Spin the Dawn

by Elizabeth Lim

  Lorsa was impatient when I finally caught up with him in front of a wide, open archway. “This is the Hall of Supreme Diligence,” he announced, “where you shall work.”

  I limped inside, greeted at the entrance by life-sized statues of the Three Great Sages, A’landi’s legendary scholars. The hall’s floor was cool as porcelain, the walls hung with painted scrolls: most of His Imperial Majesty’s favorite aphorisms, and others of peonies and catfish and cranes. The open-air latticed windows let in sounds of the real birds outside. No hawks, but plenty of larks and thrushes, even as the evening fell.

  It was the largest room I’d ever been in—at least ten times bigger than Calu’s father’s kitchen, and three times the size of Port Kamalan’s temple. There were spinning wheels in the corner of the hall, and twelve tables, each equipped with a weaving loom, an embroidery frame, and a basket full of threads, needles, and pins. Workstations were separated by folding wooden screens with hooks for hanging and draping cloth.

  Eleven tailors were seated already at their stations, and they stared at me, whispering.

  I started to lower my gaze, then raised my chin and frowned.

  “Are these also imperial tailors?” I asked Lorsa, hobbling as quickly as I could behind him.

  “There will be only one.” The eunuch continued to the other side of the hall, the side with less sunshine. He pointed at a table. “This will be your station until you are dismissed.”

  Dismissed? “I’m sorry, sir. I’m confused.”

  Lorsa peered at me. “You didn’t think you were the only tailor called to His Majesty’s attention, did you?”

  “O-of course not,” I stammered.

  “Surely you did not presume His Majesty would employ a tailor without first testing him?”

  I realized my mistake now. How naïve I was to think I’d been chosen—that it would be so effortless to save my family’s honor.

  No, no. That wasn’t it at all.

  I’d be competing for the position. These eleven other tailors—they were my rivals!

  Finding my courage, I looked at them. Each was dressed in his finest. I saw splashes of jade and pearl, velvet coats, brocade scarves with silk tassels, and gold-studded belts…and I suddenly understood why they were staring at me. It wasn’t because of my limp, or that I was the youngest by far.

  I was the most poorly dressed! The dye on my shirt was faded, the fabric worn, my pant cuffs rolled to my ankles—and my sleeves far too long.

  What kind of tailor couldn’t even hem his own pants and make a shirt that fit?

  My cheeks heated, and I bowed my head in shame, fiercely wishing I’d thought to alter Keton’s clothes in the carriage instead of knitting a silly sweater.

  I set my basket and satchel on my table and began to unpack my supplies. The tailor across from me said to his neighbor, loudly enough for me to hear, “A hundred jens he’ll be the first one to go.”

  A snicker. “Why would I bet against that?”

  My face grew hotter, and I glared at them. Then, folding up my sleeves, I sat on my stool and faced Lorsa.

  “Now that you twelve are finally assembled,” the minister announced, “we may begin the trial. Only A’landi’s very best tailor is invited to serve the imperial family. Master Huan held the position for thirty years, but his recent passing has left the position empty. His Imperial Majesty, in his infinite wisdom and glory, has invited tailors from across A’landi to compete for this high honor.

  “Many of you have already served as court tailors, but the imperial tailor is among the most esteemed and privileged of His Majesty’s loyal servants. It is a position that is held for life and brings much prosperity to the one who is deserving.

  “Of the tailors here today, only one will fill the vacancy in His Imperial Majesty’s staff and begin work for Lady Sarnai immediately.”

  Lady Sarnai? That didn’t make any sense. “I thought the position was for His Majesty,” I muttered.

  “I heard you utter something, Keton Tamarin,” Lorsa said, his beady eyes blinking at me.

  I clamped my lips shut. For a dangerous moment, I’d forgotten to sound like my brother. Had Lorsa noticed?

  “Speak up if you have something to say.”

  “Um.” My mouth became suddenly dry. I cleared my throat and summoned my best deep, male voice. “I was under the impression, sir, that the position was for a tailor for Emperor Khanujin.”

  “Your job is to please the emperor,” the eunuch corrected me. “And he wishes the new imperial tailor to furnish Lady Sarnai’s wardrobe.”

  I dipped my head, but not before seeing the tailors in front of me exchange glances. “Understood, sir.”

  My question had stirred unrest among the other tailors. Not everyone was comfortable with the idea of serving the shansen’s daughter, especially with the war having ended so recently.

  Minister Lorsa went on: “Once the new imperial tailor has been selected, his first task will be to create Lady Sarnai’s wedding gown, so it is of utmost importance that your designs during the trial please Lady Sarnai as well as His Majesty.

  “We shall begin with a simple task. As Lady Sarnai comes from the much colder North, she has few garments appropriate for the Summer Palace’s temperate weather. His Majesty wishes her to have a shawl appropriate for the evening’s gentle breezes.”

  A shawl? How in the Nine Heavens was Lady Sarnai to determine a tailor’s skill by a shawl?

  “You have each been allotted a bolt of white silk. You may cut your silk as you see fit. His Imperial Majesty’s seal has been printed on each corner of the swath; all four seals must be present in your design. Only the dyes, embroidery threads, and ribbons in the materials cabinets may be used for your design in this challenge. No tailor is permitted outside assistance. Have your pieces ready for inspection tomorrow morning.”

  Tomorrow? I looked around and saw every tailor’s back stiffen. Clearly everyone was as shocked as I was, but no one dared say anything, so I kept quiet too.

  “Lady Sarnai will arrive in the morning to determine the tailors invited to stay for the next round of the trial,” Lorsa continued. “Do not forget that the shansen’s is an inherited title, like the emperor’s, part of an unbroken bloodline of A’landi’s military leaders. Lady Sarnai will be addressed as Your Highness, is that understood?” The minister waited for us to murmur that it was. “Good. May the Sages inspire you to craft something worthy of her.”

  No gong or bell pealed, but the words rang of freedom to my ears. I got up, reaching for the bolt of cloth and my sketchbook. The other tailors were already furiously designing, but I had no idea what I was going to do for Lady Sarnai’s shawl.

  Being surrounded by eleven sweaty, zealously competitive men wasn’t going to inspire me, so I gathered some supplies from the cabinet and left the Hall of Supreme Diligence to find my own way.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My new home was a narrow room shaped like an elbow, furnished with a cot and a three-legged table barely steady enough to hold a candle. There was also a small bronze vessel on the wooden windowsill with incense for prayer, a bamboo lantern hanging from the ceiling, and a porcelain washbasin in which a fly had drowned.

  “At least it’s clean,” I said aloud. “And I don’t have to share it with anyone.”

  It was the first time I’d been alone in nearly a week. I leaned my head against the painted wall, taking a moment to breathe before I addressed the real reason I needed time to myself.

  Slowly, I undid my shirt buttons. My entire torso pounded with pain. My chest was fairly flat for a girl, but I’d taken the precaution of binding strips of linen around it, and after five days of travel, my discomfort was enormous. I didn’t dare remove the strips, but I dipped my hands into the bowl of water and cleaned off my sweat.

  I’d have to get used to the pain.


  I buttoned my shirt again and emptied my satchel onto the bed. For once, the sight of my tools didn’t inspire or comfort me. I heaved a sigh. There was no way I could embroider an entire shawl by tomorrow morning.

  I could paint one, though.

  I was about to rifle through my things for my brushes when the bundle with Baba’s scissors caught my eye. Out of curiosity, I unwrapped it, holding out the scissors so they glinted in the dim light. The finger bows were thinner and more delicate than those of my own pair, but aside from the sun and moon engraved on the shanks, there was nothing special about them. Besides, I didn’t need an extra pair of scissors, so I rewrapped them and shoved them under my cot.

  “Now, where are the paint pots I took?” I muttered, rummaging through my supplies. “Did I leave them in the hall?”

  I must have. With a groan, I limped back toward the Hall of Supreme Diligence. I’d hoped not to run into anyone on the way, but an old man waved at me as I passed him.

  He was large and wide in girth, but his fingers appeared thin and nimble. A glance at his sash confirmed he was a fellow tailor: we wore pins and needles the way a general wore medals. I stopped to greet him. He was not someone who had bet against my abilities—that I knew of.

  “You must be Master Tamarin’s son,” he said. “Your face is the easiest one to recognize. You barely look old enough to grow a beard!”

  He said it so cheerfully I forgot my restraint and laughed.

  “Wing Longhai,” he introduced himself. “From the Bansai Province.”

  I recognized the name. Master Longhai was famous for making men’s robes; he’d attired the most acclaimed scholars and the highest nobles. He’d even made a robe for Emperor Khanujin’s father.

  “Keton Tamarin,” I replied. “From Port Kamalan, south of Gangsun.”

  Longhai smiled. His face was craggy, with deep grooves; his skin was touched by the sun, more than was usual for a master tailor, which suggested that, like me, he came from humble beginnings. Even so, his clothes were very fine, and he gave off a faint smell of rice wine under a perfume of sandalwood and lotus.

  “Ah,” he said. “I thought you looked like you were from the South. I take it you’ve brought amulets for luck and fortitude? My wife wouldn’t let me leave home without a stockpile of charms. Master Yindi already has a dozen hanging off his desk!”

  I wrapped my hand over my cane. “I don’t believe in such things.”

  “And you call yourself a Southerner?”

  “Port Kamalan is very small,” I replied tersely. “There’s little place for magic there.”

  Longhai shook his head at me. “Magic might not have any place in Port Kamalan, but you’re in the imperial court now. You’ll change your mind. Especially after you meet the emperor’s Lord Enchanter.”

  I raised an eyebrow. I knew little of enchanters, lord or not, other than that they were rare and drifted from land to land. They didn’t sound like very loyal advisers to me, so I didn’t understand why kings and emperors prized them so much.

  Longhai must have noticed the skeptical look on my face, for he said, “The Lord Enchanter advises Emperor Khanujin on many matters. He served the emperor’s father for years, yet he hasn’t aged a day! Some of the tailors are trying to befriend him—they’ll do anything for an edge.”

  “Wouldn’t using magic be cheating?”

  “An unfair advantage, I’d say. But cheating?” Longhai chuckled. “Do you think the emperor’s trial will be a competition merely of skill?”

  I shrugged. I’d always been skeptical of magic. But I tended to be skeptical of most things I couldn’t stitch together with a needle and thread. “What else is there to test?”

  “You have much to learn,” he said, but not unkindly.

  We walked together to the Hall of Supreme Diligence, skirting a garden full of winding paths and plum and pine trees.

  “The Courtyard of Heavenly Peace. We aren’t allowed past the waterfall there, not without permission.” Longhai lowered his voice. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t take a peek.”

  He crouched with his head bent and nudged me to do the same; then he pointed. Far on the other side of the garden, a woman walked briskly as three servants trailed her.

  She was beautiful, with ivory skin, cascading black hair, and a swanlike neck. And clearly highborn, given the servants and the regal way she walked. But her clothing was odd: she wore leather boots, a simple shift of pale blue broadcloth that barely covered her ankles, and a quilted fur coat over her shoulders, hardly appropriate for the mild weather.

  The maids were pleading with her. “Your Highness, there isn’t much time before your welcoming banquet. Will you not change?”

  “What is wrong with what I’m wearing?” the lady replied. Her tone was sharp, and it left no room for argument.

  Her maids chased after her. “Your Highness, please!”

  The lady strode on, deaf to their pleas. Following her was the largest man I’d ever seen. He was big as a bear and dwarfed the entire pathway. His beard was sharply cropped, and his eyes were narrow, crested by thick, black eyebrows.

  “Your Highness,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. “You should heed your maids’ advice. Please. It is what your father would wish.”

  The lady stilled. She wouldn’t look at her companion, but tension flared between them. She raised her chin. “You would take his side, wouldn’t you, Lord Xina?”

  I couldn’t see whether Lord Xina nodded or bowed in response, but the lady turned to her head maid. “Very well,” she said, her voice shakier than before. “I will see what garments His Majesty has to offer. However, I make no promise to wear any of them.”

  Longhai rose once the lady was out of earshot. “Well, well. I’d say that was worthwhile. We’ll have an edge against the others tomorrow. That was Lady Sarnai, the shansen’s daughter.”

  I tried not to show my surprise. That was the lady we’d have to sew for during the trial? I’d envisioned her as a warrior like her father—a girl who wore armor and breeches, had no trace of femininity, and had grown up wild and untamed. Lady Sarnai did look fierce, but she was also…beautiful.

  A grin spread across Longhai’s wrinkled face. “Not what you expected, I see.”

  “She’s very graceful” was all I could manage. “What about the man behind her?”

  “Lord Xina,” Longhai replied in a pinched tone. “The shansen’s favorite warrior and the son of his most trusted adviser. His presence is an insult to His Majesty.”

  “An insult?”

  “There are rumors Lord Xina was betrothed to Lady Sarnai before the truce was called. That he is her lover. But it’s all court gossip. No one knows for certain.” The old tailor reached into his robes for a flask. He offered it to me, and after I declined, he took a long drink.

  I pondered the way the shansen’s daughter had spoken to Lord Xina—was the bitterness in her tone for her lover or for her father? Or both?

  Longhai capped his flask. “Did you see her fur coat? Rabbit, fox, wolf, at least three different bears. Northerners only wear what they hunt—Lady Sarnai must be quite skilled.” He heaved a sympathetic sigh. “She won’t have an easy time adjusting to life here.” He leaned closer to me, as if to share a secret. “But she does seem to enjoy aggravating His Majesty. She wore breeches to tea with the emperor and his ministers of war.”

  Lady Sarnai had nerve. I didn’t know whether that made me respect her more—or less.

  “I’m sure we’ll hear about it tomorrow,” Longhai said as we approached the hall.

  I wished Longhai’s station were next to mine, but he was on the opposite end of the room. So I returned to my table alone and took out my sketchbook to start designing a shawl, not bothering to greet the tailors around me. I had a feeling they resented my presence.

  To my relief, they ignore
d me, too. Since I was the last tailor to arrive for the trial, I’d been assigned the worst table—farthest from the windows and toward the middle, where my work was practically on exhibit for everyone to see.

  None of the tailors except for Longhai had introduced themselves to me, but through scraps of their conversations, I caught some names I recognized. Like Longhai, they were masters whose styles I’d grown up studying and emulating; these were men who’d been sewing since long before I was born.

  Master Taraha and Master Yindi came from different schools of embroidery, but both were geniuses: Taraha specialized in flowers, and Yindi in double-sided embroidery. Master Boyen was brilliant at knotting; Master Delun wove brocades unlike any others. Master Norbu was a favorite of the nobility.

  And me? When we’d lived in Gangsun, Baba had asked visiting friends to teach me their regional styles and crafts, and in Port Kamalan, I’d picked up techniques from every merchant and tailor who’d speak to me.

  But I was no master, and I had no reputation.

  “You!” a man barked, interrupting my worried thoughts. “Pretty boy!”

  The hairs on my neck bristled, but I turned my head. Master Yindi was plump, though not as fat as Longhai, with a pudgy nose that seemed to be always wrinkled at something. He was bald, too, save for the gray sideburns slinking down his cheeks. Ironic, since his beard was so long it almost touched his knees.

  “Look here,” he said. “Can I have your silk? You’ll be going home soon anyway, so you might as well give it over to someone who can use it.”

  Laughter erupted. It seemed they all agreed I’d be the first to be sent home. My mouth set in a thin line.

  “Leave the boy alone,” Longhai said above the noise. “If all of you are so great, you shouldn’t need extra silk.”

  “Befriending the rabble, eh, Longhai?” Yindi said. “Wouldn’t expect any less from you.” He turned back to me. “Are you sure you won’t prick yourself with a needle?” he taunted. “My chin hasn’t been that smooth since I was a child.”