by S. C. Emmett
Neither fast nor slow, merely steadily as if in a procession, she walked toward the fire. She had almost reached it when several onlookers realized she did not mean to stop, but to mount the pyre like the wife of Emperor Tsan-li in the old stories. Would an orange-golden bird rise from the flames, tenderly encasing the ashes of a foreign princess and her faithful servant in an egg of mu-hir?58
Zakkar Kai stood frozen as Crown Prince Takyeo leaned upon his shoulder for support. It was Third Prince Takshin who sprinted for the Khir woman. She struggled in his grasp, making a small, lonely sound like a stilt-leg chick desperate for its mother. He dragged her away from roaring flame and billowing smoke. Sparks rose to Heaven with the greasy black pall of burning flesh.
His arms were iron bars and his scarred face was thoughtful, and when the Khir girl collapsed the Third Prince left the funeral to carry her through the somber hush of the palace complex to the Jonwa’s gaping-wide doors.
IN DIFFERENT COIN
A ramshackle cottage upon the northern outskirts of Zhaon-An, half lost under roiling brambles, watched incuriously as a shaggy pony trotted along an overgrown path. Despite its disrepair, a smudge of smoke lifted from its hole-pierced chimney, and the pony’s rider, a triangle of undyed cotton covering the lower half of his face and his shaven head bare and gleaming, squinted and let out a soft breath of relief.
Despite its abandonment the well was not dry, and the man let the pony drink his fill, watching the darkened cottage doorway. Of course his traveling companions would not come to greet him. They were probably sotted, and would moan, head-sore, tomorrow morning when they began the journey north.
Still, it would be pleasant to be among his two assistants again, for however short a time.
The impresario—his second bow was hidden in a middenheap near Zhaon-An’s Left Market, and would probably never be excavated—smiled at the thought, and hurried through the door.
Some small time passed.
Then the impresario retreated over the threshold, his throat jetting bright scarlet. Bright golden sunshine lay over the cottage-clearing, and the pony watched, tail flicking, as his erstwhile rider stumbled and fell.
A grey-eyed man clad in a merchant’s sober brown robe but with very good foreign point-toe boots stepped into the sunshine as well, flicking crimson from his leather-hilted sword. A green gem flashed under its concealing wrapping, answering the spilled blood with an evil wink. Man and gem watched as the impresario kicked, the body not realizing its inhabitant had been pried loose.
When it was over, the grey-eyed nobleman sheathed his bright blade and searched the body, tucking a sheaf of letters into his own robe before bending to catch the impresario’s ankles and dragging him into the dark mouth of the cottage. When he re-emerged, wiping his hands with a rag he tossed contemptuously over his shoulder, the man in brown crossed to the pony and examined it with a practiced eye before stripping the bridle and saddle, turning the beast loose to crop long unbruised grass.
“Poor fellows,” the grey-eyed man said, softly. “They expected to be paid in different coin.”
By the time he reached his own mount hidden in a small close-by copse, the cottage was well and truly afire. The bodies within might be found, or might not. Either way, they had been denuded of all that could identify them.
Ashani Daoyan, his face set like the granite of the mountains overlooking the Great Keep of Khir, had proof—written in Domari Ulo’s own hand, among others—of the successful conspiracy to kill Ashan Mahara. Such proof would be useful later, when he returned to Khir with Komor Yala at his side.
Or, he thought, freeing his horse’s reins, the last flower of Komori might not wish to return. Now that they had both seen Zhaon-An and found the world was much, much wider than their home country, it might be wise to travel a bit.
The heir to the throne of Khir smiled, mounted, and turned his horse toward the great city with a light heart.
A PRINCE OF SHAN
Three days after the funeral of Crown Princess Garan Ashan Mahara, Third Prince Garan Takshin visited his mother. Or, to be more precise, he stalked up the front steps of her part of the Kaeje, brushed aside two guards who sought to bar his passage, and broke like a peal of thunder into her receiving-hall, coming almost face-to-face with Lord Yulehi, round and placid in his bright orange court robe.
“Nephew.” The head of Yulehi spread his arms, as if to welcome a prodigal returning. He had once been the head of a junior branch, but Garan Tamuron had raised him to primacy after wedding his niece. Perhaps he even felt grateful, in some measure. “What a singular pleasure.”
Takshin, in severe Shan black, did not even waste a scowl upon the older man. “I doubt it. Where is my mother?”
“Why, her burial tablet is in Shan, of course.” Lord Yulehi’s smile widened. It would obviously please him to set a young prince in his place. “Oh, you mean the First Queen. Indisposed, I should think.”
Takshin paced past, his shoulder hitting the older man, sending him staggering. The Third Prince moved unerringly past gasping, fishmouthed servants, through familiar halls, and a pair of double doors parted before him, banging upon stone walls upon either side and sending a very expensive character-hanging fluttering to the cushioned carpets. Not content with that, he ripped a partition aside, and looked upon his family.
First Queen Gamwone, her round face set, regarded him from a cushioned nest. Next to her, Kurin had settled, and Gamnae, her hand cupped over her mouth, stared at him with round eyes. The table before them was set for the day’s first meal, and an elder’s place at the head of it was left empty for a clan-head uncle.
“Taktak.” Kurin recovered first and lifted his teacup, his gaze glittering with poisonous pleasure. “Come for breakfast?”
Gamwone made a hushing sound, laying one of her plump soft hands upon her eldest son’s orange-silk arm. “You.” Her eyes blazed, and she had gone deadly pale. “You were not invited.”
“And yet, here I am.” Takshin tossed the barbed, hideous head of a broken arrow that had nestled in Garan Takyeo’s thigh. It clattered upon the table, and Gamnae let out a short, shocked cry. She looked very young again, the sister of the year he left, round-cheeked and cringing so helplessly you wished to pinch her viciously into weeping. “This is yours, no doubt.” The other arrowhead, the one that had pinned a Khir princess’s leg to a foundering horse, was safely wrapped and in Mrong Banh’s possession.
But this one could be used.
“What? This?” The First Queen now flushed angrily, and the small still gleam of satisfaction in her gaze guttered for a few precious moments. “How ill-bred, even for you.”
“It must be the influence of the merchant bitch who whelped me.” Takshin’s lip lifted, his scowl a blade sliding pitilessly home. “You have miscalculated, Mother. Again, and for the last time.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Garan Gamwone’s words shook, just a fraction. “Is this a threat?”
“Takshin—” Kurin, his mouth pulling down, tensed as if to rise.
His little brother ignored him. “You had best hope no further harm befalls my eldest brother Takyeo, First Queen. For if it does, I shall lay it at your door, no matter who is the true author of the misfortune. The Crown Prince and his household are my family now, and a prince of Shan looks after his own.”
His little sister’s other hand crept to her mouth as well, a scroll-illustration of deep shock. She stared at the arrowhead upon the table, then her gaze flickered to her mother and eldest brother, and a slow, horrifying idea began to bloom behind her wide dark eyes.
“Is that what you are now?” Gamwone hissed. “A prince of Shan?”
Garan Takshin’s smile stretched, a bitter, wolfish baring of teeth. Each scar upon his face was livid. “This is your only warning, First Queen.”
With that, he turned upon his soldier-booted heel and stalked away. Lord Yulehi, having followed to witness his nephew’s actions, hurried to step aside, but no
t quickly enough, and Takshin’s elbow hit his arm again, sending him staggering. A small vase tinkled into shards upon the high-polished wooden floor, and Gamnae let out another soft, shocked sound.
Kurin stared at the arrowhead next to a pot of fragrant om-diao tea, his eyebrows drawn together. Royal blood had dried upon its barbs and it sat amid expensive covered dishes; it would leave a mark upon the costly cloth protecting expensive lacquered wood beneath.
He was silent for a very long time, the Second Prince of Zhaon, as his mother succumbed to a fainting-fit, his sister sat rigid with blur-eyed shock, and his uncle snap-snarled at the creeping, cringing little spider-maids rushing to attend their mistress.
Finally, very slightly, the Second Prince smiled. He picked up the arrowhead with careful fingertips and pulled a square of cotton from his sleeve, wrapping it securely. Word of this act would spread like fire itself despite the First Queen’s grasp upon her household staff, and suspicion—never far from his mother’s door—would hold much more weight now that her own son had given it credence.
How theatrical of his little brother, indeed.
LOST FILLY
The round-eyed envoy was shaggy, his face—the color of polished rai, as if he had not been cooked long enough in his mother’s belly-oven—lost in a reddish cloud of frizzed hair tied with the bleached bones of small birds. His teeth were bad, his eyes had too much of their death-whites showing, he stank of sour sweat, and he loomed over the Great Steward of the Keep of Khir, who wrinkled his nose but kept a decorous pace through the halls. For all that, the Khir courtiers bowed as he passed, and did not whisper until long after his heavy barbarian step had faded. Even Domari Ulo, the Grand Councilor, did not seem to have anticipated this event, and that notable noble wore an expression of faint displeasure as he lingered outside the throne-room doors, uninvited and so, unable to pass through.
The great doors parted and the envoy was ushered into the presence of Ashani Zlorih, the Great Rider of Khir. The pale-eyed, long-nosed Great Rider sat upon his throne under the Great Calendar, clad in severe sober indigo. With one fist upon a knee, the other propped under his chin, he watched the lumbering stranger approach.
He did not even bring gifts, this envoy, and his Khir held an unpleasant buzz. Still, he bowed, folding his long self in half, and when he spoke, the burring of his accent was at least partly ameliorated by the trouble he had taken to learn proper address.
“Ashani Zlorih, Great Rider of the Khir, long may you gallop. My hetman Dha Ka Khubai, heir of Aro Ba Wistis, sends many greetings, and I, Nunik his stirrup-holder, salute you.”
Ashani Zlorih nodded, kindly enough. “You have ridden far, and ridden fast. You are an honored guest in my humble home. Bring the sohju!” He did not raise his voice or clap, but a scurry of motion behind painted and carved screens said that servants had been ready for this command.
The envoy bowed again. His gaze—bleached, but not grey as the Khir but a pale blue like a clear winter sky—roved the surface of the hall, calculating. No doubt he would find much worth looting in this stone tent, and his greedy smile showed as much.
But the Great Rider dismounted from his throne and made a show of settling at a low table surrounded by rugs, servants bustling to pour sohju for the long pale man and his royal host. Courtiers whispered in the hall outside, and the guards at the door eyed the new arrival with some little trepidation.
Even one of the ghostly invaders was enough to make a man uneasy.
Nunik did not even wait for the end of the first bottle of sohju to begin his business. “My hetman was somewhat surprised to receive your message.”
Ashani Zlorih merely smiled and filled his guest’s cup again with clear fiery liquor. The dishes would arrive soon, and he would stuff this long white thing like a sausage. “We have little to lose by asking for aid, Honorable Nunik.”
“Eh.” Those avaricious eyes devoured everything upon the table, calculating worth like a merchant. “Was she a good breeder, this lost mare of yours?”
“Still a filly, but of high pedigree.” Ashani Zlorih’s smile did not falter, but his grey eyes were cold. “She was outraged and murdered by the Zhaon.”
“Ah, well.” What can you do, the man’s spread hands said. He downed his sohju in one greedy gulp and held out the fine metalwork cup for more. “I traveled through their borders to reach yours. Soft, very soft. A ripe underbelly.” Nunik’s laugh echoed in the high stone hall, bounced from the carven screens set to keep the character scrolls and portraits of Khir’s royalty upon the walls from the pollution of a barbarian’s gaze. “My hetman thinks they have grown proud, too proud indeed.”
“Your hetman is wise.” Ashani Zlorih poured yet another round of sohju, a high honor for this stinking guest. The appetizers arrived, great platters of them heaped high with somewhat coarse fare. “They are much richer than us, certainly.”
“Mh.” A noncommittal sound, but Nunik’s ghost-blue gaze had sharpened. “If they give earth and salt, then perhaps my hetman will merely levy tribute from them to replace your lost filly. More, I cannot say.”
“Ah, that would be more than I dared dream.” Ashani Zlorih tipped his sohju cup and drank deep, perhaps to ameliorate the taste of this meeting. “But come, why should we discuss such things when there is drinking to be done and a guest to amuse? We are very humble, but we shall strive to show a stirrup-bearer to Dha Ka Khubai all the comfort we may.”
The envoy of Tabrak’s Pale Horde smiled. When he had left Zhaon’s borders, having ridden across the northlands near the mountains, the Khir princess had still been alive.
To mention such a thing would have been unwise indeed, but it mattered little. His hetman’s plans were already laid, and this would merely smooth the way.
BURDENED WITH YOUR LIFE
A darkened bedroom inside the Jonwa held its breath, hushed and dim. He wrung the wet cloth, folded it, and placed it upon her forehead. A glitter of grey eyes showed under heavy charcoal lashes.
“You may cease pretending,” Takshin said, as gently as possible. “We must speak, you and I.”
Yala’s tongue crept out, touched her dry lips. “What is there to speak upon?” Hoarse and cracked, her voice was a shell of itself. She did not seem surprised to find him at her bedside.
Her faithful kaburei drowsed near the door, swaying every once in a while as sleep sought to claim her. She would almost crumple, the young Zhaon girl, and wake herself with a start, loath to leave her lady even for a moment.
“You are planning something honorable, are you not?” Takshin shook his head; his fingertips smoothed the damp cloth. The water was perfumed with araut, that pleasing herb said to ease grief, and the gold hoop at his ear glimmered in the dimness. “You must not.”
Yala’s throat worked as she swallowed. “Why did you stop me?”
“Ah.” He nodded, as if she had said something profound. “There is a custom, in Zhaon.”
“I care nothing for your barbarian customs.” Her right hand, atop the thin summer coverlet, twitched. “My princess is dead.”
“And you are still alive.” There was no trace of sarcasm or sharpness in his tone. He sounded like a different man—older, perhaps, more thoughtful. Certainly gentler. None would have believed it, had they heard. “In any case, little lure, your life is not your own.”
She moved again, restlessly, and her right hand became a fist. “Do you think I do not know as much?”
“Hush.” He set the basin of cool, herb-scented water aside and took her hand, working his fingers between hers. When he had opened her palm, he placed it flat upon the covers, delicately, and tapped its back with his callused fingertips, twice. “In Zhaon, if you save a life, you become responsible for it.”
Her eyelids drifted down. Rose, and she regarded him fully, a caged hawk eyeing its tormentors sidelong.
“Do you understand me, or must I be plainer?” Garan Takshin decided to leave no room for doubt. “You are indebted to me, Komor Yala. Y
ou may not climb upon a pyre or use that little claw-toy of yours to open your throat, for your life does not belong to your dead princess, may she ride eternal.” The Khir phrase fit ill in his mouth, but at least he had taken the trouble to learn it. Perhaps it would even comfort her. “It belongs to me now, and you may not spend it uselessly.”
A long silence enfolded them. Elsewhere in the Jonwa a physician shook his head, applying salve to a Crown Prince’s leg, and the prince in question stared wordlessly over the heads of his attendants, his face set but not lifeless.
Garan Takyeo apparently considered words superfluous at this juncture, and his silence was dangerous. Takshin would solve that riddle when it presented itself more fully.
He was called to a more important matter, now.
“Why?” Tears gathered at the corners of Komor Yala’s eyes, trickled down to vanish in the inkspill of her hair. “Why not let me go?”
“If I may not ride to meet my ancestors, you may not either.” He longed to be more gentle, but the sooner she understood, the better. “Not yet.”
“I cannot return to Khir.” She swallowed, and her mouth contorted. Unpretty grief upon a face too sharp for beauty, and yet he watched, fascinated. Each shadow across her face, clouds over a tormented sea, was another edged pleasure.
“Would you wish to?” He did not precisely wish her ill so he could comfort her, and yet, here he remained. “For if you did I would take you, my lady spyling, and any who lifted a hand to you in that land or any other would find himself upon my sword.”
She made no answer. Her gaze turned away, lost in the shadows near the roof.
Takshin tried again. “Or I could take you to Shan. Kiron is a fine hunter, and his stables full of horses you may ride to exhaustion. Of course, Sabwone will be there, but I have dealt with her before.”