The Secrets of Jin-Shei (23 page)

“Oh, don’t,” she said. “Please don’t. Find me a place to sit, instead.”

Khailin threw a swift glance around the room. “There is a bench over there on the far side by the pillar and I think we could … ah, Cahan, not now.”

“What is it?”

“The Empress,” Khailin said, sinking into another obeisance and urging Nhia to do the same by the pressure of her hand. “Nobody will sit now, and we cannot withdraw unless she gives us leave.”

Nhia glanced up through lowered eyelashes, trying to catch a glimpse of Liudan as she swept past. Tai’s circle, that one. Tai was the one who had somehow fallen in with the women of the Empire.
What if
thought Nhia suddenly, the pale wraith of the recent betrayal swaying before her eyes,
Tai’s jin-shei had never meant anything other than a need, a want … not a sharing … and she had put so much of her heart into that bond with Antian, and now she is stuck with it, with its legacy, and what could Liudan possibly want with her?

“What are you muttering?” Khailin hissed. “Are you in pain? I could try to …”

“Nothing,” Nhia said hastily. “Who’s that with the Sage over there?”

“Where?” Khailin’s eyes whipped around seeking Lihui, but it was one of the other Sages that Nhia had noticed, one of the older ones, who was now accompanied by an ethereal old woman dressed in pale silk, her thin white hair braided into a coronet above her brow and shining through her elaborate Court headdress like living silver.

“That’s the Lion Sage,” Khailin whispered. “And that is his Lady.”

“What are you planning now?” asked Nhia after a moment. She had learned to recognize Khailin’s sudden silences as sparks of inspiration which Khailin would cogitate on when they struck her—some sort of nefarious plan, some mischief, something that she ought not to have had the opportunity, the knowledge, or the wherewithal to achieve but which, once she had gone through all the ramifications in her head, she managed to do anyway.

“Nothing,” Khailin said slowly, her eyes following the Lion Sage and his Lady as they made their slow, careful way across the hall, watching them receive bows and deep courtesies, and then the Empress’s own attention for a few moments, while a bevy of richly caparisoned Imperial Princes stood laughing ineffectually among themselves, largely ignored by the rest of the Court, in another alcove, nursing large flagons of rice wine.

K
hailin was not the only one troubled by thoughts of marriage. Liudan had thought that pushing through her Xat-Wau ceremony would give her more power over her own destiny, but she was only partially right. The Council had accepted the loss of the regency, if not with joy then at least with a good grace. But Liudan was young, and the Council’s chance at political power was not limited to questions of whether or not she had attained her majority. There was also the question, as important if not more so than the first, of ensuring the dynasty’s survival. Of marriage. Of heirs.

“You want to know the most ironic thing about this whole situation?” Liudan had said to Yuet and Tai in a tight, furious voice. The two of them had been summoned to attend Liudan one cold, rain-swept late autumn evening. They had been allowed to shed their soaked cloaks and were given mulled wine in fine porcelain cups to wrap their cold hands around as they sat by the fireside, but that was the extent of the hospitality—they were there to listen, and they did, dutifully. “After all that, after the risk I took in faking it all! Do you remember, Yuet, that you told me to take to my bed and pretend I was cramping because they would believe me more if I displayed certain symptoms? Well, I woke up the next morning, Yuet. And I was. Just like you said—cramps—and before the Xat-Wau was fully set in motion I had qualified for it in truth as well as in your writ. And the moment that was out of the way, they are all over me again. I thought it was over, and now …”

“And now you find that it is all only just beginning?” Yuet said. “It shouldn’t surprise you. There are plenty of people who are waiting for the smallest chance to find a place of power.”

“What do they want?” Tai said.

“You are such an innocent,
jin-shei-bao
,” Liudan laughed.

Yuet turned her head, looking at Tai. “They want her to marry, of course. They want her to choose the Emperor.”

Liudan, pacing the floors of her chambers like a caged lioness, grimaced.

“But there is the mourning,” Tai said.

“Yes, and thank Cahan for that—it has some uses. I cannot, under law, contemplate marriage or any such ceremony before my period of mourning is up—or, in any case, that would be the case if I were some peasant’s child mourning for my parents—if I were my
mother
before she came here.” Liudan laughed, a little grimly. “Sometimes it’s a blessing not to be royal, little sister. But they could not even let
her
rest in her ashes for a month before they threw
her
suitors at me.”

“Whose suitors?” Tai said, honestly confused.

It was Yuet who put it all together again. “They want you to choose an Emperor from among Antian’s suitors?”

“Even there,” Liudan said savagely, “it’s no more than a question of what Antian would have done. They want me to choose the way she would have chosen.”

“That’s not fair,” Tai protested.

“No,” said Liudan, pausing in her pacing to stare at her. “So what would you have me do?”

“Me? I can hardly advise you.”

“You can when I ask you for it. You have to when I ask for it.” Liudan grinned. “You took that on with
jin-shei,
Tai. That’s what a
jin-shei-bao
is for—wise advice.”

“Then you should not ask me,” Tai said. “I am not as wise as Nhia is, and she is your
jin-shei
too, if you will pledge with her.”

“Nhia? Who is this Nhia?”

“They speak of her highly,” Yuet said. “She has wisdom and grace, for all that she is so young. She even teaches at the Great Temple, and she is not yet sixteen years old.”

Liudan settled on some cushions by the fire, gesturing imperially for a goblet of wine to be brought to her. The little deaf servant girl, who was still Liudan’s primary attendant despite the jockeying of a number of Court ladies to become intimates of her chamber, hurried over with a goblet, and then withdrew again into the shadows. “Tell me about her.”

“You know that case that was brought before the Court at the open audience just the other day?” Yuet said. “The land dispute over the peach orchard?”

“Yes, I remember,” Liudan said. “The two men who both claimed it as theirs. One of them, as I recall, said that the other unlawfully harvested the peaches from the trees before they were fully ripe and sold them in the markets for his own profit, although the grove belonged to the one who had spoken. And the second man swore that the land was his, and that the peach trees were planted on stolen property by the other man’s father. I remember. What of it?”

“I was there,” Yuet said, “and I told Tai of it, and she spoke of it to Nhia. And Nhia came up with the perfect solution to the problem.”

“What was it that she proposed to do?” Liudan asked, and Tai reported on what Nhia had had to say on the vexing case. By the time she was done Liudan’s eyes were sparkling with interest. “Indeed. Why did you not come and tell me of this at once? So young, and so wise. How is it that I did not know of this jewel in my city before?”

“She had been moving freely in the city and the Temple,” Yuet said. “But she has a way of keeping herself unobtrusive. She is crippled, and she does not like the limelight.”

“Crippled how?”

“Her foot has been withered and clubbed since birth,” Tai said. “She walks with a cane, and cannot stand for long.”

Liudan tapped her teeth with her fingernail, thinking. “There was someone … I noticed someone in an audience, not that long ago.” She gestured again and the servant girl approached. Liudan signed something at her in their own secret sign language, and after a pause the girl signed back, ducked her head, and disappeared out of the chamber.

“She will find out,” Liudan said. “What are you smiling at?”

“You didn’t need to send the poor thing away from the fire,” Tai said. “If you want to know who she would have come to the Court with, I can probably tell you that—it must have been Khailin, Chronicler Cheleh’s daughter.”

“And how do
they
know one another?” Liudan asked, sitting up a little straighter.

“They are both interested in the Way,” Tai said. “Nhia tells me they talk a lot about that. They are also …”

Liudan shook her head, laughing. “More sisters I did not know about? I am inclined to give her judgment. In public court. Tomorrow. Make sure she is there.”

“You weren’t meant to tell
Liudan
what I said!” Nhia cried when Tai presented her with this Imperial ultimatum.

“Why not? It was a good solution!”

“Yes, but she has the Council and the Sages for all that, and if she now trots me out they will all be
looking
at me.”

“Yes,” Tai said, gazing at her with the fond, proud gaze of a true sister, “they will. And they will be seeing a beautiful spirit. Nhia, forget about what you once were. You are a new person, and you are wise, and you are my beloved friend and sister whom I will send in there looking like a queen of Cahan. Trust me. Now come, we must go to Khailin.”

“Khailin? Is that necessary?” Nhia said, so oddly that Tai turned to stare at her sharply as she spoke.

“What’s the matter? Have you two had a falling out?”

“No. Well, not exactly,” Nhia said. “It’s just that I have a few things to think about where Khailin is concerned.”

“Fine,” Tai said. “I was going to ask for the loan of another dress. You two are of a size and it would be so much easier if I could only tuck and pin a few seams rather than do the whole thing from scratch, but I guess it’s time you had your own finery, at that. Come here.”

“What are you up to? Tai, you cannot make me an entire Court gown in one night!”

“Oh, yes I can.” Tai flung open a closet in her room and rummaged at the back where a stack of robes lay folded neatly with silkpaper layering in between fabric folds. “I have a lot of those. Many of them Mother has never had a chance to rearrange for me, and I will certainly never need them. So you might as well have one. Try this one on. I think it will fit you.”

“Whose was this?” Nhia gasped, the fine silk of the undertunic flowing through her hands as she shrugged into it, running her fingers over the stiff embroidery on the outside robe.

“Antian’s,” Tai said abruptly, keeping her eyes downcast and dropping down to one knee to inspect the hemline of the robe.

“Antian’s?” Nhia said. “But won’t Liudan recognize this? Won’t there be an insult if I wear …”

“They often wear the Court robes only once before they are discarded,” Tai said quietly “It would take a prodigious memory to recall the details of all these gowns. Nobody will know.”

“But Tai,” Nhia’s eyes were bright and soft as they rested on Tai, “I cannot take this. It was Antian’s, it is something that you need to …”

“She was
your jin-shei
too” Tai said. “And I cannot think of a better use for it. Stand still, would you? And hand me those pins on the table? It’s a good fit, if I can only get the hem taken up a little. And I can add a white ribbon or two on the sleeves. The Court is tomorrow noon. You’ll be all set.”

“I cannot stand for six hours!” Nhia wailed.

But she was there with Tai and Yuet the next morning, as Liudan had wished. Yuet had a phial of mild poppy juice in her pocket, in case Nhia’s foot became a problem and needed immediate attention.

In the gown that had been Antian’s, her hair swept up with a set of Yuet’s ivory combs and a tiny pair of jeweled pins that Antian had once given Tai, Nhia looked remarkably poised and grown-up, Tai, at her side with her hair dressed very simply and her own gown cut with the plainness of a robe that a child might wear to a grand occasion, suddenly looking very young.

Liudan swept into the Audience Chamber late, keeping everyone waiting at least half an hour. Even in deepest mourning she managed to remain spectacular, her hair glossy and adorned with strings of tiny crystal beads which (in deference to mourning) were not jewels but which so trembled and shivered in the light that they may as well have been. Her face, bare of makeup, was graced only by her brilliant dark eyes, and that was more than enough.

The three by the Imperial dais sank into obeisance as she came up.

“Empress,” Tai said, formal here in the Audience Chamber before the people, “may I present Nhia of Linh-an, one who is both teacher and student at the Great Temple.”

Liudan extended a hand. Nhia took it, and Liudan’s grip tightened slightly as she helped Nhia rise from her obeisance with some semblance of grace. “Your reputation precedes you,” she said. “I am pleased that you came to my Court. I know of your … infirmity, and I do not wish to make this occasion a trial for you. I therefore give you permission to sit.” She clapped her hands and a servant came hurrying over with a small
carved chair and set it below and to the side of the throne. Liudan mounted the dais, settled herself on her own seat, and gestured at the chair. “Please,” she said courteously, “be seated.”

Crimson, aware of every eye in the room upon her as the only one singled out to sit in the Empress’s presence, Nhia sensed waves of hostility, curiosity, even fear, coming from the gathered throng of people. She dared not look up.

“Thank you, Highness,” she said, her voice very low. Tai helped her get settled on the chair. Liudan was smiling.

“The Court is now open!” a herald declared. “My Empress, the first petitioner is Second Prince Wei-Hun.”

The procession of people coming up to present their credentials, state a case, or ask a boon seemed to go on for hours. Tai was beginning to think that Liudan had forgotten all about the case of the peach orchard, or that Nhia’s presence had been merely a whim on Liudan’s part—but she should have known better, she told herself when the herald announced the last case to be presented at the audience.