The bloody throne, p.21
The Bloody Throne, page 21
“Perhaps she’ll manumit you after the wedding,” the Fifth Prince observed.
And now there was absolutely nothing to say, so Anh was silent, trapped in a deep bow and staring at the garden walk, her cheeks flaming. There was only one possible reason for such a prince to address her, and Anh had heard enough palace gossip since being brought to the kitchens as a junior scrubber when she was only eight summers high to guess what it was.
Fifth Prince Garan Sensheo wished to do Anh’s mistress some mischief. At least that made her duty clear; Anh, despite being a mere kaburei, was to protect her mistress as Lady Yala had protected the princess.
Had Anh’s lady been with the Crown Princess, the kaburei suspected no assassin would have been successful. But arrows… it made Anh’s head hurt. Sometimes her mistress slipped from the room at night, but not for an assignation like another court lady might. Instead, she practiced with that greenmetal blade, and Anh’s heart was near to bursting with pride at the thought of such a noble, secret skill kept under her lady’s dresses.
Of course her lady never spoke of it, but she did not have to. Anh’s own creeping in her lady’s nighttime footsteps was part of her duties, as was pretending sleep when necessary.
And keeping certain other matters locked within the deepest recesses of her liver, like her lady meeting several pale-eyed Khir lords near the poor Crown Princess’s tomb.
“Would you like that?” The prince now sounded cajoling, and Anh’s skin chilled. A peasant girl knew very well what such a man’s kindness truly meant.
“I serve my lady, Glorious Fifth Prince,” Anh managed through numb lips, hoping the bare statement of fact would give nothing else away.
“Only one kaburei for such a lady, though. My brother Takshin should give her a few more. Aren’t you afraid of losing your place?”
Was he possessed of the ability to read others’ head-meat? No, it was impossible; it was simply something any servant might fear. Anh made an inarticulate noise, not daring to express assent or its opposite. Either was equally dangerous.
The prince’s hem fluttered as he took a step toward her. “Perhaps I can help such a pretty girl. Would you like that?”
Oh, Heaven help me. Anh could not even move; any retreat would be an insult, an approach would imply acceptance of… something.
“Ah! Sensen, there you are.” A light male tenor, also lilting with a nobleman’s accent, was accompanied by the sound of boot-steps. “Maki told me you were out taking a walk this morning. I want to ask you about that bow from Ch’han you were talking about—”
“Jin. What a pleasant surprise.” The Fifth Prince’s tone shouted it was anything but and he turned away, a sharp movement.
Which meant Anh could cast a swift glance at her deliverer.
Sixth Prince Garan Jin, in the leather half-armor he favored for morning practice, scratched cheerfully under his rumpled topknot, thankfully taking no more notice of her than he would of a wall-hanging. A sword was at his belt, too; since he was returning from the drillyard his face gleamed with sweat and the half-armor bore a few dusty impressions from strikes with weighted wooden blades. He looked very young, more like a boy costumed in an elder brother’s clothes; and though he smiled, there were dark shadows under his eyes.
Anh took all of this in swiftly and stepped even farther to the side, her toes tracing the very edge of the paved stone walk. The Sixth Prince had been with the Crown Princess and Anh’s lady that terrible day in the Yaol, the Great Market; he was very brave. He peppered his elder with questions about a certain style of bow while Anh made her escape with all the seemliness and speed she could muster.
Being addressed by a prince once was unsettling enough. Now she had to wonder what grudge the fifth son of Heaven-ascended Garan Tamuron bore her lady.
Her head-meat was all a-jumble, and her liver shivered within her. What could a mere kaburei do against a prince? Should she tell someone?
The traditional punishment for a servant carrying tales was the tongue torn out by the roots; the Hell of Chattering was full of laundry vats containing boiling oil for the torment of those who accused their betters of things which could not be proven. Besides, what proof did she have beyond nebulous dread and deep unease?
It was a quandary, and one she had no time to think upon while there was so much to do before sunset. Her lady was even now being prepared for the palanquin, and Anh’s next stop was the palace laundries.
She set upon her way, sorely grieved, knowing she would not be able to sleep tonight as even the seamstresses who had provided the wedding finery, exhausted and with sohju as a reward, would.
SCARLET AND GOLD
At least the marriage of a prince to a mere noblewoman did not require a public procession through the streets of Zhaon-An as the sun sank in the furious crimson-gold west, or a feast attended by the entire court. Mrong Banh had decreed an auspicious date closest to the end of mourning for two emperors, and if it fit nicely with the vacating and sealing of the Jonwa, it was perhaps merely a comment upon an astrologer’s skill—and a royal bridegroom’s male impatience.
A friendless foreign lady-in-waiting might have had to depend upon a servant to comb her hair for the nuptials, but Lady Gonwa, chief among court women and held to be the final judge and arbiter of matters of taste in the female side of court life, sent several ili of her famous heaven tea—blended by that redoubtable lady’s very own hand—wrapped in thin, very expensive crimson rai-tissue and a very pretty note volunteering her own hands and a fine scentwood comb for such a duty. Yala had no present to send in return with an acceptance, but when Su Junha mentioned as much to Garan Takshin, a greenstone hairpin with a broad, exquisitely carved head appeared, and a lyong-wood box to carefully nestle it, wrapped in fine black satin, within as well.
The new Emperor, as befit an elder brother who approved of his junior sibling’s choice, sent ribboned ear-drops of thin beaten gold, fluttering like the leaves of white-bark namyeo trees. Etiquette in this particular case required a ceremonial letter of thanks brushed by both bride and groom, and if Yala’s hand threatened to tremble as she wrote the ritual phrases and the expected wishes for Garan Kurin’s continued robust health, it could be attributed to maidenly modesty. Other gifts required finely calibrated responses, but she was saved the dubious pleasure of replying to the First Mother’s present, for none arrived from that quarter.
The court took notice, of course. Still, Garan Suon-ei Takshin had been adopted by the queen of Shan, and perhaps the First Mother thought a gift would be… indelicate. Those possessed of charitable humors murmured as much, often with their fan held in the particular half-open manner denoting a pretty utterance which was not believed but must be given breath.
Those with no such humors said nothing at all, merely exchanged significant looks. One or two, including Lady Aoan Mau—a particular favorite of Second Mother Garan Hanweo-a Haesara—was rumored to have remarked softly that a bride whose mother-in-law had already passed from the living was generally held to be a fortunate creature. It could have been a bare statement of fact, for the Mad Queen had sent Garan Tamuron’s third son home scarred and reticent, but the added fillip of savage delight at further proof of First Mother Garan Gamwone’s crassness could not go unnoticed.
It could even be thought that perhaps the foreign lady-in-waiting would feel a certain relief at being able to forego traditional visits to Gamwone’s part of the Kaeje, unless her husband was very particular. And it did not seem that he would be.
No, in fact, Komor Yala—despite the gossip that she carried a green claw like a feline demon, despite the scandal of the whipping-post—was largely regarded as a retiring, graceful, and largely inoffensive lady partly to be pitied for being so far from her home and for catching the eye of the least mild-tempered of the old Emperor’s sons, and partly to be admired for the quiet with which she bore both burdens.
So it was that Komor Yala was dressed in scarlet and gold, veiled from head to foot, and solicitously helped to the bridal palanquin with its reddish wood and brightly polished beaten-brass adornments inspected and judged worthy by Lady Gonwa, who moved slowly with her cane in one hand and her other arm bearing the Khir maiden’s light fingertips. Everything outside the veil was a reddish blur, and it was stifling; of course a bride’s steps must be hesitant. Several women performed the traditional lament at a daughter leaving the house, led by Lady Kue—once Garan Takyeo’s housekeeper, now taken into Garan Takshin’s service, as had been most of the household of that ill-fated Emperor who had not even reigned for a moon-cycle.
At least with the Third Prince adopted by Shan there was no question of impropriety in the transfer of furniture and other items. Who else could the dying son of a spear-wife and a warlord have left his dependents to, after all?
“Courage, child,” Lady Gonwa murmured as she helped Yala into the palanquin, aided by Mrong Banh. The musicians struck up an exceedingly traditional racket, the discordant noise to drive any passing vengeful spirit or ill-luck away. “It is only a short distance, after all.”
Yala could not make herself heard through the veil or over the noise, so she nodded gratefully, her headdress shivering with more thin beaten-gold leaves. Su Junha and Hansei Liyue had helped her practice, so she knew exactly what would transpire—Fourth Prince Makar and Sixth Prince Jin would ride upon either side of the palanquin, both performing a duty for a beloved, even if adopted-out and prickly, brother.
She did press the good dame Gonwa’s hand with her own resin-painted fingertips, though, seeking to convey her thanks once more without scratching with the filigreed gold sheath over her smallest nail, growing back nicely since her wasted, frantic ride to fetch a general to a dying brother-emperor’s bedside. The court lady nodded, squinting slightly as she straightened, and Mrong Banh closed the palanquin’s door with a decisive motion. Lady Kue’s voice was a silver string, singing the Zhaon lament though she might have preferred one in her native dialect; the other women followed suit in bright sad harmony, including the seamstresses looking forward to their shared jars of colorless sohju approved by their lord for a task well performed and sweet celebratory honey-thick kouri besides, for their luck and blessings went through the needles and into the bridal gown’s exquisite stitchery. It was the only gown a woman was not allowed to put a single stitch of her own upon, and the richer the embroidery, the better the luck brought to the marriage.
The palanquin lifted, and Yala’s eyes burned with tears. It should have been Mahara leading her to the wooden box. It should have been Mahara combing her hair, or making borderline-ribald jokes as a married woman could during such a ceremony, or lighting the health-giving, spirit-warding incense coil under the gown that morning, Mahara telling her in hushed tones what a girl going to the marriage bed should know. Lady Gonwa was held to be kind but distant as befit such an arbiter of taste; Yala had wondered why the dame had taken it upon herself to show such signal graciousness to a foreign lady-in-waiting—but Mrong Banh had thanked Lady Gonwa especially, and seeing the stout, redoubtable noblewoman beam at the astrologer like a flattered girl was both amusing and heartening at once.
The Jonwa receded behind her. There were no slats to open, and the confinement was close and unwelcome. She had to shut her eyes and remind herself there was, indeed, enough air inside the palanquin. She would not suffocate, despite stories from the Second Dynasty of Zhehao Anwone’s plaintive singing while being carried to a cruel warlord drawing the maiden’s soul forth.
Her yue, warm metal indistinguishable from skin, rested against her thigh. She had wondered briefly, before Garan Takyeo’s death, what it would be like to have her honor in Zakkar Kai’s keeping.
Now it would rest in Garan Takshin’s. She had not seen him for three days, a tradition Zhaon and Khir shared. Even letters could not pass between them, all necessary messages—there were not many—passing through Lady Kue and Lady Gonwa.
She knew what happened in a marital bed, of course—one could hardly avoid the knowledge, especially if one’s clan bred horses or other livestock. But to contemplate it happening to her own body, her own self…
Yala lifted her hand in the swaying, close dimness. The only light came from tiny carved holes patterned around the roofline, but it was enough to see her fingers vibrating far more than the conveyance’s movement called for.
How much more fearful had her princess been? She had suffered this with admirable grace and obedience, that most central of noble female qualities. Had Mahara’s heart beat so thinly in her throat, had her palms been so soaked, had she yearned to push the door open and flee in the soft slippers, tearing heavy decorations and cloth away with great horrified sounds?
Was Komori Dasho’s shade watching this with disapproval? With some other emotion? He had wanted her to land gently; no doubt he had been hoping Daoyan could work some miracle and somehow free her. If Mahara had been alive…
But she was not. Yala’s princess was gone, riding the Great Fields, and Yala was alone.
Heart pounding, throat dry, fighting the urge to move moment by moment, the bride found her lips moving silently. And why, of all things, should she be repeating the Moon Maiden’s reply to Zhe Har’s hero?
I must go, my sleeve is caught.
It was a terrible sin to be thinking of another man upon her very wedding day, but Komor Yala wished she were being carried elsewhere, and it was useless to deny it. Just as useless as fleeing would be, or bemoaning her fate, or even drawing her yue and loosing her humors in a deeper scarlet tide against the palanquin’s walls, if she truly loved Zakkar Kai enough to perform such a deed.
She was utterly, completely helpless. Perhaps she had been all along.
SOUP AND WAR
A man ideally became a general by the efforts of his sword alone, but the reward was endless stacks of rai- and pressed-rag paper, the processing of which required long hours after drill, inspection, parade, and the issuing of daily or monthly orders. Even viewing the stacks of orders, dispatches, and other ephemera in a stone keep’s relative comfort instead of a tent was only a minor improvement. At least his scouts were well-trained and it was still nominally peacetime; missing dispatches were not yet holes through which a vanguard could drive.
Since Takyeo’s death every missive had arrived like the sound of a babu water-clock, at all the expected intervals. That was not a comfort, for their contents were often a thin rai-paper screen of supposition from commanders whose temperaments or fears led them to huddle in an outpost rather than putting their surroundings under the hooves of a good fast horse and bringing back news.
For all that, there were disturbing signs, and his nape tingled more often than not while reading. It was rather like waiting for a rai-pot to boil. While watched, it would only absorb the heat and store it in humors like a seething underling; once you glanced away it would foam into life and spill half your meager dinner into the flames. The keep’s mirrorlights were full of a ruddy sunset fading into twilight, and he wondered what Yala was doing at the moment. Probably brushing a last few characters upon a letter before her kaburei appeared to help her dress for dinner, or performing some other task with quiet, peaceful thoroughness, her clear grey gaze thoughtful and her mouth—
“My lord?” Anlon appeared at the door, bearing a tray. “You have had nothing but soldier-tea since midday.”
Kai’s own humors were seething like a watched rai-pot as well. The last letter from Yala carefully mentioned nothing but commonplaces, and nothing about her impending marriage at all. He knew it was to save his feelings; he had lost a battle largely through inaction and it irked him. Waiting until Garan Tamuron’s temper improved, while at the time no doubt the proper tactical response, had been a strategic blunder.
It was enough to make Kai wonder if he’d deliberately held his hand, not wishing to leave a wife in the palace viper-pit or risk her in an army camp. Yala was, for all her bravery, a noblewoman. You did not take such creatures upon a campaign even if there were stories of noble wives in the First and Third Dynasties following their warlord husbands.
These were modern times, and while a soldier might bring a woman along, a general—especially one wearing a hurai—was a different beast.
“Don’t tell me you have eaten either, Anlon.” Kai neatened the pile of dispatches with a single habitual movement and motioned his faithful servant in. Anlon was moving with a little less alacrity lately; the wound from the last assassination attempt was healing quite nicely but he was still no young soldier. “I would know it a lie. We are busier than ants preparing for rain.”
“And yet nothing seems to happen. Such is a soldier’s life.” The greying man settled the tray upon a triangular folding table, another familiar underling pressed into unvarying service. “I know that look. Another letter?”
“With nothing of import, at least.” At least Kai could pretend to be worried by the change in Emperors instead of brooding over a graceful sleeve, a pair of pale eyes, or a certain lady’s way of speaking with sharp Khir consonants in prettily arranged Zhaon. “Things seem rather quiet, except for troubling news from the south.” Yala had alluded to something not quite right in her husband-to-be’s adopted land, but whatever the news was, Kurin had not thought to add a précis in his latest directive, as Tamuron would have.
A man fought better when he knew exactly what was behind him. Takshin’s own letters gave Kai some idea of what was happening but the man was busy fending off Kurin’s ill temper in various directions, Makar’s were brief but could be used to infer much, just not in the directions Kai needed. Sensheo, of course, did not bother—which was probably a blessing. Jin’s were a delight, full of weapons-trivia, Gamnae’s similarly delightful but not very useful.
