” the girl offered, and shifted a bit closer to Yala’s side, a chick seeking the eggfowl’s protective bulk.
“Very,” Yala agreed, gravely. A silver arc, the bright splatter of blood—she had not asked the fate of the two remaining kidnappers. It could not have been pleasant. Take the lady home, she is out well past the gong. “And I must tell you, Su Junha, the Third Prince is very kind.”
“Kind?” Su Junha’s eyebrows, naturally arched to the finest degree, shot upward. She almost lifted the back of her fingers to her mouth to cover a laugh, but hastily sobered and dropped her hand into her lap.
Takshin studied Yala narrowly. At his shoulder, the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword was a reminder; the curved Shan knife with its ruby was nowhere in evidence. “Careful, Lady Yala.”
“Once it is known, you will get no peace.” She smiled, and found she was quite enjoying herself. “But yes, Su Junha. Kind. Like a thornblossom, where the canes have claws to defend a tender flower. So it is with Prince Takshin. He does not wish anyone to know how kind he is, so he blusters and stamps and is rude. But he is here to help the Crown Prince with his many burdens, and does so quietly, not to be noticed or applauded. Therefore, he is also modest.” She raised her lashes slightly, glanced at him. “Are compliments pleasant, Third Prince? You look rather stunned by their advent.”
Was that a scowl darkening his complexion? The scar vanishing into his hair had flushed some little. “Mockery is never pleasant.”