The Emperor considered, his eyes half-closed as a terrain map unfolded inside his head-meat. It was a look Kai knew well, and so was the faint air of dissatisfaction that followed. A multiplicity of bad choices meant selecting the best available was no comfort. “It is the best arrangement, yes. You never disappoint, Kai.”
“I shall remind you of those words next time I lose at chess.” Kai toasted him with the teacup, and smiled at Tamuron’s gruff bark-laugh. It was almost as painful to see the shadow of the old warlord as it was to mark the difference between the remembered man and the actual.
“No shame in defeat, Kai. Only in incompetence.” The Emperor nibbled upon aiju, his frown deepening, and his other hand made a short arrested motion, as if he wished to scratch and suppressed the movement just in time. “Begin your preparations, then, but do not hurry until—”
“— the situation clarifies itself.” Kai nodded. “If it were easy…”
“…all would be victorious. Niao Zheu. You have been studying, too.”
“You require it of me.” Along with much else. But then, a man owed everything to his parents, and this was the only father Kai would ever have. He watched the thoughts moving within Tamuron’s dark gaze; the breeze from the garden, tiptoeing into the room, stirred the cauldron of food-smell, the various scents of minister, courtier, and eunuch, and the sharpfuzz spoiled-hairfruit reek of illness and medicinal tinctures into a close fug that threatened to rob him of appetite.
Finally, Garan Tamuron arrived at what he most wished to ask. “Does Takyeo truly mean to retreat to the countryside?”
So that is what bothers you now. Kai’s heart twisted once, a pang like a stabbing blade. He had taken the dropped hurai back to Takyeo, but the damage was accomplished, and it was deep. “I know only that he is making preparations.” In other words, it might be a mere stratagem— but none who knew Takyeo well thought it likely.
It was not that Tamuron was a bad father, though certainly Heaven itself would blast Kai where he stood for such an unfilial thought if it ever accomplished itself inside his head-meat. It was that Garan Takyeo had borne so much, so patiently, for so long, that the final feather upon the pile had crushed any hope of swift reconciliation as thoroughly as the Hell of the Many Weights crushed a patricide.
“He must not, Kai.” Tamuron laid his eating-sticks aside and regarded his general earnestly. “It will cause much uncertainty.”
What could Kai say? These were not his silk-folds to smooth, and besides, Takyeo was not in the wrong. How could he let his father-Emperor, the warlord who had given Kai’s own life meaning, understand as much? He was no courtier, with smooth words and soft pressure. Nor was he Yala, with her gift for providing a measure of comfort by mere presence. “He is grieving, my lord.”
“It was only a wife, Kai. A foreigner, at that.” The Emperor’s free hand curled into a fist, the hurai upon the first finger glittering in its own sheath of royal silver. “Surely he must understand Zhaon needs him more than mourning.”
“His mourning is sharp.” What could he say? There were proverbs about intruding between a man and his son for a reason. Kai could not enter the battle in any meaningful measure, nor did he quite think he should. “He was very fond of the Crown Princess.” Or more than fond; perhaps Takyeo had even loved her, though such a thing always ended in tragedy where princes were concerned.
It must have been strangely appealing for Takyeo to protect a creature placed in even closer confinement than his own royal self.
Tamuron’s eyebrows met, his face congesting briefly as he weighed both said and unsaid messages. “You think me cruel.”
You keep a shrine for your first wife, my lord, where the candles are ever-lit and the incense is continual. Mentioning as much was not very sensible, yet Tamuron deserved truth, and Kai was perhaps the only person who could serve that bitter dish.
Still, for the sake of Tamuron’s peace of mind, he sought to season the plate with as much tact as possible. “I think purely political considerations in this matter are slightly unwise, my lord.”
“I have little time for niceties.” The Emperor stared at his plate, at dewy, innocent, sliced globes of pearlfruit with their mild sheen. “Tabrak will not halt for all Takyeo’s grieving, nor will Khir.”
“You are not your son’s enemy, my lord. You are his father.” Should you not act as such? Adding such a sting to that tail would not earn him any thanks, though, so Kai stopped short.
“Then I must be twice as harsh, to prepare him for his duties.” Tamuron all but glowered, a relief from his recent, abstract air of pained discipline. “Come, Kai. Surely you can see as much.”
“Would you have me lie to you, Garan Tamuron?” Kai set his own eating-sticks down, resting their tips upon a small fish-shaped dish as manners demanded instead of sticking them upright, banners for a stomach’s war, in his bowl. This was a conversation apt to turn even a soldier’s liver sideways. “It has never been my way, and I do not wish to start.”
For a moment he was certain he had miscalculated, for his almost-father’s expression hardened and a dull, ugly flush crept to the Emperor’s thinning cheeks. But then, Tamuron’s shoulders softened, and he exhaled sharply.
“No,” he said, softly. “I do not wish for that. Time is slipping through my fingers, Kai, and I wish Takyeo to be safe when I am…gone.”
“A father’s kindest wish, indeed.” Kai did not bother to assure the Emperor of continued heartiness. What was the point? If he were to serve his lord truth, it was best a constant dish or none at all. “I will speak to him, my lord. More I cannot promise.”
“Good.” Tamuron’s mouth eased, He reclaimed and tapped his own eating-sticks, selecting another strip of aiju. “Enough politics, then. Tell me, what have you read recently?”
Kai would have vastly preferred politics to reciting his lessons, but he acceded and the conversation turned to Zhe Har. Kai had been reading the Archer much of late, but would only admit to the treatises upon strategy, not the story of the Moon Maiden and her warrior.
Still, the gleam in Tamuron’s gaze told Kai his reticence had been noticed. Now the Emperor might exert himself to find out what court lady had caught the general’s attention.
At least Kai could elude direct questioning upon that matter for some short while, especially if he left the palace and Zhaon-An for a post slightly north. There was no help, and much harm, in speaking to Tamuron upon such irritants as a lady-in-waiting he already disliked— and one who, despite all law and custom, perhaps still carried a hidden greenmetal blade inside the Palace walls.
Just wait a little longer, Kai told himself. Yala had not even brushed her letter yet, in all likelihood. Patience brings a man what he needs.
Later, he thought he should not have been so forbearing.
MUCH LESS UNLUCKY
Across the hall from a sealed door in the Jonwa, a small set of rooms held dark furniture and some few restrained decorations. Yet the spareness, even under bright glowing mirrorlight, did not seem plain at all. The quality of each item, and the taste with which it was placed, spoke more loudly than a leather-lunged square leader berating his soldiers. It was strange how just a few wooden boxes and hangings could express an occupant’s station so clearly.