The Grass King’s Concubine (58 page)

It was not permitted. Once again, Sujien heaved her upright, slipping an arm under both of hers and around her back, and guided her like a puppet up the flight of stairs. There was no more to her than that anymore—the stone underfoot and the rush of silk against her scratches; Sujien’s grasp and the unending desperate laboring of her lungs. She could see nothing, hear nothing save the thunder of her heart in her ears. She was luggage, nothing more.

He dumped her. She sprawled across the floor—tile, now, not comforting stone—listening to the pounding of her heart. She was fading—she could feel herself beginning to slip, to slide away into the fug of yeast and poison that filled her. She had no way to fight it. Cold crept up her limbs, binding them even more tightly to the floor. She was sinking, the tiles turning soft and liquid beneath her…Yeast—tainted moisture trickled under her clothes, washed into her wounds, teased her stinging eyes and sour mouth. She was drowning on dry land, in the heart of this arid palace; her body was melting into it, washing away, inch by slow fluid inch. Doughy tendrils surrounded her, teasing their slow sticky way over her garments, under the hem of her trousers, up her sleeves. Someone, somewhere, was keening, a thin high shriek of fear and pain. She could not tell if it was her.

Something brushed her cheek, and her eyelids flickered. A flash of orange, a trick, no doubt, of her oxygen-starved brain. Another brush, and a high-pitched humming played counterpoint to the drum of her heartbeat. She could not concentrate; she was too misty, too moist and dilute and lost. From far away—too far to contemplate, some place beyond her, beyond all of her—a voice cursed, and a blast
of ice-chill air rushed over her. That was…She labored to focus, and the last shreds of her supplied a name. That was Sujien, troubled by something.

Troubled by something. That was supposed to be to her advantage, if she could but concentrate—if she could but
breathe
. The humming grew louder, and the brush repeated itself, soft and determined, over and over. Someone calling her name,
Aude! Aude! Aude!
She mustered the very last of herself and lifted her head. A thud of footsteps on tile and a blur of gray and brown, and that voice, that voice that had spoken to her before through every boundary.

Jehan.

The Grass King Is Angry

T
HE STONES OF THE RICE PALACE woke Shirai. They pulled at him, taut and fragile, as only stones can be in the last moments before the earth shifts and breaks itself. He was on his feet, sword in hand, almost before they had finished speaking his name, his old name, that silent sound that the Grass King had invoked back at the start of things when he drew Shirai from the living rocks. The urgency of the call propelled him from the quarters of the bannermen to the center of the palace at a brisk walk, while servants scuttled out of his way, flattening themselves against walls or stepping into doorways,

Something was wrong, and the Grass King knew it. Something, a hint, a shadow, an alien flavor, shivered over the court and its personnel. It hovered in the voices that rose in his wake, a shadow of trouble and uncertainty. It waited in dark corners, stirring up disquieting notions.
Something is happening.
Sujien speaking of infringement, of incursion. Liyan’s mechanism. Tsai dancing alone for the Grass King.

The captive in his small chamber with his papers and his weaving and the scurrying services of the ferret twins.

Something is different, something is changing.
The air was chill; Sujien’s restless mood infected everything. Chill and dry. Shirai increased his pace. Something was wrong; something was not as it should be. In the antechamber to
the Courtyard of the Clients, two of his banner greeted him, their eyes wide and uncertain, tension riding the line of their shoulders. He saluted them without speaking and passed on, through the hidden door and up the dark stair that led to the Tower of Meditation. The call redoubled, and the tower shook around him. He took the last steps at a run.

The Grass King stood at the top, gazing out the east window. His back was to the staircase; beneath his feet, dark cracks spidered through the flagstones. His fingers, broad and strong, sank into the stone of the window frame. On every side, Shirai could feel the earthquake stir.

He said, “Sire, do not.”

The Grass King turned, and Shirai dropped to his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. In the voice of the tumult, the Grass King said, “Do not think to command me in my own realm.”

“Your pardon, Sire.” The tower shook again, a reminder that WorldBelow had been born in turmoil. Shirai sent what reassurance he could back through the structure of the palace, and he lifted his head. He said, “Sire, the palace woke me and sent me to you. It fears your displeasure.”

The Grass King said nothing. Shirai continued, “It feels your anger. It knows not what it has done.”

“It has hidden things from me.” The earthquake was still there. Shirai could feel it, the anger and alarm spreading out in all directions. “It has reshaped itself without my permission,” the Grass King said. “It has allowed ways to be opened to WorldAbove. Look,” and his hands fell, heavy as boulders, onto Shirai’s shoulders. Shirai held steady. “Look,” the Grass King repeated. “Go to my window and tell me what you see.”

“Sire.” Shirai rose, despite the weight of those hands, and went to the east window. The Grass King had opened it onto some settlement of humankind, a ragged cluster of mud brick houses and ragged enclosures. To one side, a group of humans gathered around a makeshift shelter, listening to one of their number reading from a book. A slight figure stood beside him, wrapped in long robes and
carrying a bundle of more papers. Shirai frowned. Something about that shape…The scene shifted, opening on a larger settlement. A stall stood in the shade of a great tree, piled high with books and pamphlets. Two forms moved around it, offering the books, speaking, or so it seemed, to those who passed. Two forms in long robes, their faces hidden behind pale yellow scarves.

Yellow. One of the figures shifted, and Shirai saw its eyes, deep amber and slitted like those of a cat. Not human, those eyes, but the eyes of bannermen.

Of Fire Bannermen.

“You see, Mo-Shirai,” the Grass King said. “Liyan flouts me. He deals with humans. He gives them things made in my realm. He breaks his duty to me. He breaks our boundaries.” The tower shook a third time, and this time Shirai heard the sound, somewhere, of stone tearing. The Grass King continued, “Liyan flouts me. And Tsai…Tsai is gone.”

Dry air, dry and bitterly cold…Shirai turned. The palace shivered under his feet, begging him for protection. The Grass King was angry, the Grass King and, from that icy air, Sujien. He said, “Sire, do not harm the palace for Liyan’s deeds.”

“The palace knew and did not tell me,” the Grass King said. “The palace lied.” He gestured again at the windows, and the scenes they showed changed again. On every side, now, Shirai saw the palace walls. Everywhere, amid the painted scenes, humans appeared, dancing, weaving, harvesting. “My palace reflects them,” the Grass King said, “and my Firehand encourages them. I will not have it.” The earthquake spoke though his last few words. The tower groaned and swayed. Shirai held himself firm against it, so that his strength, such as it was, might keep the tower intact. The Grass King said, “Don’t disobey me, Mo-Shirai.”

“No, Sire.” And Shirai again bowed his head. “But…” and he hesitated, felt the fear that gripped the palace, “Sire, you made me to hold this place firm. I ask you for it. I ask you not to harm it for what Liyan has done.” The shaking
that had troubled the tower infected him now, working its way from his limbs to his core. He set his teeth against it. “Sire, when you summoned me, this is what you said: ‘First, I name you, and soundest. Keystone and guardian.’ Sire, in the name of my making, I ask you: do not destroy what you have made.”

For a moment, he was sure he had failed. The weight of the Grass King’s anger grasped him, tossed and tumbled him to the floor. He steeled himself for it, the wrench of unmaking. But then…All around him the shaking stilled. “So,” said the Grass King, and his voice was tight. “You remind me of myself. Very well.” A pause. Shirai raised himself to his knees. The Grass King said, “You test me, Mo-Shirai.”

“Sire, forgive me.”

“You test me, and you speak for those who have angered me. But,” and the Grass King’s tone softened at last, “thus I made you. Very well, let it be as you wish, for now. Fetch to me the Firehand, Mo-Shirai, and the captive human with whom he has plotted. And bring them swiftly, before I change my mind.”

Alarm shook Julana awake. She bounced to her feet, every hair tense and saw her concern mirrored by her twin. Something wrong. Something very wrong. Something had changed since the night before, something had brought danger. The air was full of it, ice crystals and ozone and anger. Anger in the air and in the earth. The walls of Marcellan’s room resounded with it, telling fear through every line and crack. The dim darkness held no comfort, no shelter.

“Sujien,” Julana said, and stopped.

It tasted of him, clear and sharp. “Sujien has done something.” Yelena said. The twins exchanged glances.

“He doesn’t know about the printing press.” Julana said.

“No. But the clock…He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that Liyan talks to Marcellan. You heard him say so.”

“Yes.” Another shudder ran through the palace. “Not
just Sujien,” Julana said. “Can’t be. He isn’t allowed, not like this.” Her fur puffed out. “He’s done something. Said something. The Grass King…”

“The Grass King is angry.”

Long and long since the Grass King had last given way to anger. The twins could barely remember it. Chaos and fury, a tumble of broken walls and splintered trees. Air thick with the tang of the blood that ran in the gutters and dripped from the roofs. They had not dared to venture out to lap at it, had not known where to go to be safe from falling masonry and cracking, shifting floors. “The old granary,” Julana said, and shivered.

“Fell on us.” Yelena rocked to and fro as the memory worked loose. “Broken wood. Thunder. The grain spilled everywhere.”

“We ran from it, out of the palace, out of the gardens.”

“Along the river and into the great plain,” Yelena said.

“Lonely.” Julana shoved her head into her sister’s flank, reaching for comfort. “Scared and lonely.”

“The air was full of dust. Dust and blood and ashes.”

“The palace burned.”

Yelena looked up, sniffed carefully. “No blood, not yet. No burning. But anger. Everywhere anger.” She nosed at her twin. “It’s not safe here.”

“Not safe anywhere?”

Yelena did not know. She shook herself. “We could go. Go somewhere.”

“Where?” Julana asked, but she did not expect an answer. The message was filling both of them, loud and clear: Run, get out, be far from here. Her feet itched with it. She shifted, and beneath them Marcellan stirred in his sleep.

Marcellan. The twins stared down at him. They could escape through the gaps in the window lattice or the holes in the skirting. But Marcellan was too big, too tall and wide for any of their routes out of the Rice Palace. If they went, they must go without him. They had no way of taking him with them.

If they stayed, as Marcellan must stay…Neither of
them wanted to think of that, to face the terror that was the Grass King’s unshielded rage. Julana sniffed, smelled rank sweat mixed in with the alarm and knew it for her own.

If the Grass King was angry—and the walls insisted on that—then Marcellan of all people was the most vulnerable. He was captive, locked in, unable to flee or conceal himself. He was human, unequipped with skills or abilities that might somehow save him. His life was a glass bubble in the eye of a storm.

“Someone will come,” Julana said, her voice thin and unsure. “Liyan.”

“Perhaps.” But Yelena did not believe it. If anyone had courted the Grass King’s anger of late, it was Liyan, with his clock and his
printing
. She sniffed again. No trace of fire, of ash in the air, only biting cold and that burr of ice. Air and water and stone. No flame, not yet, and the darkness was no heavier than it would usually be. The Grass King, most certainly, and thus the Stone Banner, who were most sensitive to his moods. Tsai, because the Grass King would wish it, and most often she chose to please him. Sujien, in that dense harsh air; Sujien, who was always the first to express anger. Not Qiaqia. Not Liyan. Not yet, at least, but if the Grass King was not placated, or Liyan felt himself threatened, that could change. That could make things worse.